Friday, November 13, 2009

Add concrete

It makes sense that this is when I decided to leave San Francisco, but actually I decided earlier, sometime after I got back from Seattle, before or after Laurie moved out I’m not sure. Probably after, because otherwise she might not have moved. San Francisco was done for me, until JoAnne moved down. After she moved down, I probably wouldn’t have decided to leave, I mean except that I had already decided -- isn’t it strange how these things work?

When JoAnne started doing heroin, it wasn’t a big deal, or at least it didn’t seem like a big deal. She would sit in her room on the rocking chair, eyes closed and I would ask: are you sleeping? No, she would say -- no, I’m wide awake. What do you see, I would ask. Everything, she would say.

Then the next day, we would go on making carrot juice and reading, and JoAnne would tell me: you really have to work at it, you have to work to get addicted. It’s not like crystal, she would say. We both knew about crystal -- you definitely didn’t have to work to get addicted to crystal. Sometimes JoAnne would sit in her room on heroin and paint -- she thought we should do it together, it would be fun. I didn’t want to make art on drugs -- I’d stopped doing crystal when I realized I needed it to dance, or not to dance but to really dance. I didn’t understand why JoAnne was shooting heroin instead of snorting it, but the truth was that heroin just wasn’t the drug for me: I wanted to be on all the time, I didn’t want to close my eyes and watch. I don’t even know if I wanted to close my eyes.

Before Garrett moved out, back when we were still friends with Angie, or friendly at least, we all went over Angie’s office and got together with a few of Angie’s friends who were maybe still our friends and made a zine together. Maybe Andee was there too, was Andee there? Laurie was probably at work. Angie worked at a nonprofit, and she had the key to the office, where there was a photocopier, so we were taking advantage of the resources. We each made a page in this zine and a lot of it was about rape and incest and sex work and rage and it’s funny to think we made the zine right before we became enemies, because at that moment it felt like we were finally getting along. Maybe that’s why I ended up talking about riot girl, I mean when I started to write about this period of my life, even though riot girl never meant anything to me: we were writing about rape and sex work and rage and then we were enemies.

Andee says: yes I was there, I was there when we made that zine, it was called The Cruelest Zine, and you were supposed to write about the cruelest thing you had ever done to anyone. Me: that’s a different zine, I don’t think I was there for that one. Andee: yes you were, we only went there once, I have that zine in storage in Montana. Me: but I have it right here, and it’s not called The Cruelest Zine. Andee: that’s right -- we made two zines, there was the other zine where I drew a diagram of a cock ring unfolded, because that’s when I was making sex toys out of rubber with Vanessa, and then I wrote: The Day I Learned Codependency Was the Word on Valencia. Me: I don’t think that’s what it says, maybe that was in the other zine. Andee: no, that’s definitely what it says, because in the other zine I wrote about throwing this boy out of a party in Seattle because he told me he’d slept with my boyfriend, I picked him up by the collar and dragged him out of the flat and down the hall and threw him out into the rain. And then I wouldn’t let anyone let him back in, even though it wasn’t my apartment. Me: that’s right, I remember that story, we talked about it in the kitchen beforehand, and you were still angry at that boy. Andee: But I felt terrible about it. Me: I know -- that’s why you wrote about it in The Cruelest Zine. But what did I write about? Andee: you did that stream-of-consciousness piece that was a list, like two cups of this and a teaspoon of that and I can’t remember exactly what it said but then at the end you said -- add concrete. Me: oh, right -- like a recipe. Andee: yeah, like a recipe -- and everyone was stunned and fawning, because you had just pulled that out and it became the central piece in the zine, even though the whole thing was a setup so that Ellen could write about that dinner party at your house. Now they were all saying to you: that's amazing, you're amazing. Me: oh, right -- Ellen wrote about how that dinner party was the cruelest thing anyone had ever done to her -- no wonder I don’t remember that zine.

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