Just so you know this is going to be long. Very long. And it might not “apply” to you. But you also might be surprised. Regardless, you have your one and only warning.

That’s the odd and terrible thing about mental illness, one moment it’s the pebble in your shoe, the next it’s a ball and chain around your ankle so heavy you are sure it is going to drag you to the centre of the earth.- Unknown Source

...which inspired me to add: Often it’s the pebble in your shoe that drives you over the edge. The constant, irritating pressure that should be easy to remove. At least if you’re headed to the center of the Earth you can feel the looming – nigh – medicated calm coming. There’s a finality to it. That fucking pebble though, there is no end in sight. You’re forced to walk all your miles with one, lone fucking pebble that drives you to throw yourself from any number of high places just to find relief. It drives you mad, that small irritation – like a gnat in your conscience.

I told you I’m late for almost everything I do.

A few weeks ago was Mental Illness Awareness Week and this post has been sitting in my queue for the better part of a year. During said year, I’ve been in and out of the hospital countless times, a psych ward and I’ve lost two jobs. I’m now on my meager unemployment for which I’m actually extremely grateful – because otherwise I’d have nothing.

One of the main missions of this blog is to promote mental health awareness, right beside artistic awareness, the poetic movement and the rockstar treatment of the arts (if you will). Also, I’ve just joined NAMI, or, The National Alliance of Mental Illness. I should have joined ages ago, but frankly I don’t think I do enough advocacy outside of speaking about my own illness.

The above “pebble” response came from my informal sister site, ModernOrphan. Though it could have been a “throwaway” post, it kept poking my brain. I didn’t want the sentiment to be left dangling inside some inconspicuous conversation. The subject matter is simply too important to be left stuffed between informal discussion.

Sometimes something catches your eye and begs to be bought, brought home and looked at every day.

Eventually you wonder why you bought it. You could have used that money for something else.

Bills. Groceries. Laundry soap. Gas.

Cue depression – sometimes. Cue increasing mania – sometimes. Cue a conversation with Jesus  - sometimes. Cue – well – tons of potential things.

Sometimes.

Mental illness can be something like that. That’s the thing with so many people who don’t understand mental illness – they can’t put a label on it. They can’t define or prepare themselves for how it will/could manifest. But like addiction and abuse – it’s closer to many of us than we realize.

On your shelf. Outside your window. In your kitchen. In your school room. In your bedroom. Your neighbor. Your teacher. Your classmate. Your best friend. Your sibling. Your parents.

It could be a soft chip on their shoulder, sinking sick into their body – Or a hard chip, ridged and rough, tearing into their skin. Their brain.

Either way - they can’t control it. 

Too often people realize too late that someone needs/needed help, either because they – or the person who suffers/suffered – were ignorant of the signs.

Or simply chose to ignore them. They could have been in denial, self-medicating to get by with opiates, stimulants or alcohol – among other things.

There is a a stigma that comes with being mentally ill or, in some cases, those who sympathize with the mentally ill.

Even if you are not ill yourself.

How could anyone possibly sympathize with an addict? It’s their choice, right? They shouldn’t have started to begin with. It’s their choice to be an addict.

How could you sympathize with someone who has OCD? Why don’t they just stop washing their hands? Or someone with Bipolar II? Why don’t they just stop spending money on shit like 40 plastic gnomes for a front yard they don’t have? They’re just weird - right?

And you aren’t weird. You’re a normal, well-adjusted human being.

Though it’s become almost “fashionable” to be diagnosed with a mental illness in Hollywood, (replacing “crazy” or “psychotic” – see your favorite celebrity in any rag on a grocery store rack) some of the most beautiful prose I’ve ever read, unsurprisingly, has come from the fingertips of those that are mentally ill and/or addicted. It’s funny really, since so often these stunning pieces are describing feelings that are very ugly and not glamorous at all.

The truth is that even if they do suffer from bipolar disorder, Kennedy, Jackson and other celebrities represent only a fringe of the mentally ill. The vast majority of people with bipolar disorder or other mental illnesses do not engage in violent, destructive or criminal activity. And most of us (my current diagnosis is major depression with psychotic features) are responsible citizens who are more likely to be the victims than the perpetrators of violent crime. – Robert David Jaffee

I think part of me has been so consumed with exploring “ill” brains and all of the terribly beautiful ways they can break – that I’ve forgotten part of the process of gluing it back together includes the documentation and exposition of said exploration. Including my own. There have been too many cases of me thinking “it just doesn’t sound right” when sometimes, as I’ve read countless times in books like the ones I’m about to list, where shit just isn’t right. But that doesn’t give ME an out not to document it. The more I make it magnificent - the more time I have to make countless excuses.

Nothing is perfectly pretty, least of all mental illness. Between the lines often the prose and poetry you read is full of pain, self-medication and – sometimes – suicide.

Misconceptions, myths, and subsequent stigmas continue to circulate, making life absolute hell for patients already suffering from serious medical conditions. Despite this social isolation, plenty of empowered individuals take up their writing implements and use their realities to completely dismantle common, wrongheaded assumptions. – mastersinhealthcare.com

This is  a list of the 20 Greatest Memoirs on Mental Illness according to Masters in Health Care. I’ve crossed-out the ones I’ve read. As you can see, I have a LOT of catching up to do. (I thought I was doing so well, too.)

• 1. Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen
• 2. Hurry Down Sunshine by Micheal Greenberg
• 3. Blue Genes by Christopher Lukas
• 4. Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel
• 5. Wasted by Marya Hornbacher
• 6. An Unquiet Mind by Kay Redfield Jamison
• 7. Just Checking by Emily Colas
• 8. Darkness Visible by William Styron
• 9. Skin Game by Caroline Kettlewell
• 10. Unholy Ghost edited by Nell Casey
• 11. The Quiet Room by Lori Schiller with Amanda Bennett
• 12. Musical Chairs by Jen Knox
• 13. Drinking: A Love Story by Caroline Knapp
• 14. Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs
• 15. Electroboy by Andy Behrman
• 16. Sickened by Julie Gregory
• 17. When Rabbit Howls by Truddi Chase
• 18. A Drinking Life by Pete Hamill
• 19. Lucky by Alice Sebold
• 20. Stalking Irish Madness by Patrick Tracey

Half.com,  here I come.

