Not really, no, actually that’s not true at all, I don’t want a boyfriend at all, not not not at all, en serio. I think a proper rephrase would be: I’d rather not be alone forever.

I am in Brookyln, at Nick/Joe/JJ’s. It’s a temperate winter evening and this year is draining out its last venom like a dying serpant. I get to wait; I’m waiting until this awful year is gone. GO AWAY, 2004! Be gone with you!

There is a small flag of Canada on Nick’s floor. This morning Joe sang “Oh Canada” on the way to the train. Now I’m eating six Belgian chocolate seashells for dinner; they were a parting gift from DC, whom I visited briefly before catching the latest Almodovar film solo (La educacion mala, starring gorgeous Gael B., in case anyone’s interested). I bought a pair of Fluevogs on the way and put them on in the bathroom of Sunshine Cinema.

So back to the boyfriend discussion…
No, let’s kill it now, I’m not serious. I like being alone, but not really. Not initially, or ultimately, or generally. Just sometimes. Like 1999, for example. That was an excellent alone year. But I was younger and traveling internationally and I didn’t have the weight of career decisions, massive debt, the influence of everyone either moving to New York or California, converting to domesticity, having babies, or all of the above.

Freedom is an essential, growth-inspiring element crucial to one’s best development. But it’s also a vast cavern of emptiness if you don’t have a specific plan.

I’m not content with casual affairs, with unemotional connections, with the alchemic, temporal transformation from platonic buddies to wanton bedfellows. But it’s so easy to have that. And as equally unfulfilling.

While we’re on the subject of irresponsible sexual behaviour, my father called the other day. At 8.53am. From work. It was a call returning my call to him. As usual, it was formal and brief, a bit defensive. I have given up on him, and he knows it, hence the defensiveness. Call me crazy, but it’s hard to count on anyone who avoids you for several years at a time, or a lifetime, or both. Or at all. I haven’t time for men like this; I haven’t time for anyone like this. I have, instead, time for Joshua, my 15-yr-old surrogate bro in Amherst who leaves me awesome voicemails about how his grades are improving and high school’s ok and he can’t wait to hang out again…and I have time for Ryan, who leaves voicemails mandating divorce if I don’t come home immediately and take care of the children…and I have time for George, actually, who has prioritized me enough in his busy schedule to actually pencil in a lunch date after several cold months…

Whatever. Who cares? Who’s reading this, anyway? I’ve started having dreams about England again. Manchester really was the worst. I had a moment today, between the theatre and E.14 Street, where I recalled precisely my red-headed British roommate’s cool shoes, the day we went to the bicycle shop in Chorlton and she spent 200 pounds on a massive dark two-wheeler…how I realized even back then she would never open up completely, that I could never actually trust her or many others completely, if at all, even though she tried to be nice; how low the clouds really were and how awful it really was.

And now, in Brooklyn, with my pals out on the town and me in the same dirty jeans somewhere in a bedroom on Nassau, I’m writing to the internet, realizing how badly my calves hurt from walking 10+ miles around the city today. Bouncing between my three East Coast cities always yanks me into confusion, and I wander around Philadelphia knowing I should know it but knowing that I don’t; and then New York, knowing I should be here already but knowing that’s not my proper fate just yet; and then returning to Boston, cold, bitter Boston, where my rent is cheap and my office is flourescent and the spinach salads are always free when I babysit.

2004 has been a short but substantial year, packed with a series of challenging yet character-building events. If I could summarize the year into one succinct menu, it would include bagels with cream cheese, burritos, frozen German pizza, Stroopwafels, Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked, pumpkin cheesecake, roast beef sandwiches on rye with all the vegetables, and McVittie’s dark chocolate digestives.

Not unsatisfying, but enough to make you puke, right?
Now you finally understand.

Live from the railroad tracks in Norristown, it’s me & Mom (yes she is crying in this photo; we were laughing a lot). Who needs presents when you’ve got a camera phone?

My pals Mary & Matt had their baby the other day in the Netherlands, a surprise girl coming after a long hard delivery, just like the dream I had last week. WOOOOO! Welcome, Eva!

