You're a crisis. You're an Icicle.

I had Hypnotherapy and Reiki done (by my cousin) for the first time ever on friday.

It really opens you up, leads you down the dark pathways of your subconcious and shines a flashlight on the nooks and crannies.

I realized how tight my heart was. I thought I was healed, but I was so wrong. 

Heart, whats wrong? My heart says "I miss you"

My heart misses the me who I was before the messy breakup. The girl in love with the world. you know, like the elliot smith song. I haven't felt anything fully, I haven't gotten attached. Not really. I get close and then I lose emotion, or they reject me, or some other equally shitty thing happens.

It's time to do the dirty search again, whisk out the can opener and start on my metal heart.

Speaking of missing, my grandma got citizenship. and she's going to Iran for a year. No more waking up to the smell of that day's dinner on the stove, no more fixed zipper, no more beautiful wrinkles, no more sweet scent and persian TV sound from the basement, no more crazy lady running around muttering conspiracy theories and good natured criticisms. 

This weekend was lovely.

Danced at the burlesque show with the hottest girls. burlesque crowds really know how to make you feel appreciated as a performer. Went to a gay party I've been meaning to go to for a while, made out with a girl, went home with a boy. You know how it goes...

On friday I was a squat kid/crust punk/junkie's girlfriend for about two hours. Had some time to kill in Tompkins- I was writing when the crust kids and neighborhood dopeheads all arrived to buy the goods. I got to watch 30 people shoot up, and one particularly cute kid hit on me because I looked lonely. Some on-the-road piercer. took me to starbucks and got me a frapp. walked me down st. marks introducing me as his significant other. I helped him spange for money for detox pills and left him with a kiss on the cheek.

New dilemma: when dating (biological) boys, all the self-image issues I thought I'd dropped are somehow still there. I have this instant desire to lose 20 pounds. I compare myself to exes and oh's.  When I'm with girls we can revel in the imperfections, but with boys- I feel them highlighted.  Or maybe it's because the boy I have a crush on is the scrawniest tattooed boy around, carries hair products with him, and has a thing for girls who are about 100 pounds.

In the works:

Job (still. economy played me for a fool)

Art show (looking to curate one!)

Bartending (learn it)

Modeling. (money)

IF I DON'T HAVE A JOB THAT USES MY BRAIN IN TWO WEEKS I'M APPLYING FOR STARBUCKS OR BECOMING A STRIPPER.

That is my disclaimer.

Needle in the hay is out and over.

Addiction prevention and the job search disaster

My first real gig with a cover! In the coolest venue ever. The peach tarts are some of the hottest burlesque girls. Come support!

-----------------------------------------

I am on a challenge. I took a friend up on it: I have to drink 2 acoholic drinks every day for two weeks. no more no less. 

I was discussing the possibility of addiction and this is his test. It's easy to not drink, but it's hard to cut yourself off. If you can manage, then you're ok. I'm not sure I agree with his logic, but I'm game to try it. The bet will be over the night before I turn 21.

Job searching is consuming. 

it's as though nothing exists- passion, health, the need for curtains on my wall- until my finances are stable. The economy means I'm competeing with people who have masters just to get a fucking sales job at a bookstore. unreal.

Fall has started. The season of soft sweaters, soup, fireplaces, hot chocolate, radiohead mornings, and those all post waking cuddle sessions because getting out of bed into the cold air is such a drag.

Spent the night at a gay bar where I was the anti-thesis to pretention. unhooked a girls bra with a slick hand and hooked a boy with a cane, vaudeville style. went back to lick open baggies and makeout with numb tounges. found a body in the darkness, a mouth found my body, my body found a shudder. all fell silent.

I've been biking lately. doing yoga. trying to stay fit. I feel like a dweeb because I always wear a helmet and stop at red lights. 

the camera on my new macbook is causing some vices to popup. too many pictures of things. and videochatting! I just leave it on and it's like my friends all over are suddenly in my bedroom. the future of interaction. creepily close to a virtual existance.

here's some pictures of my new vice. please excuse my vanity and enjoy the tits.

PS. a boy sent me a postcard from portland. how amazing. I havent gotten a postcard in ages. I feel so rad, I might just melt a little inside. He remembered my address AND picked a postcard that was relevant. lots of points.

coincidence.

24 Hour Party People.

More pictures are up @ babysinead.com!

KESH fashion show afterparty.

Flirting at BYTE

Wig fun with Texas.
_______________________________________________

This weekend has been nonstop.  