This is a great list of books for anyone either with a mental illness, who loves someone with a mental illness, or simply has a thirst to understand something people can (conveniently) write off without a second thought.

I’m not the sick one, so what does it matter?

The last memoir I read about manic-depression was entitled Manic: A Memoir by Terri Cheney, and some of the writing was absolutely breathtaking:

 …The world is essentially bipolar: driven to extremes but defined by flux. Saints are always just a stumble away from sinners. Nothing is absolute, not even death…Manic depression was more than a mental disease: it was a mind-set, it colored everything. The world should be one way or another, I thought. Men either made you safe, or they made you bleed. If they weren’t gods, they were villains, and it didn’t matter if they came at you with bottles, or they came at you with disbelief: either way, you bled. – excerpt from Manic: A Memoir by Terri Cheney

Something I’m positive I’ve mentioned more than once, Kay Redfield Jamison is one of the most influential people I’ve ever read in my life. She is an author of mind-bending proportions, and one of the strongest people I feel I’ve gotten to “know” through her heart-tearing works. She is also a Professor of Psychiatry at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine. That’s AMAZING. It is a dream of mine to one day be able to interview her – though I’ll admit I’d be scared shitless if given the chance. I’d add all of her works to that list above and recommend anything she’s written:

• Touched With Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperment
• Night Falls Fast: Understanding Suicie
• An Unquiet Mind: An Autobiograpy of Moods and Madness
• Exuberance: The Passion For Life
• Nothing Was The Same: A Memoir

If you’re feeling REALLY passionate (and have a fuck ton of free time) you can rifle through the thick-as-a-weapon, definitive scholastic textbook she co-authored with Frederick K. Goodwin appropriately titled: Manic-Depressive Illness.

I once gave a copy of Redfield’s Touched With Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament to Mat Devine (Kill  Hannah, Setting Fires, the clothing line Animal Royalty). He agreed it was a unique read specifically into mental illness and how it directly relates to the artistic temperament. Ironically enough in 2009 I received a text from him asking me to remind him of the name of the book, because he wanted to recommend it to a fan on his blog: The Raccoon Society - but I was actually away from my phone because I was in-patient, suicidal and psychotic, at Laureate Psychiatric Hospital in Tulsa. Once I realized he was passing it along to someone else I smiled. It was something amazing to see upon my release. I hope whoever needed it found what they were looking for – and then kept going.

Because sometimes pushing forward is all you can do to keep sane – literally.

The picture to the side was scribbled just days before my last psych stay. I knew I was going to a mental ward, though I didn’t know where I was going, and I don’t remember actually going. I said horrible things, don’t remember the ER or the first two days in Hillcrest hospital. My brain simply shut down and went on its own mini-vacation to Bipolar land. If you’ve read anything recently on my site, one of the posts I’ve heavily promoted, was entitled “Dear Behavioral Units Across America.“ It’s one of the most important things I’ve ever written. I came out of the hospital zombified and afraid of the sunlight:

I’ve offered my arms for needles, for cuffs, for chemical and physical restraint. I’ve offered my brain for careful mockery. Is that not sufficient sacrifice to your gods? Sanctuary! Sanctuary! Sanctuary! I’ve crawled to your doorstep in need. I’ve left with less. My skull has rattled on the elevator ride down, terrified of sunlight.

Just keep the wheels turning and you’re bound to get somewhere. I’ve read, re-read, searched, interviewed and dug into SO MANY articles and books about mental illness. I’m still sick. I don’t do things perfectly, I don’t think rationally and I certainly don’t know everything there is to know about my own, personal diagnosis. I DO go to the doctor, I DO try and implement changes in my life, I DO see a therapist and I DO try and document to the best of my ability. But the best medication and doctors can only do so much. The brain is a living organ and is infinitely complex. Nothing is “perfect.”

Nothing is ever ”perfect.”

But I am trying. I’m not sure who said this, but I recently read the quote: “Do what is right. Not what is easy.” So, here I am, rambling on in a blog post a lot of you will likely just skim through thanks to my wordiness.

But, well, I didn’t do what was easy. I wrote it all while falling apart.

Wisdom teeth cost money; cancer is free.
- Elias Mallin

This one goes out to Elias Mallin. And fair warning – there IS sarcasm abound.

I hate to admit any of those redundant axioms are true, but hindsight really is 20/20.

Once upon a time, in my twisted fairy tale life, a girl needed a knight, you know? Isn’t that how a fairy tale goes?

Enter Elias FUCKING Mallin.

At one point, Elias FUCKING Mallin was a Dark FUCKING Knight in my life. (I can hear his eyes rolling as I type.) We first met at a very strange time for me personally, as I was an absolute social malady and a rat’s nest of unhealth. He didn’t ride a horse, mind, but I think endless smoke breaks counted – given the circumstances. (Right? RIGHT? Right.)

But I’ve started to digress. Shocker.

I went to “work” a Ke$ha show in Tulsa last year to see him, and I found myself in a strange situation. During a show about getting wasted, coming, face fucking and partying:

I was sober.

It was the first show I’d been sober for in years. Yes, plural. Years.

Did I like the sobriety? That’s debatable. (Strangely enough I did like the show – it was what it was, and didn’t pretend to be anything else. There’s something to be said for that.)

Afterward we went to a bar called Caz’s downtown. We caught up on a lot of various things: what we were doing, smoking, tour, the status of G[&]D, the status of his sleep schedule. For once in very long time I was able to talk to him without any sort of fuzz. It was so fucked up I might have been high on being sober. The one drink I ordered sat in front of me, ice and money melting in the glass. The bartender made fun of me. I shrugged. I just didn’t want it.