Since tomorrow begins the ugly battle to catch Chinese buses to New York, then Philly, then New York again, then back to Boston next week, I’ll leave y’all these few words as my Happy Christmas message (shout-out to the Christians), or Chanukah (even though it’s over, shout-out to Aaron, DC, George, Burger Ben, the Friedlanders, and half of Beth), or the un-institutionalized-religious (a big wuddup to everyone else)…

To Rosie & Damien, to Sarah & Tyson, to Joshua & Maisha, to Adam & Whitney (most importantly!), to all the Gardners and the Phinneys and all the super-important family and pseudo family I have but haven’t yet sent cards to (I need to buy more! I’m sorry!), I love you all ridiculously. To the memory of Bradwell, Jeremy, Ron, and Lee, still being the best people ever, just in a realm I can’t see right now. To my pals in England, incredible in their awesomeness, their generosity, unceasing energy and exceptional friendship; to Katie who helped me stay mildly sane while dropping out of school, even though life is still a little tough; to George who single-handedly dealt supportively with my weekly hysteria for the length of September and October, regardless of the fact that subsequent months have been a tad challenging; to Mark, my quiet but loyal friend; to everyone in New York who’s always there for me, not to mention everyone else I love from Emerson; and to Ryry for everything — what would I be without you guys? Terribly empty, that’s what. Throw this aching year out with a large noise, ok? I’ll be screaming in solidarity from Boston.

Which reminds me…
What are everyone’s plans for New Year’s? I know my “comments” feature has been disabled due to spam, but if anyone has any good ideas on how to enjoy the evening (other than spending midnight alone reading a Macromedia tutorial book), please let me know.

Much love to all and safe travels, etc.
It’s nearly The Year of the Rooster! Wooooooo!

Courtesy of Lapsed Modernist, whom I’ve never met but obviously someone with whom I could rob a bank, then peel out to Panama while hanging from the roof of the car with $200,000 and an oreo in my pocket… Barney Shakur

JWL & I are doing a video project on the public yet anonymously written word. Graffiti counts. This shot is from the upstairs bathroom at The Living Room in the East Village…

I had a dream last night. I dreampt I went back to Manchester after an epiphany that England wasn’t so bad after all and Manch was worth it so long as I had my roommates and didn’t have to go to school.

When I arrived it was during a big party, and Peter’s girlfriend was visiting (as in reality she will be, presently) from Peru. In the dream it was a different house, like an open Caribbean summer house. The rooms seemed to flow into one another, and there was a sunny, very un-British breeze wafting through the place. Shiva was laughing in another room. I came through the front door and tried to present myself majestically to everyone. The first person I saw was Peter and his girlfriend. They were in bed, waking up from a nap. He looked really confused and concerned. He got up and let me in, still with a serious expression on his face. The other roommates didn’t react much, as if my return was nothing unexpected. Then it occured to me that I’d been replaced there and I’d have to wait for Ben to move back to France in Feb before I could move into my old room. There were other parts of the dream but I’m leaving those out on purpose.

As the night progressed, though, and everyone was quite out of it, I had this strange feeling like I was avoiding life, like I was only back in England to escape things, and maybe it wasn’t worth it to stay. It was a weird, almost psychadelic scene, in the midst of which I struggled to evaluate my life & career goals, as usual. What an annoyingly recurring freakin scene. I eventually decided to go back to the States, but I wasn’t sure exactly why I’d decided that.

I think what this all means is that my UK adventure is slowing fading into a dream. Even in the real dream, I struggled to figure out how long I had been in Manch and how long I had been back in Boston. I couldn’t for the life of me determine the actual amount of time. It seemed like only a few days had passed….

It’s a nice day, an odd week. My mailbox key snapped in half as I was turning it in the lock yesterday. I got Xmas cards from several family friends and some other pals, many with photos inside, which was nice. So many friends have kids now. It’s just something to take note of, to tilt the head at.

When I return from Venezuela in winter of 2010 with my adopted baby son for the US release of my second film, with whom will I spend the holidays?

I have, thanks to Mister Capo, taught E. & I., the 6- and 8-yr-old I babysit, how to play dice. And man, I. is especially adept. She is a highly competitive third grader who whooped me in 10 minutes with an excess of 5000 points. I haven’t explained that dice is, um, kind of an old mens’ gambling game, but we just play for points, so it’s all clean. Of course, combined with my hip hop culture tutorials, I realize I’m walking a fine educational line with the children, but every kid needs to learn how to throw a straight & spit a phat rhyme at some point, fo’ shizzle.

