Thing I Jock

I wrote this for the last meanred productions newsletter (remember them? they throw Korrupt) and just wanted to share!

Words we like to hear: Underground. Hip Hop. Brooklyn. Geek...? If you haven't noticed yet, Hip hop is being taken over by the nerds. Following in the (rather massive) footsteps of J. Dilla- is Cloud, the new kid on the MPC block. Instead of chains, he's got glasses. Instead of a video full of oiled-up girls,its just him sitting in his BK apartment making brilliant beats out of golden oldies- and rocking out. Gives a whole new meaning to playing with yourself…

The track in this video has been stuck in our heads all week. Somtimes though LIVE fancy computer fiddling is even cooler than You Tube- so we're stopping by Glasslands Dec. 1st to check his set. As long as he does the nerdy glasses adjustment every few beats, we're sold.

Jock #3 brought to you by Najy

the fall of my memories

I remember.
Somewhere, in the midst of a summer- I met a girl with purple pants that matched mine. I walked through dawn with her and brought her back to my purple room.

This was before I took that plane ride to lonely epiphanies in foreign accents. This was after I had started dating my unfinished business.

She never meant to meet me. I stripped her bare in public and got stuck on her skin.
Maybe I wished to becomelike her- more solid, darker- and went in search of beaches and consistency in the chaos of backpacks and train-rides.

This was the summer, the summer of love.
It lasted one week. The incubation period. The birth of a slogan: dare to feel.

dare to move in. to let in. to fall. to leave.

truth or dare? When I walked there was truth in my eyes. too much truth and sunlight, so I closed them. I opened them again in the dark. clothed, her clothed, us clothed. Why clothed?

Because we have sticky skin, molasses skin, burnt sugar under pecan pie skin, and you don't want your sheets wet. Your pink room. Your mother's house. Your island, the long one.

We are girls and not girls. We are pink and purple but mostly black and blue.

There are chances, you get them- life steals her metro card and lets you steal her from the world.
There are no plans, no huge meetings, no phone calls. You have the right lens for her photoshoot, she has the right lips for your mouth.

There are chances and there are decisions and you get them and you make them. I said I had to go. I called it creating the future.

Over dinner tonight, I was talking about what I want to do and a woman said "there is only now. there is no future, it doesn't exist." I knew it was smart and I'd heard it before but it still felt like a piece of ice down my shirt. And while I can handle it in summer, it is not summer.

Today it is the fall. The fall of my memories, the future of my past present. Time confuses me, and I let good things slip like ladybugs out of the cracks of my clasped hands.

Where are my wishes? Where is rusted bottle to polish?

Open sesame, open garlic, open everything bagel. these are the new york absurdisms. I wish to be in a cave of treasures. dens of thieves.

I stole her and time took me prisoner. When you shoplift you still return the item, and pay a fee.
You pay twice instead of once and are left with nothing.

once upon a time, life blinked and I got lucky and I stuttered and life caught me red-handed at the cookie jar and she sent me to bed without dinner.

That was not tonight. Tonight I ate my thank you's and pleases. but even with a full stomach of cranberries and pumpkins.even with entire farms under my skin- I still carry the memory of empty.

Sometimes, I see her in a new girl I meet, the spooky practical joke of lowlit bars and a few beers.

I once met a girl with purple pants and she wore purple pants and I took her to my purple room but then she had to change out of them and I decided the black looked nicer and moved out of my house and now I'm wearing pinstripes and my mom's friend is wearing pinstripes and my bedroom is black and silver and I'm pretty sure it's not that big of deal.

because not everything is meant to be
even when it feels like it is.

When you gonna love you as much as I do

(Title from Tori Amos- Winter)

On Loving Yourself: Addendum 1

"We have never met a person who suffers from low self-esteem at the moment of orgasm."

[The Ethical Slut]

I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.

[Douglas Adams]

So instead of stopping into Philly, I came straight to DC with an overnight pitstop in Washington Heights (which is almost like philly, in that its eons from me). Mostly, up at the tippy top of manhattan: I watched snatch, got brutalized by a kitten, cuddled, and ate grapefruit.

This sounds boring, but it's immensely satisfying. I also took some pictures, to come later.

I then hopped a bus to MD. I did some good deeds and racked up some karma points.

Smoked up in the car that picked me up from the subway and Maryland said welcome with chipotle burritoes and time to read. Tea was on the stove when I suprised my mother.

Today I read an entire book and did bikram yoga (which I have an unlimited week of). It's sweaty and long, but you leave it feeling like a gummy candy- sweet and limber.

And to look forward to?

*DORK ALERT*

I'm dying my hair, much inspired by the only other person I have ever heard of who has my specific haircut... Delirium from the endless in Neil Gaiman's Sandman Chronicles comic book.