Mallin is a brilliant touring musician. He also knows everyone in the goddamn universe, so knowing him is advantageous to me. (I’ve never told him this, but that’s REALLY why we’re friends. Mallin, if you’re reading, hey buddy, thanks for being My Liaison To The Stars.) As for me, I have a day job as an Administrative Assistant, a side job as an anime junkie and voice actor/master of ceremonies handler and a night job scouring local cities for decent concerts. I find time in between all of that to tackle anime conventions (nerd) and symphonies (classy nerd).

At the time of the Ke$ha show I was struggling to take my mind off of the fact that I used to tour, used to hop on planes whenever I wanted to, used to “mean something,” “do things” and “be somebody.” (Even I can’t tell you what that bullshit mindset means. I have swam with some pretty big shark “somebodies” who aren’t ANYBODY but a BODY in a picture in a club at night. That doesn’t mean SHIT, mind. Not a FUCKING thing.)

The Ke$sha show was quite funny, actually, considering my previous forays into delectable debilitating culture. Let’s get fucked up, drink until dawn and the planet is one big party.

Let’s throw one sliver of context on how INSANE that really is, shall we?

There was a show in Dallas in 2007 – somehow I remember specifics even though I stood at the corner of Ecstasy and cocaine street, lost in city I didn’t know well enough to find the train to Sobriety Station. (I’d never had Ecstasy and I fucking sniffed bumps of coke off a car key outside like I was in a bad movie.) Rational speech was questionable. I was so high I didn’t walk the streets of Fucked Up Central, but jumped from rooftop to rooftop with a doped out smile on my face. Elias read me the riot act outside. I can’t remember a fucking word he said. I know I felt bad though, but a few cigarettes later the next night things seemed cool. Shit was cool, right? RIGHT? Right.

There was a time in Michigan (I think that’s the correct state) I was so high on no sleep, Lortab and MDMA I can’t even REMEMBER what I talked a mile-a-minute about. At some bar I told him “I haven’t slept since we left Oklahoma. I’m so tired.” He said something to the effect of “Well you don’t look tired now.” With a pointed look at my hugely dilated eyeballs – bit embarrassing. (Not to mention throwing up cranberry/vodka all over a bed that wasn’t mine, though I actually laugh at that. I drove to Chicago the next day with puke on my shirt on 3 hours sleep, still MDMA’ed out and half drunk. I’m laughing right now writing this. How the FUCK does that happen? Eh. Hey, sorry Hotel and People I Don’t Remember for puking all over your shit. Sort of. Kind of. The laughing is hard to contain though.)

For my college graduation I drove down to a show in Dallas (Just for reference, I fucking HATE Dallas for a myriad of reasons) and headed straight for the bar. I had a cake. There were a lot of really obnoxious texts sent back and forth from the people I was with. I don’t really remember much else. Hey it was my fucking GRADUATION. I DESERVED it, right? RIGHT? Right.

At some point in Chicago I was on a handful of Xanax, endless Vicodin, Soma and six glasses of wine. I was afraid to hug him. Weird things happened. What? I think he told me to shut up. No, I KNOW he told me to shut up, now that I think about it. That was probably a good idea. (We ended up awkwardly hugging, though. Happy ending? Right? RIGHT? Right.)

In Kansas City, on the final leg of a BRUTAL tour, I can’t even TELL you why I’m still alive. Two and a half Ecstasy pills, coke, four Vicodin and an Adderall for good measure. (I had to make sure I was awake to enjoy all of this. I mean, that’s just pure science, right? RIGHT? Right.) A $200 bar tab topped off the rest of the night: Crown Royal, Jameson and Patrón. (Just…don’t EVER. To my credit though, I didn’t puke on anyone’s bed.)

At EVERY stop on a tour between 2007 and 2008 that I attended (something between 20 and 30 shows) there wasn’t a SINGLE time I wasn’t on so much Vicodin I was gloriously feeling the effects of the continual mini-orgasms opiates can provide. There were other drugs along the way, depending on who was where, and of course there was alcohol since it was easy to acquire and able to help me, hm, talk honestly. We all know that alcohol is a great truth serum. (…or it’s great for scaring people away when you talk a little too honestly. Heh.)

Are you seeing a pattern yet? If not, just stop reading now.

Trust me. You don’t know a person until you’ve done a leg (or two, or three…) of touring with them. I was mostly mortified every time I thought about all of these times, but I just shake my head and try to remember the phrase: “What happens on tour, stays on tour.”

Which flies in the face of this post, but for perspective’s sake, I’m writing it anyway.

Now, having been friends for almost 6 years, after that Ke$ha show, it wasn’t that anything of real substance was shared. It was the point of the matter in my head. I still rambled, but at least it was honest ramble I can remember. But when I told him I wasn’t sure I could write any more, he told me:

Julie, you spout enough bullshit. Write it down.

It wasn’t said with dismissal, but with encouragement. I actually took it to heart.

I talk a lot.

About what I want to be, about what should I do now, about, well, as he so eloquently put it: a lot of bullshit. Mallin has always been good about cutting through all of that and telling me the truth. It’s played a large part in the reason we’ve remained friends for so long. Sort of like when I told him when the back of my mouth hurt I thought I had cancer, even though my wisdom teeth were impacted.

So even though you knew your wisdom teeth were fucked up, the first thing you thought was cancer?

This corner office of the internet has always been about showcasing independent artists in a variety of mediums. Today, Orphans, I’ll showcase my absolute favorite jewelry find of the last year:

Joolz Hayworth

Artist’s Statement: Buy Joolz! They are tongue-in-chic, unique and sure to delight like no others.

(And before we go any further, let me point out that this is NOT a paid advertisement – everything I type is because I’ve bought the items myself and fallen in LOVE with everything they’ve ever sent me. There isn’t a day that goes by where I’m not wearing at least ONE piece of Joolz.)

With the legalities out of the way, let’s continue. Joolz Hayworth is a growing jewelry company based out of Los Angeles. By HAND, designer Jennifer Flatow and production manager Rebecca McCourt bang out unique, attention-grabbing bracelets, cuffs and rings on a daily basis. Their store is stuffed with kitsch, sugar skulls and savvy animal prints, right up against sushi and graduate antidepressants of the SSRI class (that’s selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors for those of you who keep track) like Prozac.

