I've been spending the past few weeks, and specifically the last few days trying to express myself clearly. Because this has become such a huge preoccupation of mine, I fail to find anything worth blogging about. I've almost become more attached to my thoughts, and in that more introverted in dialogue.

Today I am writing because I solidified a friendship that pulls at my poetic strings.

Also because I want to do a little shameless self promoting.
I have a radio show on Wednesday's at 11pm
It's called Writers on Whiskey, where in one of my close friends and I drink a little whiskey and read you bedtime stories. It's going to be epic.

Our first show is tomorrow, check it here if you want to listen.

In the wake of 'When We Were Orphans' (a good book)

There is a certain number of things I have marked as impossible in my life. Currently I muse about the impossibility of reading all of the "good" books in the world. Regardless of the tastes embedded in the term "good" I firstly do not read all of the languages of the world, which significantly decreases my available literature even those in translation. Secondly, books that are deemed "good" in a highly praised way are constantly being produced. Thus, one can never fully have a grasp on the concept and breadth of good books to begin with.

Political Histories

I get really excited about politics in the past. I think that's maybe because I get really excited about politics in general and I like to see the progression of how we got to where we now are. Yes, that is a very conservative notion on my part but this is a point where I am quite certian.

Especially concerning speeches of famous individuals. I really like speeches by those who were and still are considered famous mostly through political grounds. Currently in my posession I have speeches by, Abraham Lincoln, Stephen Douglas, Malcolm X, and Martian Luther King Jr. all for the sake of my play. Yet, really when I read the words in my book that are claimed speeches by Douglas I can't help but feel the nudge of excitement as I visualize the charachter and the man that was. I've read parts of his biblography and seen pictures of him so I am creating him while his words fold out in front of me. He was there and people listened to this speech. The past gives me an eerie poke of satisfaction, nothing exists singularly.

in vitro

Today the biomedicilization of the body is in the back of my thoughts. I am going to write a play about the year 2235 when geneticists found a way to implant intelligence through the level of mothers intelligence and intellegence consumed while pregnant. Just like nutrients and food is passed through the plancinto at crucial moments intellegence will pass the same way. Thus predisposing offspring to jobs as lawyers, philosophers, engineers, chemists, poets, and genetisists.

It blows my mind
Red October style

the Desire to Consume

All I've wanted to do for the last two or three weeks is consume. And I have been consuming so very much, in all different forms of media. I read comics and books and poems and short stories and blogs and newspapers. I listen to podcast of short stories and poems and politics. I watch movies and theatre and anime and youtube. In conversations I listen to stories and monologues and rants. I can never be doing only one. I read three books at a time not counting what I am doing for school. I get bored with one if I am alone with it for too long. Everything needs it's own break which is why I can't do blogs or tv shows everyday. Just a little L word today, and a little Kafka tomorrow, then some blogs and poems. Keep the balance, you know.

I have been eating it all up and ingesting it. All the art and the language on my computer or bookshelf or table.

I find myself wanting to spend my life reading in parks, on benches, in the library, on my couch, or in my garden. Spending hours of my life enriching myself, indulging in art.
I could be very happy.

For now I am also very happy, doing some consumption for school and some consumption for myself. and sleeping a little in between. It's a happy balance.



Right now the first volume of The Count of Monte Cristo is siting on my table along with 3 books of Kafka in the native German. One is Die Verwandlung which is one of my very favorite books, yet I have never read it in German. I am excited now to be about 3 pages in.

everything can go fuck itself but poetry

Fuck it








sitting in only white underwear with words in front of me
computer being turned off after this post.
door locked










Fuck it

Good Morning Friends

Today enters the last week of my second year of College.
I started it by welcoming back Andrew Otto and saying good bye to James 3rd as we all know it today.

But I also got laundry done, and I'm on page 13 of my second 30 pager. That's nearly half... and it will probably end at 20-25 pages anyway.


So you are probably looking for today's though provoking idea. The thing is I started this post without an idea in mind, I just wanted to write.