Friday: Vegan food and photo galleries. Blushing about my big ears. Dancing at Secret Faggot, which was a serious dance party. Go queer kids. Didn't get paid enough, but walked home in good company, sweat drying and bike bumping into my calves.

Saturday: Last day of summer! I started at 4pm. Met mister danger himself- and went to an outdoor techno party  thrown by wolf and lamb and the bunker. The venue was perfect and  by the water. Everyone came bearing pesto and pizza, sangria and peach vodka. hula hoops and hidden beers.  danced to minimal and shmoozed about birthday plans till it was time for the interlude and then House Party (punny name) at 12 turns 13. 

House and minimal may be legit electronica, but I find it boring after a while. The repetitive beat has no climax, no breaks, no pull to the dancefloor. Where is going? nowhere. How is going? slow. But the friends (most of whom hadn't seen me all summer and were relieved I moved back to NYC) the unexpected date, the mega sized redbull and the bit of E gift were enough to keep us moving. 

Post Party was at winkel twinkle toes dumbo loft. I ran off with the girl to flirt, away from pathological skin and bones girls and exes and loud noises. Returned just in time to snag a spot on the epic sunrise ride (2 vans full) to Long Island. Gogil Beach. 

Action Adventure! 730 crashing a sleepover beach party and skinny dipping in warm water. Eating peanut butter & agave sandwiches. dancing to dub glitch drum and bass hiphop heaven. taking sandy naps and sandy hits.  

Finally get home at almost 4 pm. make fresh salad. painted something to decorate my wall. revel in the afterglow. apply for jobs. resolve to sleep early.

___________________________________________

This is now hanging over my bed. 

The words say: 

I wanted to write you a letter. Who are you now? I saw you kissing some girl we both would've raised an eyebrow at, once. Even though you're a stranger, I thought you should know when you stare into the morning sun, that white vestal virgin rising her eyes to face the world, the first thing you see are rainbows. Remember when we did mushrooms and we saw so many colors I thought we'd broken the time space continuum? I dont. I want nothing more than a head half full of curls, multi-colored graphic novel delirium, money, passion, and classic coke straight from the glass bottle. That, like you, is not nothing. I remember your ears, how they blushed at every compliment. I picture mini-irons at the side of your head waiting for my mouth to open and my eyes to state the obvious. Doesn't I love you mean anything anymore?What about you're beautiful? I won't try anymore. Grow out your hair. Forget about pretending not to be looking at your reflection in the nearest shiny object. You could do with some self-awareness. I shouldn't preach though, I mean- who am I to talk? Maybe I am the color purple. Maybe I am the sweat of a packed dance floor. Maybe I am the momentary ADD you get when your  mind sticks on one word you really like the sound of in the middle of a conversation. I am just glitter. I dare you to wash me off. 

Race. Sex. And all that easily offends.

I can't count how many times I've used a word or said a sentence that set people off.
I've been accused of being racist, sexist, ignorant, spoiled, irresponsible, inappropriate.

These accusations hurt. I've had many late night conversations and lost friendships just trying to figure out the why of it.

Here is me:

I'm most happy with these classic snippets from the back and forth between my old roommate and I-

R- Way to date yet another hardcore vegan lesbian with a mullet


Me- Whatever, at least I wasn't raped.
R- Whatever, at least my parents wanted me.


I come from the middle class. My family has money they earned themselves. They used to live in absolute poverty. I like to talk about sex during dinner. I enjoy saving money for lavish vacations. I am lucky and I know it.

But at the same time, I'm not white. I'm middle eastern, which means when I fill out forms- I'm OTHER. I'm the margin of the marginalized. I've had eating disorders and suicidal tendencies. Lived in shitty neighborhoods and been bussed into a private wasp school. I'm queer and I was raised muslim. I don't even EXIST in Iran (right, because Iran has no gays!).

I never mean to downplay others suffering by making commentary that they might find offensive (which I seem to do often enough that it's become an issue) but I also think the approach people have taken to remedy this situation is wrong. I know I'm not an asshole, but it sure seems like I am when the offended call my new friends and warn them that I'm racist, etc.

Here's what I think: we all need laugh about things. Dear closeted, racist, trans, race conscious, sex positive, sexist, assholes and sweethearts- we need to talk.

Next time I offend someone, I don't want to find out via being defriended on myspace.

A few examples:

I grew up in a community where my best friends were white jews, bahai chinese, bulgarian atheists, bolivian this that and the other. There was a class system that didn't correlate to any race system, and so I like to think I've never (consciously) treated anyone differently due to race. If I'm guilty of any discrimination, it's the shallow aesthetic kind.