I came across their ”Keep Calm and Wear Xanax” bracelet earlier this year and nearly tripped over my keyboard. I bought it along with their “Prozac 5 Cameo” bracelet immediately. Some women run at first look toward Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome – I ran toward my (almost) empty wallet instead. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

Simply put: I CANNOT get enough of the Joolz brand. Not only are each cuff, ring and bracelet bright, eye-catching works of art, but they’re super durable and WATERPROOF to boot. The sturdiness of the rings alone are amazing, and although they’re adjustable don’t think that means “cheap.” A single strip of metal adjusts in such a way that any size finger can fit, without that uncomfortable, pinchy “gap.” (See the picture to your right. Click for larger image.) Each piece comes ready for gift-giving in a sleek draw-string bag, and should something go wrong simply message Becky or Jennifer on Etsy and they’ll work with you to send you a new item. Per their Etsy policies: “If there is a defective or damaged item, please contact me [Jennifer] and I will send you a pre-paid package in which the damaged item(s) can be returned.”

Jennifer’s vision of what the Joolz Hayworth brand “is” presents itself as bold and empowering (check the “Dangerous Women,” “Frida Kahlo” and “Vintage Bras” stretch bracelets). It’s in-your-face, regardless if you’re wearing the the Original, best-selling “Our Lady” bracelet, or the always chic “Leopard” bracelet for those that just want a funky accessory without going too far “out there.”

There is something for everyone in their Etsy shop. But beware: all of them are SURE to start a conversation.

Breakdown:

- Rings: $36
- Cuffs: $56
- Bracelets: $56
- Shipping: FREE (within the US)
- Where: Facebook | Website | Etsy
- Personal Favorites: “Union Jack in Black” and “Keep Calm and Wear Xanax“

My Gallery of Flattery:

Regardless.

In February of last year, Mat Devine shot me an email that asked if I could post his poetry around “my circles” and I said sure. At that point I’d pulled G[&]D down for a full re-vamp, and was going into surgery for a short time. I figured I’d have them up sometime afterward. I posted them around other arty places where our ilk hung out, but my site stayed down for quite some time.

But here we are. I guess this counts as sometime afterward. My dear Orphans, the poetry of one M. Devine – musician, muse, and most of all, my friend.

(My poetic wreck – and I mean that lovingly.)

A Map of Poets’ Graves
By M.D. 2k11

Let’s move to Vietnem
Rescue dogs from restaurants
Submarine to Kathmandu
Catch a rare and deadly flu
Slip aboard the Express Danube
From Great Britain to Istanbul
Drink colognes and rich perfumes
Get caught stealing crystal doorknobs

Earn scars in Peruvian duels
Hide in the ruins of Machu Picchu
Let’s buy a map of poets’ graves
Swim in underwater caves
Eat raw honey with killer bees
Puke from Ayahuasca tea
Postcards drip with India ink
Stacked beside the broken pocketwatch

Lets run our hands through arctic sands
Through purple crabs and army ants
Let’s die behind an orchid patch
Barefoot on volcanic ash

Verbatim; The Dumbest Text I Ever Sent
by: M.D. 2k11

Sent Sunday 3:15AM Thank u for an amzing party!!!! Wow. Hot tog! Chicken, beer! Wine! Weed! Everythinktthank u both

You’re a Drawer
by: M.D.

You’re a drawer
That means you only gotta do 2 things for me, ok
Slide out and then… what
Slide back in again, good
That’s it. That’s all
Eso es todo. Nada más
So why. the fuck. are you. giving. me. a headache
Why why why
You’re gonna get a kick
Is that what you want
Fine
Here you go
You like that
Oh see, now you want to work
(“Hey, who are you shouting at in here”)
No one.
(“Really? Why are you all sweaty? I could swear I just heard you shouting.”)
Hmm. Nope.
(“Ok then. See you later at the meeting.”)
Ok bye
See what you just did
You almost got me in trouble

Untitled
Mar2k11 by M.D.

Stick your head thru the bars at Gramercy Park
Fall asleep to the sound of slaughtered dogs
Ricochets in the alleyways
Gang initiation, or Latin celebration
Either way, be unafraid.
It’ll fade with the reverb of a passing train.
Swallowed by New York.

‘My Majestic Palm’
by M.D.

Why are you wilting and turning brown?
I gave you awesome soil,
Tons of water,
And I make sure the sun shines on you like a motherfucker.
I mean, honestly,
What else do you need?
You’re a plant.

Dinner Party NYC
2011 by MD

“You simply NEED to accompany me to this intimate dInner party.
There are some people you MUST meet. We can’t be late.”
There’s just enough time to pick up some overpriced wine.
My upper ass is sweating. I look like shit.
A private elevator opens to a penthouse
This is my friend, Mat. Mat, this is So-and-So #1.
“Very nice to meet you.”
Mat’s in Superman, the musical.
OH! Superrr!
“Spiderman.” 
Tre’ fantastique! Are you…THE Spiderman?
“No.” “Great place.” 
Merci, the owners are in Africa for a week.
There’s a tree inside the loft. -a full-grown tree.
There’s an echo.
The walls are covered with original art, a few of which I remember studying in school.
Mat, here comes So-and-So #2. Last we heard, he was getting kicked out of NYU for building an Ecstasy lab in his dorm room. Now he’s a billionaire.
“Hello.” 
What. Is. Up. Bro.
Oh! And Mat… this is So-and-So #3! He’s a ridiculous photographer.
He just spent 3 months hiking across the country, shooting images of roadkill.
Hello, Max.
“Mat. Not Max”
What?
“Nothing. Nice to meet you.”
There’s something so… so… VISUAL about carcasses, don’t you agree, Max?
“How could I not.” 
The cold geometry of the tire marks… the sensuous curves of the highway…
“Which carcass stood out as your favorite?” 
This one deer– a fawn- just outside El Paso. It was hit SO hard the entrails stretched for 100 yards in aPERFECT line.
“Stop, you’re making me hungry.” 
Oh and Mat, THIS is So-and-So #4! He’s ALSO a fine artist.
“Oh, cool.” 
He just got back from Israel. He’s going to the Congo tomorrow.
“The Congo…  that’s dangerous isn’t it?” 
Not for whites. I plan to pose 9-year-old rebel-soldiers with their guns, and put gold Rayban sunglasses on them.
“Wow. That’s possibly the most insensitive thing I’ve ever heard.” 
I KNOW. It should sell VERY well.