In other news,
why is Christmas always about family? I mean, I love my Ma, but we drive eachother CRAZY and the holidays act as a fuel-injected V6, igniting the 17-year-old bitch I once was. Now that we’re several cities away from one another, she’s gotten weirder about wanting to see me, and to know EXACTLY what my EXACT plans are. If I struck gold, don’tgetmewrong, I’d buy my mom an island; but these days I do envy the Larrys and Shivas and Nicks and Aarons of the world who are free of concrete mandates to return home for the coldest and shortest days of the year.

At least they’re the shortest days of the year.

I am wearing very baggy things today. Someone else’s sweater. Old, large, stained jeans. Red water shoes. $5 long underwear. My hair will not stop growing and I’m getting those aches again, the ones that whisper What are you doing here? It’s time to travel again…

I tend to avoid going to New York too frequently these days, because when I do I just get all mopey about not living there. It’s been over five years since I declared yes, I will move here soon; now I just keep waiting…for a job there, for an opportunity, for the wind to blow money in the right direction, for an epiphany, etc etc. Regardless, had a grand ol’ time in the city of sin (wait, that’s Vegas) even if it was only a 24-hour adventure.

Driving in & out of NYC with Ryan and the band was long but fun….

And in Brooklyn, Nick performed an old-tyme sepia ragtag dance in the living room…

Nothing ever really changes, eh?

I don’t know, but I certainly do overpack. I always pack in preparation for something — the worst: a national emergency, a coastal power outage, or a cathartic moment that changes me, inabling me to return to where I’ve come from….

So I pack everything I might possibly need: discman, journal, planner, extra batteries, “Breaking Out of Beginner’s Spanish”, a sweater, a long-sleeved shirt, an extra pair of jeans — in case I spill coffee, yet again, on the pants I’m wearing — underwear, always an extra pair, ditto for socks, toiletries, razor, deodorant, expensive french perfume, several kinds of lip moisterizers, wallet, keys, unmbrella, phone + charger….

I wrote holiday cards tonight. You have to call them “holiday cards” these days, otherwise you’re considered culturally insensitive. I’d say “Christmas cards” but my recipient list includes five Jews, several agnostics and a few people who don’t celebrate anything national or commercial. So, it’s “holiday” then. Happy Holidays and Happy New Year, etc etc. Many happy returns.

What are returns? Returns on investments?

> Many happy things. Much happiness. A happy future. A happy present. Notice how everyone always wishes eachother happiness for the future, as if otherwise we’re all doomed to remain in an apathetic collective depression. Nay! No we aren’t and I’ll not have it! I won’t!

I had a dream that my pal Mary Iwata had her baby. She was due yesterday, in the Netherlands. I mean, if she were still in the US she’d be due the same day, I’m just saying she’s now living in the Netherlands. So I had this dream where she was in labor all night long and was getting pretty annoyed by it, and finally when she had the baby, we were all shocked to see it was a girl, not the boy we’d all predicted. I woke up feeling extreme anxiety over the whole thing, her discomfort, the anticipation…I was really agitated for a while, wanted to call across the ocean and check in. I was convinced she’d gone into labor. I guess we’ll just wait for an email and see if I’m right.

PS: I love my pals. I sent out an email to NYC people asking for a place to crash in the very near future, and everyone responded immediately in the positive. Crazy. The Joes and their film ideas are awesome, and Ryan’s great, great great, and England friends are so cool (international videoconferencing is even cooler), George is even in touch, and the intellectual Cambridge kids I babysit — thanks to my tutorials in underground hip hop culture — have actually begun writing me raps. WORD!

It’s freaking freezing out, but I’ve really nothing to complain about. So I won’t.

PPS: If you haven’t checked out Baghdad Burning on the sidebar (thanks Joe for linking to it first), please do. Here’s an excerpt from this Iraqi girl’s blog:

People are wondering how America and gang (i.e. Iyad Allawi, etc.) are going to implement democracy
in all of this chaos when they can’t seem to get the gasoline flowing in a country that virtually swims in oil.
There’s a rumor that this gasoline crisis has been concocted on purpose in order to keep a minimum of cars
on the streets. Others claim that this whole situation is a form of collective punishment because things are
really out of control in so many areas in Baghdad- especially the suburbs. The third theory is that this being
done purposely so that the Iraq government can amazingly bring the electricity, gasoline, kerosene and
cooking gas back in January before the elections and make themselves look like heroes.

