Slept in late ('til 9!), probably 'cause I took some Benadryl before bedtime (dang mosquitoes). Got a very slow start to the day, kind of puttering through some e-mail, then talking to Ian and El for a while (there's been some housemate stress lately, which will hopefully be sorted through soon). Bunch of things to discuss, actually, including some of the logistics of Lydia and her daughter Kaylie coming to stay with us for a month starting yesterday (the house she was renting got sold out from under her; ick!). They'll be staying in our guest room 'til mid-June -- full house, esp. with Alex coming to visit this week!
Anyway, by the time David came by at noonish, I hadn't gotten half of what I needed to get done done. He did the leftover dishes from the after graduation tea (which was lovely) while I puttered some more. By the time we were finally ready to go (we had planned to go to the Indian grocery stores and pick up some staples (rice, naan, etc), it was 3:30. So I log off, and find voice mail that Heather had left hours previous, saying that she *could* in fact get off work in time to go the poetry slam, if I could be at her office by 4. Oof. David kindly allowed me to blow him off for the evening (he didn't want to come with), and after I frantically changed, dropped me off at her office. Well, public transit and misadventure (*both* Heather's and my watches stopped yesterday, weird, huh?) led to our not making it there by 4:45 (sign up time) or even 5:00 (start time), but they were running a bit late, so Heather got to sign up anyway. I chickened out. Performance poetry makes me nervous, and I wanted to size up the situation before heading in there. I *will* read next week.
The event was a total head rush. I got randomly picked out of the audience to be one of the judges, which was *very* useful in making me think about what judges are looking for. It convinced me to memorize the piece I'll perform next week (probably "Confession", from Jinsong). If you'll be in San Francisco, the slams are $3 to attend, they happen every Sunday at the Cafe du Nord (on Market, between Church and Sanchez) at 5 (before swing dancing), and after next week, the semi-finals start, so the poetry should be really hot.
It was very weird judging Heather, esp. since they throw out the highest and lowest scores, so I knew that if I gave her a 10, it would just be discounted. I tried to judge fairly, 'cause I thought an accurate assessment would be more helpful to her in the long run. Hopefully she'll forgive me the 7.5...
I also wish to note that there were some very hot people there -- or, if I didn't think they were hot when they stepped up to the mike, I did when they'd finished. Now I know why there are all these stories about women falling hard for poets....
Anyway, more on those as they progress, assuming we keep going.
Only other note is from my reading; read _A Hand in the Bush: The Fine Art of Vaginal Fisting_ yesterday, from Greenery Press. Really well done, I thought, with charming illustrations, clear and positive information, a pleasant overall tone (though maybe just a tad overenthusiastic), and a really neat section on other voices; stories from people other than the author. My favorite part, in many ways. In any case, I recommend the book highly if you're at all interested in the subject.
I'm trying to decide if I should go back to sleep. I went to bed around midnight, and for whatever reason, woke up around 4:30 a.m. I've been typing ever since.
Maybe it's the tea I had right before bed (caffeinated), although that seems an odd effect for it to have. I was too hot, and threw off all the covers before I finally decided I was too awake to go back to sleep. I was also having weirdo anxiety dreams about school. I'm *done* with school; I don't need to fret about not having done homework, or about not showing up for class, or even about whether people there like me. The question is, how do I convince my subconscious of that fact?
I was thinking about going back to bed, but maybe this is my brain telling me that it *wants* to go back to the get up at 5 schedule, and I should listen. I think I'll stay up. I'm considering making a cup of tea, and then trying to do some writing. I'm thinking about it.
Okay, now I'm making tea.
Okay, I've done some writing. This piece was running through my head in bits and snatches during the reading. Lemme know what you think.
Confessions of a 26-year-old Female Porn Writer
I write porn for a living. I am not talking about erotica. I am not talking about literature. Oh, I write that too, the serious stuff the literary stuff the stuff I can't show my mother but I can take to class the stuff, sex stuff, that I can put on the net that I can sign my name to that I can be political with that I can try to change the world with try to get people talking about sex get them thinking about sex get them hot and bothered and hard and dripping and admitting that they like sex like reading about sex like thinking about sex like talking, out loud, about sex. That part's easy. All right, it's not easy. It bothers some people and shocks others and my mother now has something she can hold over me until the day I die -- look what you're doing to your father! But I have literature on my side. I have a book in respectable bookstores I have a reading at B. Dalton I have an ISBN number I have this book in the Library of Congress and so I can tell you with confidence that this is serious literature serious shit and the ACLU and the feminists and the lesbians and the whole left-wing is pretty much on my side. That is a formidable army. The porn is another story. Let me tell you about the porn. I write it for Puritan, for Sizzle, for Red Light. I'd write for Penthouse if they'd buy it; I might even write it for Hustler. The porn is not about sex and character The porn is not about sex and stylistic variation The porn is not about literary explorations of sexuality. The porn is just about sex. The porn is just sex. The porn is cocks and cunts and breasts and thighs The porn is thrusting and dripping and pinning her down The porn is holding her hands up above her head while he fucks her brains out and she fucks her ass and you, yeah, you, fuck her mouth and then come on her face The porn will fuck her until she is used up and exhausted and still wet, still dripping, still hungry for more. The porn is not politically correct. The porn is not ethically correct. The porn that gets me off is hard and strong and dripping wet and is emphatically non-consensual The porn is unsigned, unnamed, practically unknown The porn is a cursed untouchable in the civil rights world the ACLU shuns it the lesbians read it in the dark, under the covers the feminists want to burn it and the left wing is embarrassed that it exists. That is the kind of shit I write. That is the kind of shit I don't put my name on. That is the kind of shit that I do mostly for the money which would make me the worst kind of whore the kind who'll fuck anything, anywhere if it pays well enough, no matter how dry her cunt is... But my cunt is not dry. My cunt is dripping. I am rocking in my chair, writing those fucking words, those devoid-of-literary-aspirations words those mostly for the money, but partly for the sex words. And I am hot and wet and eager and dying And that is what makes it all worthwhile. ***** M.A. Mohanraj May 18, 1998