I walk to the bathroom and lock the door.
I text this boring poem to myself
There’s a paperback biography of Botticelli next to the toilet.
I steal it for no reason.
I look at my shitty face in the mirror.
I spit in the toilet and flush it.

Sorry, what did you say your name was?

(Halloween in the White City.)

While some of those poems are Mat being the lovely, sarcastic ass that he is, some of them contain lines that are quite good and, what’s more, meaningful, if you’re really looking. (And not just because I Need To Find Meaning In Everything.)

“Untitled“ - Provokes the senses. The line “fall asleep to the sound of slaughtered dogs” in particular makes me wish I’d written it. Always a good – if competitive - feeling. (Small secret: I actually RE-READ this poem from time to time, to be a cunning bitch who pilfers some of the imagery for my own use.)

“A Map of Poets’ Graves” – Also evocative. So many places and things to inspire, so many places to die. So many places where POEMS die, even as they’re born. Paper floats away, stuffed in bottles and lost in the Atlantic, or the Pacific – or the Dead Sea, more appropriately. Never to be read by anyone. Collected by the homeless and sold for cents. At least they’re sold for something, I suppose. The poem’s title itself is a testament to Devine’s power to turn a phrase into something that flips your heart upside down and drains it dry.

“You’re a Drawer” – Admittedly I’ve always read this as a semi-clever violent sexual innuendo:

“That means you only gotta do 2 things for me, ok / Slide out and then… what / Slide back in again, good / That’s it. That’s all…You’re gonna get a kick / Is that what you want /  Fine / Here you go / You like that / Oh see now you want to work…Why are you all sweaty?”

…but then again, I like trying to find violent sexual innuendos in just about everything I read. I’m really, really good at that. (Needs To Find Violent Sexual Innuendo In Everything is not to be confused with Needs To Find Meaning In Everything, mind.)

“My Majestic Palm” – see above, sans violence. Just a title with a sexual innuendo and content to subvert it. Sue me.

“Verbatim…”- “Let’s go, people! Let’s go! Vagrants and whores you’re wanted in Makeup! Runaways and street hustlers, you’re next!” – You’re wanted in makeup, D.

“Dinner Pary NYC” – If you’ve ever, EVER wanted to pick Mat’s brain, there you go. In 48 lines. I’ll re-title it “Mat Devine in 48 Lines” in my “documents” folder, and should I ever become a classical musician, write a movement with the same name.

I’ve found, over the years, that he is versatile and self-starving, a brilliant mind that fires at a million clicks a minute with a mouth to watch as carefully as any weapon. At times a sardonic, self-impressed erratic old man dressed in Derelicte (“It is a fashion, a way of life inspired by the very homeless, the vagrants, the crack whores that make this wonderful city so unique.”), or a mini-Tesla creating lightning-in-a-bottle Molotov cocktails blowing up your computer screens or eardrums. (Too many lyrics and bits of poetic emails to sort through to count.)

We’d made plans to do an interview. He and I were to discuss what is interesting to write about and what isn’t all that interesting – but as a writer it’s your job to make it interesting. (Some assholes at a dinner party, for example.)

It’ll happen. Not on time, but it’ll happen.

Find Mat at the following places:

Kill Hannah Official Site
Mat’s Twitter
The Raccoon Society
Animal Royalty (His new clothing line with Chloe Mendel; I’m holding out for a “Dead Poet Walking” shirt prototype.)
SoHo
Dorsia (Does anyone go there anymore?)
Wicker Park in the summer, watching girls in their see-through tank-tops.
LA
The gutters of various major cities, looking at the stars.
Random couches.
Blackpool and/or Crawley, England
His cozy eccentric hole in NYC.

• 10am: Repeat. 750mg Depakote, 200mg Wellbutrin, 350mg Soma, 10mg Baclofen, 0.5mg Klonopin, 20mg Vicodin, 800mg Neurontin.
• 10:05am: Hate the mirror. Don’t have time for this shit.
• 10:34am: Wonder if rush hour is over.
• 10:41am: Hate the fact that bare feet feel disgusting on bare ground.
• 10:42am: Hate even more that I’m too out-of-shape to run from my apartment to the street without collapsing. Indeed a glamorous fail.

I say “professional” because I’ve been inside you, I’ve eaten in you, I’ve taken your proffered pills that cost 15x the amount I pay at the pharmacy. I’ve had stays elongate into irritable nights and days, endless hours that crawl under my skin like the side effects of so many prescriptions.

I’ve been around your kind, shuffled your halls. I’ve studied your texts, taken dutiful notes in your groups, been restrained by your straps and shots. I’ve taken a full load of your courses in a matter of days, talked to your Professors of Prescription Pads and Pats on the Back.

I’ve been shaken awake at 5am by your rough voice, your flashlights blinding my eyes while orderly arms held mine for vitals. Minutes later they’d leave me in the dark again, my sleep stolen by your thieves, violated, panting, sheets twisted around my thighs.

I’m a professional pill taker.
I’m a professional mental health harlot.
I’m a professional ward stayer.

My résumé speaks for itself. I’ll give you a moment to read.

I’ve fucked you unwillingly, I’ve fucked you willingly. Either way, I pay. Pennies fell from my pockets in offering. Loose change clanged to the tile like you loosened my hair from its tie.

No, no.
Bad, bad.
Shame on me for attempting to hold on to something I could use to die.

I’ve offered my arms for needles, for cuffs, for chemical and physical restraint.
I’ve offered my brain for careful mockery.
Is that not sufficient sacrifice to your gods?

Sanctuary! Sanctuary! Sanctuary!

I’ve crawled to your doorstep in need. I’ve left with less. My skull has rattled on the elevator ride down, terrified of sunlight.