Coming out of the mini-utopia, it's hard to understand what everyone else's experiences are. No doubt I've read about it- but maybe not enough. let me hear your story. I'll tell you mine.

Since when did educating someone become a burden? since when is explaining yourself offensive? How can I be expected to know what offends you?

Last night we were drinking wine in my backyard with a few friends (one trans, FTM) and the two other people kept referring to him by the female pronoun. He COULD have been offended, but instead he explained himself, The curious straight southern bio-dude got to ask questions (some I didn't know the answers to).

I think it's amazing when someone can candidly answer such intimate questions about wanting to have a penis or not or a surgery or not or how the american psychological system needs to label you crazy for a year before you can do anything of the sort.

this honest dialogue, this is what I strive for.

thanks for everyone who ever took the time to explain things to me, instead of brushing off my lack of knowledge as a personality flaw.

School of Go Go

I'm a gogo girl at Secret Faggot in Brooklyn this friday night. C'mon out.



People often ask about the difference between stripping and gogo dancing.
To be honest, technically it is the "same as stripping- but you start out wearing less" which someone said to me the other day.

But I get paid very little. And I don't wear heels. And I only do it for parties I personally want to attend. I am a dancefloor cheerleader. I am essentially getting paid to exercise.

Being on a stage with eyes on me is a turn-on. Attention pushes me to dance harder. I like the little winks I throw around and the few glimpes of lusty faces.

Speaking of lust, as I was riding my bike over to my friend's house today (for some idealistic banter) I realized that when I'm having consistent good sex, I make less art. Not because sex isn't very inspiring- but It just takes so much time and energy and leaves me content. I haven't written any poems in ages. Or maybe this blog is like mental masturbation and poems are like lovemaking to my mind.

It's a wonder I didn't crash and burn being so distraced. I couldn't help it after the sexual tentions of the past three days.

On a shallow note, here are some pictures from Baby Sinead. Ariel did makeup. All three of us gogo/former gogo girls had a blast- you missed out. I think the pictures look rad, I'm a modern day pinup!

Photoshoot after Photoshoot

Had two fantastic photoshoots with hot ladies yesterday.

Baby Sinead
Danielle

Photos to come soon.

I meant to write more but I woke up late from a night of homemade pasta, cigarettes, sobriety, and bed bound shenanigans.
Stories of the missed connections, caught connections, lost minds and found mouths to come.

Biting and Biking

Today, I biked from Brooklyn into Manhattan for the very first time (via the williamsburg bridge). Now lets hope my bike doesn't get stolen.

Last night I met up with a girl for a few drinks at a lesbian bar then headed to a fetish(ish) party. The theme was clockwork orange, but really- we pretty much wore all black. My skirt was see through.

Here's what happened:

people get you in for free. people say hi, and my how pretty you look. you flirt and dance with people. You kiss the girl you came with, mouth tasting of caffiene and alcohol. You kiss her two lovers.

As the bar makes money, the bodies begin to move. Inhibitions (what little there were) dissolve and people push you to dance on the stage. After a few minutes you jump off and go kiss the girl, again. You bite her neck. You bite her neck again and lead her to dance with your hand in her pants. You tell the bartender about rad places to go to in prague and he gives you both free shots. You lick salt off the girls chest.

You watch everyone walk around in all white and extra long eyelashes. you are happy and the girl is fun and the music could be better, but at least its loud and fast.
at 4am the lights come on and people begin to leave.

You split spinach ravioli with the girl at a charming diner, but you don't remember what it tastes like because you drank so much. You are tired, but turned on. To stay awake you do a mini-bump in the bathroom. She takes you to her house. You meet her cats and fuck on her bed.

In the morning you go for coffee on the street you used to live. You talk about tattoos. she goes to meet her ex for brunch and you wander back to brooklyn- rediculously satisfied about the way it all turned out, but confused about the text you got at 12:41 PM that said "you have a hot girl in your bed" when your bed is empty in a different zip code.

Feel Good

Thanks to Texas and superswagger.com/Kesh's Fashion Show and Monica.

While you were at the party

It was my time off.

After an epic struggle to see Vicky Christina Barcelona (which just made me want to return there ASAP)- I'm crashing out.
Smoking pot and staying in.

Danced epicly last night, forseeing something similar for the next few nights.
It's not like I didn't manage to network for a job, bump into a DJ, and discuss sex with a few friends already.