Delirium and I, we're meant to be- down to the overly ripped fishnets.










And just as a goodnight:

Delirium My Little Pony fan-art. Truth: There are bigger nerds in the world. *phew*

I'm not me. Neither are you.

As a model, I spent a large amount of time pretending to be someone else.
But I didn't realize how much of every day, everyone is acting.

You pretend to not sleep with girls in the conservative office, you pretend to have a boyfriend when the boys bother you, you pretend you are someone else, somewhere else, something else.

we have drama clubs, acting classes, drag queens, trannies.
we are not ourselves. we are more ourselves that we'd care to admit.

The other day, I began to wax nostalgic for playing pretend as a kid- but I play dress up + imagination games more now than I ever did then. but now I stay in same world.

I'm not some orphan living alone in the woods (think boxcar children), or a fairy princess with magical powers.

When I go to the hipster club, gay club, burning man party, poetry reading, work- I put on a persona. I dress it up, I act the part (just like anyone).

This rant is inspired by failed attempts to flirt with a girl when I wasn't dressed the part. Inspired by my fake name at photoshoots. Inspired by the girl who said reading this is like reading about "najy" who intimidates her, because she knows and loves "najva".

This rant is inspired by my one friend who is too girly for girls, for kids playing on the playground and making it a pirate ship or quicksand, for the girl who is just insane enough to compliment someone's eyeballs because it's really the first compliment she thought of and not because it sounds interesting.

I want to know if it's possible to be yourself every minute of the day. If pretending is a necessity. I have this hair-brained notion that inside all my facades, there is what is essentially me (visually, it'd be a glowing gold nugget of truth). And sometimes I consciously deny it, or ignore it, or I show bits and pieces of it...

But what if I didn't give a fuck and did what it said all day? ignoring the fact that dressing would be impossible (which outfit is really me? that's a good question to ask if you never want to leave the house)- what would happen?

no fake names, no fake answers for the harassers on the street, no lying, no faux-flirting, no games, no biting my cursing tongue in front of the kids, no wigs, no drag.

I'd lose a lot. a whole lot.

Thankfully, I love my multiple personalities- and they (except for the depressed, self- loathing one) love me right back.
--------------------------------------------

I am tired, speedy, full.
It is morning, though you can't tell in my batcave-room.
I went on a spender drinker thinker bender tonight.

So when I got home, I watched "castle in the sky" and wrote this.
It is 8:18 AM and I am tired of New York City.

I have no idea what I'm going to do with my life and I am trying not to think about it. My ex used to have a rule (which we never really followed) that says not to dwell on deep topics after 2 AM.

So I'll empty my mind here, then try to sleep.

THOUGHT VOMIT:

-what grad school? MFA poetry? MA English/Journalism/Sociology? Business classes? Lawyer?
-Why did L have so much girl drama?
-Why are people attracted to people who look just like them? (i.e. not me. lame)
-What a waste of mascara.
-Crookers kid cudi remix pretty much owns my soul.
-Though I'm not always having sex, my bed is rarely empty.
-Tomorrow night/ sunday AM I leave for philly.
-We need more smutty artists.
-I'm fat. I'm fat. I'm fat. I'm fat. I'm fat. I'm fat. I'm fat. I'm fat. I'm fat.
-does having sex on the bathroom floor with someone 30 minutes after I meet them make them less attractive to me? does that make me a bad person if it does?
-I should get HIV tested.
-I'm tired.

Goodnight. morning. whatever the fuck.

Zelda Fitgerald. The Flapper.

This is my favorite quote to describe myself, ever.
I wish Zelda and I could get champagne drunk one day.



"The Flapper awoke from her lethargy of sub-deb-ism, bobbed her hair, put on her choicest pair of earrings and a great deal of audacity and rouge and went into the battle. She flirted because it was fun to flirt and wore a one-piece bathing suit because she had a good figure... she was conscious that the things she did were the things she had always wanted to do. Mothers disapproved of their sons taking the Flapper to dances, to teas, to swim and most of all to heart."

Zelda Fitzgerald

Open mic. Facebook. Douglas Adams. Creepy.

I read THIS poem tonight and didn't vomit all over bar 13.
In fact, I may go do workshops with them.

But I woke up knowing I was going to read, and had that pit in my stomach all day.
I was hyperventilating when my eyebrows were being threaded, shaky making sandwiches and drinking coffee, knocked over a table and shattered three glasses while drinking wine.

I did read "The Restaurant at the end of the Universe" by Douglas Adams all morning. ignored my phone, made myself granola and yogurt, and read the whole goddamn thing cover to cover.

Fave part? When the cow offers himself up as dinner.

