Stylishly rough around the edges

Teetering on the edge of a cold and watching When Harry Met Sally this evening. Have finished my asymmetrical organza wrap skirt with volume save for the no-sew buttons, which require hammering. Knowing me, I plan to save this hammering business for when I am in a more shop-appropriate place. No longer going to live in the tiny mouse house. The Celesbian will no longer be my landlord. Loverboi and I are struggling to find peace as a couple under the stress of his job, which is currently wrought with negativity and scapegoating (celebs...go figure!), particularly in relation to this guest house.

I am about to move into my new place, which is in Echo Park, a cheap and particularly charming area of central L.A. with a Cuban bakery just a few yards from my back door and a more diverse version of the Wayward Cafe down the street. It's pretty much close to everything, and my closet is so big I could live in it. It has it's own light switch AND window. I can't wait! New roomie Carey is a witty and charming SF-stereotype who reminds me of my old buddy Rosco, and his gf, proclaimed addict-in-the-program with Rihanna's good looks and a personality I took to immediately. Last night Poni, Carey and Ashley (the gf) and I had dinner on the carpet and argued animatedly about decorating and told the stories of our romances...

I rode to the Abbey in the cats-and-dogs downpour to meet Mike Walker who's in town for the weekend, but he ended up "walkered" somewhere, which I predicted would happen (we're having brunch tomorrow with his posse) and I ended up dancing the night away at venues riddled with femmes, fags, and amazing, amazing dancers. Never have I been so inspired by a city to dance like a maniac. Never have I seen so many femmes dance on a bar, or had a true femme queer friend. I now have two. No three.

Also, the other day I saw some girls in literally their underwear at the local coffee shop. Forget workout gear, these fashion forward ladies were one step away from the full Monty. I wanted to take their picture, but I got embarrassed. Ha!

Tequila Breath

I smell like tequila this morning. Went to a party after house hunting all day and getting a couple offers for apartments. It's nice to walk into a party and be greeted by a bunch of bear hugs after weeks of being anti-social for schoolwork's sake. It's nice to feel young and wild still, watching the subtle dramas unfold as the fridge empties. It's nice to slow dance in a living room filled with conversations while the pop mixes stream endlessly from Ipod after Ipod. It's fun to finally let a little loose in Silverlake while Laurel Canyon sleeps as usual.

It's been raining here. Cats and Dogs fall from a full-moon sky bright and enabling. I hear the weather in Seattle has been lovely. I am looking forward to visiting my beloved home city for a couple of days at the beginning of April, perhaps, to see Glasses in the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and my parents, and take my little bicycle back to LaLa with me on the Amtrak. It will be so romantic!

I am moving in with a cute kid named Carey. We met at a lesbo dance night in West Hollywood the day after he moved here from SF. As the girls doused themselves in booze and jiggled about the bar surfaces at Truckstoppin' those few months ago, we made a bunch of eye contact on the dance floor, knowing that our friendship was destiny. However, yesterday he told me that I'm actually just one of those "staring people" that stares a whole hell of a lot. He and his adorbs girlfriend told me that it seems like I'm thinking sexual things even when I may not. So there's that. Hmmm....no one has ever told me that before. AND apparently it's obvious I'm a gay. Girls at school assume my partner is a "she" automatically, or at least they did the other day. So now I'm an obviously gay stare-er. This brings up a funny conflict for me. On one hand, I really like the idea of people thinking I make a lot of eye contact, and that them perceiving me as a perv doesn't sway their interest in me as a friend. But on the other hand, I just really don't want babes--I mean girls--WOMEN--to think "Oh, God, that Lesbian over there keeps looking at me in a sexual way, " and getting scared or feeling awkward. I feel like one of the main reasons it took me so long to come out is because I just didn't want to make my girly girlfriends all uncomfortable. What if they don't want me to come to their sleepovers anymore? But I digress.

College is harder than I remember...