It's two am. I'm taking a few hits, reading a magazine, having some tea, and going to sleep.

Sometimes,
it's hard to know when you need to stop.

Glitterati. Muse. Doppelganger.

To begin, here are some photos from LA my friend sent on his iphone!

Moving on. 

New York holds opportunities for me. There is a history here, for better or worse.

Moving to williamsburg means that I meet people all the time who live just a few blocks from me. Insanity.

Spent 14 hours wednesday as an extra on a feature film. An englishman in New York about Quentin Crisp (english tranny of the 80's). Glitter, 80's costumes, flirting with models and punk kids all day. Had to cancel a date (oops =/) but made money and overtime. ate delicious food and fucking SHUT DOWN MCDOUGAL ST. There is something about tourists watching you make a movie. It makes you feel important. 

I got my first SAG voucher. Two more and I could be SAG. Thinking about agents and agencies. I met people who make a living off extra work. It pays well...

Thursday was more work, then a few drinks with a silly round-the-corner friend who broke his ankle (delivery beer. good friend, hm?). The problem with drinking beer before 10 is by 10- you're exhausted.  More friends and cuddling and hummus with broccoli and carrots.

We need to touch each other more, darlings. All of us. Much more. I don't get enough close contact.

Friday I met the boy who hired me off craigslist to be his "muse". A suprisingly decent individual, bushwick photographer, ex DC kid. wants to do a series about lust and desire and wanting but not having. I'm all about it.

I finally started BIKING (yay!) only to have my tube pop. Lame. I went to my first bike shop to get it fixed before the quickest drive by kiss and grind session ever. 

Friday night was KESH's fashion show and Happy Ending Afterparty. Last time I went to the club (based in an old massage parlour) I couldn't get in. But when you're VIP and know the dude throwing the party and the girls who did hair and makeup, well- you're in. Chromeo DJed a bumping 90's set, I made cute shy girls make out with me. Sweatshop labor closed out the night with minimal techno.

All night people kept telling me I had a great show! It seems kesh's mildy shaved head of curls and mine have a small resemblance... You decide.

It was the leaving that left that drippy taste in my mouth. Ex-boyfriend strikes again. No reason to delve into why we were fighting publicly in front of the club, but suffice it to end with this small question: when will this cruel war be over?

sorry for the rather this and then this and then that quality of the post. busy and creatively lacking. on the job hunt and the overbooking myself problem. need a moment to reflect to think of a way to phrase things eloquently. 

Just curl up with your comforter, hold your pillow close, and fend off the sunlight for another 15 minutes. Those fleeting dreams are worth it.  I forget to only rush when I have to.

Watch Out.

Exciting things are happening but I can't really talk about them.

You will know soon, if all goes well. *fingers crossed*

In other news, I'm here. In Brooklyn.

Spent my first night running face first into opportunity.

My first day was avocado sandwiches and knocked heads. faux-rayban-reflected kisses and RNC footage. thai food and confidentiality agreements. gin and tonic and my friends successes.

I have a few photoshoots and gigs set up. Fashion shows to attend.

This is going to be good. 

NSFW [burn baby burn]

Burning Man






















First Taste of the Why Do You Do What You Do Project (before we switched to vintage polaroids!)




LA

LA Lady

The last entry captured the feel of BM, but here are more specifics:

I camped with a ragtag team of about 15 people, mostly from LA. We had a graffiti tent, trampoline, and a kitchen in the back of a truck.

Each day you wake up by sweaty-time, make eggs or pbj, find a green community bike (or walk) and explore.

you bike to art projects in the desert, or stiltwalking workshops, or to a bar with frozen drinks.

you walk to the camp next door for pancakes or center camp for hula hooping lessons.

Along the way you take pictures for your photo project, collect random meetings like postcards, and wander into meditation sessions or daytime raves.

You might be naked, might not be. I biked critical tits and was surrounded by more topless women (attractive ones!) than I've ever seen in my life. there are kids around. there are older people. it's a real city, but better.

By the time the sun falls behind the mountains you head back to camp for night clothes. you add glowsticks to your outfits so bikers and art cars (and drugged out friends) can keep track of you all night. You add layers to fight off the pre-dawn chill. You dose yourself over dinner.

Bathroom breaks and early leavers aside, you make it out of camp by dark to head into the playa. Music upon music, the ultimate nightclub- unlimited rooms of diverse music. Get bored? move on. Dubstep, techno, minimal, glitch, world, funk. Sometimes you watch people burn huge things and the fire looks like a orange waterfall. People spin it twirl it hoop it spray it breathe it.