Incidentally, all this was possible because the girl I stayed with last night had to be at work by 9. Which meant I was home by 8:45. It's been a while since I saw the sun. You tend to forget, when you become nocturnal, how much happier life could be if you just managed to sit outside while the sunshine is doing it's full-on-rays. Vitamins, do your thing.

Ok, before I go any further let it be known- I AM A CREEP.
Pretty much, I have fabulous research skills that I utilize in stalking my person of the moment- be it someone from my past- or some hopeful future liason.
Facebook, myspace, google, twitter- these are all guilty pleasures.
It's like movies and stories, but with people you peripherally know. Reality TV streaming live out of my laptop.

So- to add to that, today I made my first fake facebook profile. It started as a joke in a bar. But I was succesfully able to make a profile claiming to be another existing person, upload various pictures, do minimal research... it's too easy. Unsettlingly easy. Granted, I have interaction limits due to my small amount of knowledge- but imagine if I knew them better.

Or imagine if I didn't know them at all.
A perfect stranger could make a site pretending to be me, and it's entirely possible.

*shivers*

I have three jobs tomorrow ( 12:30 photoshoot, 4:00 Artists model, 10:00 Go Go @ Snapshot)
I best get to sleeping.

The Itch.

I MISS BEING ON THE ROAD.


I MISS EUROPE.


I MISS SUNSHINE.

Words to live by

Over dinner I said this to a friend as a sudden conversational epiphany, and it's everything to me, pretty much. She teared up and we hugged, then made plans for me to tattoo a circle into my wrist. girls. le sigh.

"I am constantly searching for two things: Love and Truth. But I am not willing to compromise either because one is nothing without the other."



You know exactly what I mean.

Busy.

I'm busy.
You're busy. We love being busy, we hate being busy.
I can schedule you in next week, next month, tomorrow between 4:30 and 6.

Some people are busy because they can't decide what they want and try to do everything. Others are over dedicated to one subject. some are working 5 jobs to pay off taxes they never put aside. some use it to forget. some use it to distract themselves from themselves. some are THIS close to getting their dreams, if they just work harder.

I'm busy.
And I love looking at my schedule seeing the number of dollars I'm making each day. each week. Seeing all my winter/spring jetsetting plans. I love using every minute of every day. I love writing (hermit) in my schedule and x-ing the whole day out for coffee and anime movies and ice cream.

I loathe working 7 days a week. I loathe knowing what I'm doing IN ADVANCE for 2 weeks. Spontaneity= foreign language.

Thursday, for example.
I woke up, ran errands. dressed. went to a photoshoot in the basement of Lit. Met up with a friend for drinks and dinner with a whole face of glitter. went glitzy and drunken to yoga. went home, changed, hopped over to bushwick. danced to the wildstyle 25th anniversary party lineup. made more plans.

rinse, repeat.

friday, staten island for a gig with my friend cherry. then over to her friends house, a dominatrix who she has class with. then rush back, dinner, gogo, crew breakfast.
home at 8 am.

These are examples of a schedule without breathing room.

I am trying to live as many lives as possible. I recognize the importance of balance (today my day was lazy, but that was scheduled too).

here are future plans, the big ones:

Philly next week
home for thanksgiving
home for the holidays
New Years somewhere special (TBA)
10 day silent retreat in boston mid january
skiing in colorado early feb
Winter Music Conference miami late march
New orleans/houston mid-april

Summer...San Francisco? Barcelona? Istanbul? Morocco?


Ah, world.

Things I need:
money
time
a book that inspires me NOT to put it down (I miss my reading addiction)
to not eat ice cream and drink coffee with too much sugar in it

I am not that interesting.
but I try.

Now I'm off to host a party. sell jello shots and pass out toy money. bring in friends.
do what I love doing,
showing others a goddamn good time.

shower time.

SMUT in the Village Voice

Check us out.
we done good.

Slideshow of SMUT! in The Village Voice
And it's official!
There will be another SMUT! In december.

Ready? Get Excited.


Love,
The Lowbrow Society for the Arts
[Najy + Lenora Jayne]

To hold your antics over till then...