You’ve taken the sunlight from me.

I’ve used your dirty phones to call people who care, been cut mid-conversation to “keep me from hysterics.” I’ve hysterically needed just one more word. I’ve needed something unwritten and been denied.

A secret shopper of behavioral health units, I’m the clientele you crave, the customer you need to stay in the business of brains. I’ve been a barcode. I’ve been a wristband. Your establishments have adorned me with plastic, dressed me in your fashions, stripped me of everything but the rough cloth I could not tear.

To hang myself.

Cold metal everywhere I could not pull free. Teasing me. Me! The harlot! The Perpetual Pill-Popping Tease! A harlot’s specialty!

To cut myself.

Crisis stability. That is what you offer. There is no “fixing.”

To my first point, I say again: I’m a professional. And as a professional I scream:

“Sedation” does not equal “stability.”

                                                              Messy…fucking…

 The Chokehold of Gravity

Lamentation ignored.
I should be allowed to shut the door
when trying to vomit forth
the blackout of my body.
Vainglorious hotshot holier-than-thou
swain lover of selfhood,
pets his pen and pad,
his credentials and badge,
with compassion ignorant
of trembling hands hidden
in a black robe.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
after 300 seconds,
does little to stitch
or even anoint the bleeding out of me,
on the Mylanta-bottle-green
of the floor,
the walls,
the everything in the room.
But even so,
even if I were granted
an audience to your compassion,
it would not be enough
to kill this thing that happens
when the swing stops,
the little girl tumbles,
and gravity is king.

                                                                             …puzzle…

So if you’ll allow me an opinion, or take into consideration the observations of a loyal and faithful customer, a professional prostitute of prescriptions continuing her education in mental instability, I cannot stress enough my main point of urgency:

“Sedation” does not equal “stability.”

between my crooked teeth
difficulty sticks in strings.
i wince against the rattle
of my [medicine] chest
but i hold the moment
by the fistful -
despite inexperience,
despite primitive implements,
i flash those teeth
and say “hello.”

JMT, 2009/2011

In my apartment, Vivaldi is playing at a volume loud enough to disturb the demon child and his deaf grandmother who forgets the rest of us can still hear her in the unit above me. I’ve just taken two Ambien and I must get this out before it kicks in and I reveal to you the seven secrets of Apollo, thus granting you eternal life and the sexual stamina of a god.

So let’s begin. This particular post has been in my queue for almost a year. Half-done. Almost done. Actually done, just too fatigued to post for fear of…something. Excuses perhaps. An explanation as to where I’m going. Where I’ve been. But in the end, maybe it doesn’t matter.

Troy manages to dissuade the paparazzi. I look like I'm saying a friendly hello. Obviously LA and I get along just fine.

One thing I’ve always had difficulty with is this moment, right now. It’s never this moment. It’s always what will be, what has been, what I’m missing, what I don’t have. This moment is never enough. The funny thing is, right now, this moment is all I have. I have no grand plan. I have no synopsis of what will become of me, or my work, or travel plans. And even if I did, what would that prove? It still wouldn’t put words on paper. It would be a lot of moments I’ve never lived in, though I’ve in fact lived them. You don’t have to tell me that doesn’t make sense.

I dream of dreams. I dream of dreaming. How backwards it is, to dream of a dream. To desire the act of dreaming, rather than achieving. I suppose the phrase “stop dreaming and start doing” is being kicked around in my head. (Quoth the raven, nevermore.)

For a long time I had an “idea” of what I was, of what Gossip [&] the Devil “should” be and how it should be “presented.” Like so many things kept past their prime I held on to that idea because I’d constructed it, executed it and I was seeing dividends in the process.

But isn’t there some risk in the process? Of course. But that risk doesn’t disappear when dividends appear. In fact, the risk rises. The edge becomes thinner. So thin it cuts your toes every time you pirouette. To keep your toes something must change. Equally absurd is it to continue to turn until you have nothing but stumps to show.

And so, there is change.

Vicodin, nicotine, timed prescriptions and what will be the death of me. I'm a professional pill taker.

There is a ride in the ruins of a city that begs to be remembered. The music is faint and its seats are cold. All of this can be rectified. Not glorified. Not memorialized.

But revitalized.

There is a certain amount of posturing that exists in our business (read: artists), a delicate balance of confidence and ego, of the je ne se quois any one of us posses. It’s a hard mix to homogenize, but it can be done. More often there is an uglier imbalance of too much talk and far less talent.

This is mine. My name, my place. I’ve felt unsafe in my own home, a learned behavior poisoning my children, these words. The very things I slaughter for – instead I’ve taken to slaughtering the necessary parts to create them.

I talk about the phoenix, the specatle of the fire bird, the awe of the rebirth – I’ve found it well past due to become it, embody it, to MOVE. I love what I’ve created. It was all I had, for better or worse, for glamour or grit.

It isn’t all I have now, but it’s damn sure still worth fighting for. I’ve found going about things in a healthy way is difficult. Who knew, right? But, as Reno from Final Fantasy VII so eloquently put it: A pro isn’t someone who sacrifices himself for his job. That’s just a fool. And that includes this job – THIS job. This little worker bee has to put her life into the sting she creates and find a way to watch the splendor in the resulting swell.

Expect something different for what Gossip [&] the Devil is and perhaps should have been a long time ago. A broadening of content. The only “call to arms” for the Modern Orphans is to EXIST- same mission – less exclusion – less “prerequisite” – less bullshit. I’m tired. And frankly I’ve met some people in the last few months who have completely shattered my notions of what it means to be brilliant, talented and well aware of that fact – yet still humble. (I’m looking at you, Troy Baker.) Is there a certain amount of swagger involved with any artist? Sure. What I’ve “discovered” is it isn’t the things we do well that necessarily keep us going – it’s the areas we tend to fall just short in that drive us to succeed. Success isn’t nearly as good a motivator as the idea that you are but one word away from being told you didn’t land the job.

Every ink pen lying still, every note left unheard is a loss, something to be mourned but mourned DESPITE them, TO SPITE them if you so choose.