Some nights you rave till your body (and 3l3tronic's excellent sunsrise DJ set) gives out and you walk home by the warmth of the sunshine. One night you lose all your friends and end up wandering the playa with DJ Joro Boro who you literally run into at a rave. Together you watch your friends Freebase perform. One night your homeboy DJ Small Change gives you mushrooms and funk music.One night your friend eats too many brownies and doesn't wake up to go out till way after you are gone, with a cold quesadilla as a consolation prize. One night you flirt endlessly with a girl and get stoned and eat peanut butter and banana chips. You curl up in balls of body heat to sleep.

You realize how the new york burner scene has prepared you for all of this. You've been training unknowingly for years.

--------------------------------------------

In LA

I went to malibu with the two girls I met at burning man and everyone kissed everyone and did booty dances and somehow I learned to sortof surf.

We drove into topanga canyon AKA hippieville and drank champagne in a magical christmas light forest restuarant and had plates of exotic cheese.

Conversation led to sexual experiences and impromtou class was in order- older and wiser to the young and fresh for cherry picking. I love teaching about masturbation and clits and orgasms.

(watch out for an upcoming blog: on making love- to yourself and others)

Spent another day in venice and santa monica eating super spicy hole-in-the-wall indian and running around in wonder trying on powder wigs and sailorsuits at Aardvark- a west coast thrift shop chain that's a costume junkie's wet dream. walked up and down enchanted hidden alleways with boys I barely know.

Saw slam poetry for hours and hours that had a line out front and a cover to get in. Audience on the stage. snaps for everyone, even if you forget your line. the kind of place I'd want to read if I could manage to make words I write come to life on a stage. Somehow, I can't read my poems with confidence. Or read them at all.

When back in new york I plan to spend a substantial amount of time attempting to read my goddamn writing to people I don't know. in public. *gulp*

That is, if I get my whole life packed up in the next 36 hours.

Then I can move it all. all over again. what a trip.

said Prometheus to the People

uploadrainbow
Originally uploaded by Iamsurrealism

I did it, kids.
I went to burning man.
I went to a desert rave art utopia.

I learned why it's impossible to explain it to other people, but I'll try. I also did an art project there (pictures to come later).

You learn to love dust-storms. no showers. the feeling of sunshine on your breasts. strangers. pyrotechnics.

Walking the city is like walking in planetarium. you see the curvature of the earth. the moonrise. the stars thick, spread like a blanket. sunrises that turn mountains fuchsia.

Everyone says hi. smiles and hugs you. gives you gifts of forget-me-not seeds and margaritas.

You do more drugs than you ever thought possible. you sleep 3 hours (from sunrise to when it's too hot to stay in your tent). You eat lots of easily made quesadillas and pb&j.

you bike on acid. wander with new york city dj's on 2-CB. kiss boys in lingerie. get hugs from a woman in butterfly costume who cocoons you and let you be reborn. contact dance with beautiful isreali boys.

You get shrooms from the boy in the camp next door who has a crush on you. hula hoop to drum and bass. dance till your thighs give each-other hickies. learn that rainbow flipping is shrooms and acid.

You wear more LED lights than ever possible. watch an 80 ft man burn to ash. run around it. hug the firemen. pee in porta potties for a week. fall in love with bass all over again.

You forget about the outside world. about money. about responsibilities. about facebook and myspace.

There is only the epic sun salutation dance at 7 am when the world gives birth to the sun and daft punk's one more time comes on. there is only the cumshot you suck out of a girl's plastic dick-shaped water bottle that's really khalua vodka and whipped cream. There is only the coconut curry that the hippies next door brought over for communal dinner.

You learn to hug instead of handshake. stitwalk without help. kiss exactly who you want to. wear bright colors. take drugs to enhance the overwhelming beauty of life. burn away your insecurities. rise up above the flames, touching the universe, infinitely aware that there is nothing between you and the galaxy.

You drive away. you clean your tent. you miss the free orange juice and pancakes. you miss the chance run-ins, the playa providing, the serendipity of getting everything you ever needed- just by asking. you miss picking up strange pretty girls to become your campmates. you miss being surrounded by art.

you come home and check your email and worry about your job and rent and try hard not to forget that feeling.

I will tell you specific stories later.
for now I'm in LA, discovering coves and attending poetry slams. eating sushi and in & out burgers.

favorite quote from burning man

"she may not have anything on, but she's definitely on something!"