Disintegration

My favorite motorcycle jacket’s sleeves are falling off and the rotten stuffing is visible. The soles of my boots are worn. There are holes in my black purse.
Exterior is giving way to Interior:
the aging process of the things I love.
Love is a verb and like any, it means action. My things have been there- rubbing against other studded punk jackets, infused with skinhead sweat, dropped on bathroom floors to mingle with toilet paper and day-old gayboy cum. They have danced on platforms while my legs are running double time on some powder or another.
New things tell no tales.
My mother, every time I go home, looks at my ripped fishnets, dirty backpack, and duct tape shoes and asks me- don’t I love my belongings?
Of course. If I didn’t, they’d be stainless, whole, still sitting in a closet somewhere next to my graduation robes and the orange scarf she bought me in Turkey last summer.
You should respect your things, she says. She pronounces respect like a slap.
Respect leaves her lips fully capitalized, some word to pray to. Her vision of respect is not biking miles in the clothes, not doing minor construction in the clothes, not staying out days in the clothes, not doing drugs in the clothes, not having sex against the bathroom wall in the clothes.
But not me.
I promise, if I love you- I will wear you out. Take you on trips till dawn and sometimes you’ll have mysterious marks on your skin even if I don’t leave the house with you.
If I love you, you’ll disintegrate.
Exterior giving way to interior- till you’re inside out and we both can see what you’re made of: The Chinese girl you first said those three words to, who died that Halloween. All your exes, including the one you might get back together with. The pain from your tattoo and hood piercing. The pleasure. The exact synapses fired the first time I made you come. Your capoiera muscle, what’s left of it. Your tumor. You and your sisters secrets. That disappointed look reserved for friends who forget to be friends. The night after the club you don’t remember. And the morning after, naked, with him. Your mis-wired nerve endings which let you have orgasms from my massages. The piece of dinner you didn’t throw up when you were trying to make your last series of paintings.
All this will fall out of your seams.
I can’t be careful, I don’t know how.
When my mother tried to teach me, I stuck my fingers firmly in my ears and sang Green Day just loud enough to hear nothing.
I learned only this:
If I love you, you will disintegrate, exterior giving way to interior.
If you are a jacket or shoes or a purse- I will spend money to repair you. Take you to to a store that smells of polish, drop you off with a man behind a sewing machine.
If you are made of skin and bones, if you are human, I will not stop.
I will pull out your stuffing with glee, place it on the bed, treat it like a library. A museum. A sandbox. I will get lost in the stories of your insides, place your insides on a pedestal and charge others to visit, throw your insides in the air and get some in my eye. I will build castles from your insides.
If I love you, you will disintegrate.
If I love you, you will disintegrate.
Exterior giving way to interior until you’re inside out.

YES WE DID.

And I'm not talking about the president.

The SMUT! art party was FIERCE. I mean, we made it by a hair.
The gogo girl called in sick an hour before, there was a bushwick trash can scavenger hunt for some art work, and I showed up about 30 minutes late.

But we packed out the bar. over capacity and everyone beautiful and talented. the music was dope, the pictures scandalous, the last minute (sent by an angel) replacement gogo was hot, and I was mostly running around like a 5th grader snorting pixie sticks.

Watch for it. The Lowbrow Society for the Arts is here to stay.
We have a vision:

non-pretentious art in odd settings. chelsea is sterile. lets have fun around art. lets set a mood. lets make friends. art is for the masses. for the people. there is no reason you should be able to spend 2 hours gallery hopping and not see one goddamn good piece of work. Lenora and I literally stand behind each and every piece in the show.

the lollipops, cookies, nudity, gummyporn, electro music, drink specials, squishy boob-balls, late night makeout sessions? That's what makes you stay. But the focus is the pieces. that's the draw.

and now that we have a good reputation, we might make it a monthly. more on that soon...

Also, I sold my first photo:


In the meanwhile, my room is still a mess. I have a slight whooping cough. I'm not healthy enough. I don't eat enough raw vegetables. I think too many processed sugary foods make me sick. I really like kissing this one girl, but I like that I can kiss everyone and still kiss her too. I feel like I made something real, and I'm proud of myself. I don't have a real job. I have three gogo gigs and two (non-paid) hosting gigs in the next 2 weeks. I'm modeling for a nerve.com spread. I want to use the artist for the next party we do.

I can't seem to sleep on time or enough, ever. I just want to stop, sometimes. If I ramble on my blog, is it lame? Sometimes I dream up burlesque shows with candle wax and fake blood.

Now if I could only feel enough emotions in my icebox heart to make art again, I'd be dandy. Am I thawing? The last girl I was falling in love with was a mess. I'm so tired of messes.

And it's not even about a boy or a girl, it's about the world. Slap my sissy face, but I used to be elliot smith's dream girl: "I'm in love with the world through the eyes of a girl..." lame. but it's about time to clean my act up. starting with my room.

Sunday, I'm becoming a hermit.

Halloween. Art Show. Criminal.

I got my first real ticket today for letting a friend in with me through the subway turnstile.
I also got my first photos ever REALLY printed today for an art show. MY art show hosted by the group my friend and I started: The Lowbrow Society for the Arts...


halloween was beautiful glittery chaos. things like 9 am brunch and yoga sessions before bed and glitter gangs slashing faces with silver.

I cried when obama won.