First meeting, 6 years ago. I was far heavier and had a youthful glow. Mat has continued to drink the blood of virgins and looks the exact same today.

To the Modern Orphans, my friends, to my fans, to my lovers, to my fantasies – there is little that is needed from me more than simple honesty.

Honesty.

Some of you have been with me for years. Literally since the beginning. But it isn’t just to you I owe this to -I owe it to me too.

A potential muse has spent many nights with me, swapping prescriptions and speaking so far above my head I had to reach for the stars to catch their words. I’ve spent time outside blackening my lungs with them, scribbling on crumpled napkins, trying to understand their ethos. I feel the first bite of new life. I feel the venom and thank the wily bastard who produced it.

From now on at G[&]D you’ll find the “me” who isn’t necessarily always in Seattle, or Chicago, or with Amanda Palmer, or with Marilyn Manson, or with our lovely Monsieur Devine.  Characters are necessary, but a character is only that – temporary. Eventually you have to own up to the fact that, sooner or later, someone is going to catch you without makeup, and that’s far more telling than any spider-web spin of tongues and teeth could ever provide. Bat those doll-lashes, purse those doll-lips, find those doll-veins. At the end of the day you still close your eyes and try to make sense of the ink-blots stuck to the back of your lids.

Next up I’ll FINALLY provide promo to MD’s incorrigible poetry (sorry, Mat), a long-due post on mental illness (and some great books for reference), anime masturbation and yes, perhaps even some poetry. (Bated breath, I know.) In the meantime – keep dreaming.

This post is thanks mostly in part to my friends both new and old, who keep me honest:  Jai Marie (who asks the tough questions), Troy Baker (“Stop dreaming and start doing.”), Elias Mallin (“Julie, you talk enough bullshit. Now write it down.”), Peter Pixie (“POST IT.”) and, as is usually the case, to Mat Devine (co-creator of Hopeless Beach), who I had the pleasure of meeting six years ago today. Thank you, truly, from the bottom of my heart for inspiring me to work, write and NEED again. After all, there is someone in the world studying me – and I don’t have the heart to help this poor student fail any attempt at higher education:

“Nothing’s too excessive when you’ve got nothing left. We’re all here ‘cos we lost control. If we all should die tonight, we will have no regrets. If this night should take my life we can’t go back. We’ve got nothing left. You can see the plastic, dripping of your face, we may not all be pretty – but we feel pretty fake.” – Die Tonight, Live Forever

I found innerpartysystem’s “indefinate hiatus” announcement surprising not only because I was certain their best work was yet to come (which is saying something, considering the brilliance of the work they’d already done) but because it was following on the heels of their Never Be Content EP that was released earlier this year, and a new studio album that was announced for a release later in 2011.

IPS at the Metro, 2008

They’d heavily promoted the American Trash single not just with words but with an entire merchandise bundle to go along with the EP. The follow-up single, Not Getting Any Better, came with a stellar 8-minute video and a heavily promoted remix contest, falling into the hands of such up-and-coming and established artists like Designer Drugs and Treasure Fingers. I’d read numerous sources citing IPS as one of the “bands to watch” since they hit the ground running in 2007.

Everything just seemed…right.

“While we will always treasure our time as innerpartysystem, we as individuals have chosen a path different from the one the band originally set out on.” – from the IPS announcement

The “path” they’d set out on was one that took the current pop culture mindset and applied an attitude reminiscent of what grunge did in the early 90′s. During a time where any and everything could be considered “famous,” IPS seemed disgusted with the state of pop culture affairs and had no problem vocalizing said disgust. From the creative suppression organized religion and small-town mentalities can impose to failed relationships, they ran the gamut of emotion for stellar lyrical content. Musically they took the metallic crunchiness of late 90′s rock and the 21st century Pro-Tools explosion and gave birth to something I personally had never seen or heard before. It was refreshing. It was exciting. It gave me hope for a better musical landscape in the future. What they did was no easy task, and managed to walk a fine line without crossing over into pretension or some laughable echo of a TOOL album remastered with super-synth and auto-tune. (Even when they were performing entire sets using little more than their iPhones.) The modern desire to turn people like Snooki and the cast of Teen Mom into “celebrities” was virtually puked on with contempt. They took all of this, made it current, and what’s more: They were damn good at it. They slaughtered the idea that electronic music was soulless, a vapid excuse for no-talent wannabes.

In 2007 I was in Chicago to see my friends in Kill Hannah perform an intimate set as part of their annual New Heart for Xmas weekend. What I didn’t expect was one of the opening acts – a then relatively unknown innerpartysystem (with a much smaller version of their light show) – completely blow my mind. I had no clue what happened to me, like a drive-by fucking. It left me breathless. It was like one of those whirlwind crazy boyfriends: You wonder if they were real,  if that one night reading poetry and fucking in a school parking lot were actually a part of your tangible life, or a figment created because you needed it at the time. I didn’t know shit about IPS then, but I stood in awe of their art in a way I hadn’t for a band in a long, long time.

The Download EP didn’t leave my musical rotation for months. 6 songs repeated over and over in the car, on my headphones, on my computer. Don’t Stop was the single I didn’t know I wanted, but couldn’t stop once I started. Don’t stop. Ha.

In 2008 I was lucky enough to seem them nearly a dozen times in support of Kill Hannah’s “Hope for the Hopeless” tour, when I decided I missed the touring life. (I needed to remember how it felt not to bathe and lose entire days in booze and bad drugs, apparently.) I drove across the country and flew when driving wasn’t possible, everywhere from Houston, TX to Milwaukee, WI. Eventually I ended up in Chicago at the end of 2008 and to catch the final stop at the Metro, where the show not only took my breath away but hijacked the entire crowd. That show I nearly fell off the balcony from exhaustion. I had no voice left (hello end of tour) – but I forced it out to chant SHE WAS SIMPLY JUST A CONCEPT right back at them when they asked. Their cover of Joy Divison’s Transmission STILL gives me goosebumps.

They decimate you live.

