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-- A small artwork by the great artist Vija Celmins that she gave on my birthday in the early 90s.
-- A metal star from the top of one of the trophies that decorated the now defunct Boy Bar on St. Marks Place in NYC. It was broken off and given to me by my boyfriend of the time Rob Dickerson.
-- A handwritten letter to me from Robert Pollard in which he says he likes my books.
-- The wedding ring from my marriage to my ex-boyfriend Chris Lemmerhirt.
-- Vincent Kartheiser's used drinking straw.
-- A vial of dirt from Rimbaud's grave.
-- A stone from the wall of the Marquis de Sade's castle.
-- A copy of Alain Robbe-Grillet's novel Recollections of the Golden Triangle personally signed with a note to me by R-G.
-- 12 letters to me from George Miles.
-- The long end of a wishbone broken off during a wishing contest with my ex-boyfriend Richard Haasen.
-- A copy of my novel Frisk that the artist Mike Kelley has covered and filled with paintings, drawings, and notations.
-- The only photograph I have of Mark Lewis, the boy who inspired my novella Safe. It was taken surreptitiously by a friend of mine. In it, Mark stands with characteristic cool and elegance watching a clearly flustered, nervous me scribble my phone number on a scrap of paper.
-- A tattered beaded necklace given to me by my best friend Joel Westendorf.
-- A sketch on a paper napkin by the artist Ellsworth Kelly where he showed me how he would have designed the cover of my first poetry book Idols.
-- The Prix Sade prize I won for The Sluts/Salope
-- A naked photo of a boy named T. that I'd begged him to give me. He worked with my ex-boyfriend Chris Lemmerhirt at a trendy secondhand clothes store on Melrose. Chris and I had a two week-long ménage à trois him. Six months later, he gassed himself to death in his apartment. There's poem in my book The Dream Police about him called 'Love Come Down'. Before T. reluctantly gave me the photo, he wrote on the back: 'It does not work.'
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p.s. Hey. Now I'm almost for sure in Tokyo itself and very jet-lagged. I thought I would repost this interactive old post today 'cos maybe it's fun and maybe it'll encourage people to leave comments and mingle even though I'm not here in my usual up-to-the-minute fashion. Did it work? I guess we'll find out.
-- A small artwork by the great artist Vija Celmins that she gave on my birthday in the early 90s.
-- A metal star from the top of one of the trophies that decorated the now defunct Boy Bar on St. Marks Place in NYC. It was broken off and given to me by my boyfriend of the time Rob Dickerson.
-- A handwritten letter to me from Robert Pollard in which he says he likes my books.
-- The wedding ring from my marriage to my ex-boyfriend Chris Lemmerhirt.
-- Vincent Kartheiser's used drinking straw.
-- A vial of dirt from Rimbaud's grave.
-- A stone from the wall of the Marquis de Sade's castle.
-- A copy of Alain Robbe-Grillet's novel Recollections of the Golden Triangle personally signed with a note to me by R-G.
-- 12 letters to me from George Miles.
-- The long end of a wishbone broken off during a wishing contest with my ex-boyfriend Richard Haasen.
-- A copy of my novel Frisk that the artist Mike Kelley has covered and filled with paintings, drawings, and notations.
-- The only photograph I have of Mark Lewis, the boy who inspired my novella Safe. It was taken surreptitiously by a friend of mine. In it, Mark stands with characteristic cool and elegance watching a clearly flustered, nervous me scribble my phone number on a scrap of paper.
-- A tattered beaded necklace given to me by my best friend Joel Westendorf.
-- A sketch on a paper napkin by the artist Ellsworth Kelly where he showed me how he would have designed the cover of my first poetry book Idols.
-- The Prix Sade prize I won for The Sluts/Salope
-- A naked photo of a boy named T. that I'd begged him to give me. He worked with my ex-boyfriend Chris Lemmerhirt at a trendy secondhand clothes store on Melrose. Chris and I had a two week-long ménage à trois him. Six months later, he gassed himself to death in his apartment. There's poem in my book The Dream Police about him called 'Love Come Down'. Before T. reluctantly gave me the photo, he wrote on the back: 'It does not work.'
-- ...
----
*
p.s. Hey. Now I'm almost for sure in Tokyo itself and very jet-lagged. I thought I would repost this interactive old post today 'cos maybe it's fun and maybe it'll encourage people to leave comments and mingle even though I'm not here in my usual up-to-the-minute fashion. Did it work? I guess we'll find out.