We’re also watching the election lists closely. Most people I’ve talked to aren’t going to go to elections.
It’s simply too dangerous and there’s a sense that nothing is going to be achieved anyway. The lists are
more or less composed of people affiliated with the very same political parties whose leaders rode in on
American tanks. Then you have a handful of tribal sheikhs. Yes- tribal sheikhs. Our country is going to
be led by members of religious parties and tribal sheikhs- can anyone say Afghanistan? What’s even more
irritating is that election lists have to be checked and confirmed by none other than Sistani!! Sistani- the
Iranian religious cleric. So basically, this war helped us make a transition from a secular country being run
by a dictator to a chaotic country being run by a group of religious clerics. Now, can anyone say ‘theocracy
in sheeps clothing’?

Erudite, I believe, is a GRE vocab word that relates perfectly to the tone of this esteemed (mostly British) anthro film symposium today.

Bleh!

Where do I begin: with the faggy, incomprehensible, pedantic panel discussion moderator who, despite the comical nature of his character, pissed off both the audience and the panelists with his exhausting and exhaustive rhetoric? For God’s sake, he even pronounced “plunge” in the French: “plong-jaaay”. This could not have been worse.

As for the panelists themselves, I was sad to see that author Anna Grimshaw made a crappy film and, although (or maybe because) she had a temperate, quiet nature, came across as lacking any and all enthusiam for her subject matter; Anri Sala is a hot young Albanian who shot some cool footage of crabs, but…..Sharon Lockhart was the only credible filmmaker worth mentioning in detail. She shot a fictionalized doc on a Japanese girls’ basketball team in 1997; she also clipped out live-action basketball photos from newspapers and magazines, had the girls choose which ones they wanted to imitate, then reshot (photo, with professional lighting, portrait-style) each scene that the girls had chosen. She also worked with a famous choreographer and — gasp — one of my favorite designers, Issey Miyake, to choreograph a basketball warm-up session that came across cinematographically more as modern dance than as basketball, although all the moves were basketball moves. It was a really interesting piece. Slow, shot in a single wide frame, but you never wanted to take your eyes off the scene. It was just so different and cool. She’s got another film screening tonight — in 10 minutes, actually — but it costs money and I’m not interested in seeing the other shorts in the screening, plus I’d rather eat a burrito and cheesecake, so maybe another time.

There were other guest speakers — several Brits, a few from the Granada Centre [insert me running screaming HERE], and some elitist Harvard professors who analyzed to death a video of a video of a man turning the same page of a photo album for 11 minutes straight. Tums, anyone?

It really sucked because the whole time I was sitting a few seats down from Christine Walley, an anthro prof at MIT and a documentary filmmaker whom I had just emailed and really wanted to talk to, but, like the intelligent person she probably is, she left the thing early and I never got a chance to introduce myself. I actually endured 8 hours of this ridiculous event all for the promise of meeting some cool international ethno filmmakers, but it was so agonizing that really all the cool people left, except for Sharon, who nearly fell asleep on the panel and got so frustrated with the moderator that she more or less refused to answer any more of his unintelligible questions.

So, right. It was a bust. The whole time I kept having one thought: why are they so great? They’re just making films for other snooty academics. There is little application to the outside world, in terms of the audience; there is little accessibility. Sure, I don’t want to make commercial films but I’ve mad respect for Michael Moore at least for getting half of Americans to the theatres to voluntarily see Faren 911, and to Errol Morris, who made Fog of War and who I *think* was actually sitting next to me in the pizza shop this afternoon…yes he lives in Cambridge, I’ve heard… Anyway, at least these docs are reaching the public. This whole bullshit about art and its intersection with the transitive other and bla bla bla — keep it in the lecture hall, chumps. Is it not the anthro filmmaker’s job, no, responsibility, to not just raise important socio-cultural questions through their films but to translate them, both visually and narratively, in a language the average American can more or less understand? Because if you can’t reach the majority of the population, how the hell can you effect change? Those aging yuppie multisyllabic hippie professors at Harvard today can reason themselves into heaven with their colonialist refutations and culturally relativist, subjective retrospective baloney, but what the hell good does it do? What changes? Whose thought changes?

Because none of this is worth anything if it doesn’t change peoples’ thinking.

THE END.