I didn’t see them again until Valentine’s Day of 2009, when a ninja trip to Denver, CO reminded me that driving 10 hours, doing a show and driving 10 hours back takes a lot more stamina than I remembered. Of 48 hours, over 20 of those were spent driving but the handful spent at the Marquis Theater watching this band DESTROY their crowd made the drive more than worth it. That show remains one of the most violent and beautiful things I’ve ever been a part of, a show that truly changed my life and the way I think about music and the industry that comes with it. I was crushed, hit, beaten up, wasted and tripping on ecstasy. If Heaven actually existed, I couldn’t think of a better place than the moment I was standing in. I thought: This is it. This is immediate. This is now. This. Is. Living. Kris and Jared lept into the crowd even as Patrick was still screaming “it’s just, don’t stop!” and Jesse danced around on something other than booze. You couldn’t see anything after the strobe lights died. I couldn’t tell the difference between sweat and booze soaking my hair and clothing.

I knew as soon as the crowd let me breathe that I would never see IPS like that again. Everyone knew the words. Little girls, old men, bartenders, babies, addicts, schizophrenics, hipsters, metal heads, scene queens…everyone. Four days after the show I posted a blog on Myspace that said:

“I’m quite confident that this will be one of the last times I see IPS like this. They’re blowing up, and will soon be on their way to ‘don’t have to sell our own merch’ status…they want to sell records, make music and worm their way into the ‘man’s’ territory (to eat it from the inside out) – which they’re doing. So, say your goodbyes now kids. They’re going up and away from the Earth.” - from my Myspace blog

Their self-titled album was released and the video for Don’t Stop had to be re-shot because of its original “edgy” content. This Empty Love, Heart of Fire and Die Tonight, Live Forever also received video treatments, and to this day I still watch the former at least once every couple of weeks. I love it THAT much.

After that their sound moved from a less rock/electronic hybrid (they pretty much ditched the live guitar, much to my dismay) and more into strictly dance/electro territory, and lost member Jesse Cronan to his own endeavors. By the time the Never Be Content EP came out I was certain the band had a renewed vision, a direction they’d all agreed on. Their video for the first single, American Trash, seemed to support this and their previous themes of slamming pseudo-drug-glam culture and jaded ass kissing. The song was nestled between songs about love and loss – which was something I’d come to expect from them.

“I get my facts from the TV. Believe in everything I read. It’s such an ignorant bliss when the whole fucking world wants to be like me. ‘Cos I’m just American trash. Stupid American trash.” – American Trash

All systems seemed go – as mentioned before with the bundle packages, remix contests, hit shows at SXSW and gigs with Moby in NYC (where one could be shuttled to and from in a limo with bottle service) – I was left screaming “GROUND CONTROL TO MAJOR TOM!” when the bomb was dropped that they’d each be heading in different directions. Where were they going? What planet was I on?

It’s funny to describe an IPS show as a “religious” experience, given their distaste for such things. I highly doubt that was their intention and none of them set out to be any kind of messiah or harbinger of enlightenment to the 21st century youth. If anything there was a very Timothy Leary-esque message behind those bright lights that told you to “think for yourself and question authority” and find in their music what they were trying to say, because they certainly weren’t handing it to you.

Frankly I wouldn’t want them to. I don’t know what led to their hiatus other than the admission that each of them wanted to go in their own directions, much like Jesse had months before. I have no doubt I’ll see them together again, but in what form, and what message will they want to convey? Much of the magic IPS possessed seemed intrinsically due in part to the mental makeup of its members together as a unit. It’s a hard pill to swallow that they came across a fork in the road and each took the one the other wasn’t traveling.

I can only hope that as long as I keep moving I’ll stumble across said roads some day. (However this time I won’t rack up a $250 bar tab in Dallas buying Patrón, since I insisted that was all anyone could drink.)

(What the fuck DID happen in Dallas anyway?)

Patrick, Kris, Jared (and Jesse) – good luck and thank you.

SOLD | OUT

The limited-edition, vellum covered chapbook featured every one of my previous publications, plus a few exclusive works and a psychosocial history outline (blacked out government document style) from my personal collection – all wrapped together with laser guided precision. From “He’s A Drummer By Trade” to “Voyeur” this was the coveted first edition, hand bound in house by Gossip [&] the Devil Inc. Though any artist would love to admit they just knew it was going to happen, the reality is most of us sit there and hope it’ll happen.

Acclaim for Julie M. Tate [&]

The Rough Chronicles of Bipolar Romance:

“It’s very sexual…it’s amazing. I loved it…[she's] my favorite underground poet.” – Mat Devine,  vocalist, Kill Hannah

“The Rough Chronicles of Bi-Polar Romance should not be a limited edition. It should be dispensed far and wide for the reading world to quietly taste…” – W. B. Burkholder, editor, Troubadour 21

“There are writers who speak to the minds of us and then there are those few who speak to the souls and hearts of us. They talk to our guts…They make us shiver and shake with their words and they make us know them a bit deeper than we had ever imagined we would.” – Tairrie B. Murphy, vocalist, My Ruin

“An absolutely fantastic writer.” – Eric Victorino, vocalist, Strata/The Limousines

“I love [her] website.”- wiL Francis, vocalist, Aiden/William Control

“If you submit this [poem] to any other format…it’s going to get rejected. This poem will be rejected by most other poetry formats but it’ll make you famous…I actually had it in an envelope to reject it, but I couldn’t do it, it’s too good.” – Larry Ziman, editor, The Great American Poetry Show

“I’m scared you’re going to fuck your talent off, which would be a shame because you’re just too good.” – Ai, winner of the 1999 National Book Award for Poetry

“‘This is Your Capitan Speaking’…read like [a] short story.  I didn’t want the poem to end.” – Danielle Dreger-Babbitt, Seattle Books Examiner

None of this – NONE OF THIS – would be possible without you, Orphans, fans, supporters, gawkers, voyeurs, perverts, addicts and DIY-ers. You KNOW who you are. You’re the dreamers, schemers, the take-a-chancers, the middle fingers in the face of your roadblocks and naysayers. YOU.

It’s 2011 and shit is about to start happening.
Get ready for the 5th Season. More soon.
Cheers!
xx