I have been doing so much homework I feel crazy. I've been getting almost no sleep, staying up late doing so much drawing I've had to get reading glasses to help my eyes. They keep doing this thing where they dart back and forth really fast--like a spasm--when I concentrate too hard for too long. My body is suffering a bit. I've got some dark circles, a weird pimple on my lower back (what?) and I've been eating too many snack bars as meals, so I've lost weight but I'm feeling bloated. I really shouldn't be blogging, but my presence on the internet must live on! I must remain on the map. I can't let my social life, even if it is only facebook and a blog entry every week, disappear completely. Superbowl Sunday was spent painstakingly hunched over a sewing machine, cursing searsucker and its tiny tiny stripes that simply must match on my bias-cut summer dress or I won't feel satisfied! I am going the over achiever route, as well, which doesn't make things easier, but I do get more out of my work. I am still completely in love with this, even if it kills me, I will still love it deeply.

Poni has left for the weekend to attend a college reunion, and I am left in a quiet house, with only my own mess, for three days. I think I'll throw a party! (Kidding, Poni...and like I'd have the time! Pshaw!)

Anyhow. How boring to only write about how busy I am! I am trying to find new ways to play with my gender on a daily basis. One day I am computer-nerd-meets-Ramona-Quimby and another day I'm fairy-princess-elf-meets-Sailor-Moon, or whatever it may be. I'm into the idea of mash-ups, taking two possibly opposing gender concepts and having them shake hands in clothing form on my body. I currently am into maintaining my hairy armpits, but properly grooming everything else. I just can't find shaved armpits attractive. They creep me out, and remind me too much of babies with diaper rash. Gross.

Looking forward to Valentine's Day, usually a fondly-remembered holiday for me, getting my own place in the next couple of months, having a break from school to let loose on my dress form, and writing a few songs while I'm at it.

Warrior Princess

My friend Kitt just sent me this link on Model Andrej Pejic, androgenous model and babe to boot. Very inspiring. Check it out. It makes perfect sense to me that people with a tad more XY than XX would make excellent models because they often naturally have the long, slightly spindly, or at least the ultra shapely legs required for looking painfully gorgeous in clothes. Why not leave the modeling to those with the natural bone structure?

My ideal runway show would feature all androgenous people, and no one in the audience would be able to tell, or care, what was under the skirts or in the pants of my models. That's also how I plan my future wedding. And my future post-apocalyptic commune, for that matter.

I had an artistic revelation last week. Pink Belly Dancer was in town and for her birthday, we perused Melrose Avenue with avengence, she acquiring tiny dress after tiny dress, our heads all buzzing with the clothes and the people and the weather and the friendship and the frantic fun of it all. I managed to get my ear pierced again, forgetting completely that body art inflicts a certain amount of trauma, on so many levels, to the wearer. My brain slowly congealed at the combination of (window) shopping and pierced adrenaline, eventually finding it rather hard to think, but suddenly bursting into tears over "it all!" when Poni and I finally made it home. Sweetness listened and cooked for us while I let out a slew of worries, most of them my being concerned over lack of inspiration. But the sensation of having my thoughts cancelled out by opposing experiences helped me get to the root of the matter. I had, for a brief window, insight into this very intensely awesome part of myself; the deep, gutteral artist, the cleverest me, the most sensitive to my powers.

I have since felt incredibly tapped into my "art crazy" as I like to think of it. I have been thinking of words that go well with art, like ART FOOD, or ART TART, or (as a reference to a brand my friend Biff invented in our early twenties) ART CRUSH. My theory in this is that in doing simple exercises to think of things in a creative context, even if it's a little tick-lick habit as such simple poetry, will bring me back into the moment and think for myself. Creatively. Melrose Ave. gave me an extra juicy shot of what I find so subtly overwhelming about Los Angeles, all in one not-so-subtle go. It helped me to feel more clearly how senstive I can be to it's influence, and it had started to cloud my own instincts. I should be free.

I feel a bit more liscence to do as I please, and my art projects have been wildly passionate deepening affairs in my head. I am in love with my work, and that feels amazing. The other day I imagined myself a dancing warrior princess while practicing yoga to Lorena McKennit. And you know what? I f*cking felt like a real warrior princess when I was done, having turned on my magical powers.