Maybe I can share with you that I've gotten together two other writer who are going to write off prompts with me this summer. We will send something to each other each week via e-mail. I think this will be a productive writing circle. Maybe I will get out of my sad poetry and weird monologue phase. There are only so many monologues you can write before they all start to suck. and only so many sad poems can be mad before they lose their flame.



okay - here is my though. If I were to start testosterone (T) would I still take a woman's one-a-day vitamin or would I take the men's. You all may think this is an irrelevant though, but as a tranny it is a big question. Almost as big as pronouns and name! Maybe, I just have an irrational focus on the importance of vitamines and minerals in the body.

Thoughts?

Something Between the Legs

This is the monologue I wrote and preformed my first year at Grinnell for G-mons. At the time I was coming into a genderqueer identity and was only out to my girlfriend of the time and the lady I went to talk to every Tuesday.
This was a big step in my life - I hope someday I can give performances about the bad stuff too but for now this is what I've got.

Enjoy.

Something Between the Legs
by Nikki Jameson (Spring 2008)

I have only one friend who has grown up with me and helped me learn a lot about her and myself. I remember once I realized just how hairy she was, and I convinced her to shave. It wasn’t that bad we used one of my mums razors and away we went. I enjoyed looking at and feeling her bare skin but it was extremely itchy when the hair grew back in patchy stubbles. I was 12 years old and this was the first real attention I had ever given my vagina. It was uncomfortable and I didn’t want to do it again. I’d forgotten about her then 5 years ago we began to grow together in a transition from prissy cheerleader to penis envying artist.

Year one: Freshman year of high school my vagina and I wear spanky pants and short skirts. She is a devote cheerleader who gets lot of attention and lives carefree. She has no job or ties, but keeps herself clean-cut in case something arises. The best part of the cheerleading years, was other girls vagina’s in short skirts and spanky pants.

Year two: Although my vagina was still a bouncy cheerleader year two lead to a Hippy love interest. Me and my vagina fell head of heels for this long haired untamed girl. She was the first person my vagina and I actually cared about. We spent many nights drinking tea and braiding each other’s hair. She was a beautiful person, who I loved more than I knew at the time. I thought my vagina and I had found our match, with a year that would never end. Life was complete.

Year three: My vagina and I get on a plane and take the long fright to Europe. We spend 11 long crazy months learning so much about culture, food, life, and most importantly German beer. My vagina branched out in many directions and became what many would call a rebel. She loved embracing her punk rock goddess and felt liberated with her new Mohawk. I never let her dye her hair blue but she was happy involved and discovering.

Year four: My vagina and I come back home to small town America where no one understands how much we have changed. She is no longer prissy and bouncy, but that is what everyone still expected her to be. The hippy girl had moved on, and my vagina and I soon found being a rebel was a hard way to slide through life. My vagina decided to pick up the black turtleneck never to leave the performing arts again. She is now a poet who likes deep… thought and black coffee. The year drags by with my vagina feeling trapped and lonely.

Year five: My artist vagina and I come to Grinnell. Where there are apparently no limits. This is the first time in years that she shaves again. But soon learns, it is an itchy mess that is indeed uncomfortable when it grows back. She enjoys this new freedom with people who understand where she came from. My vagina was not expecting to find anyone at Grinnell who understood her, or even cared to understand her. She was too jaded by small town America to live outside of her own box. The day she first had penis envy she couldn’t comprehend it. Since the first time my vagina had fallen in love sex had always been fine, she didn’t need anything but what was attached to a wrist to please her. Now she was in a situation where maybe something else, something between the legs made of plastic would be a nice change. Not only did my vagina want to have this object, but she wanted to give this object too. My vagina and I are going through an identity crisis.

Year five is not yet over, and the transition is not yet complete. My vagina is allowing room to grow, learn and understand. I can relate to my vagina more now that ever before. When I was 12 years old I didn’t know shaving her would start a process of learning and growing. She is not just part of my body, she is a friend who understands me although I do not often understand her. Only together can we sort through who we truly are, cheerleader, hippy, rebel, artist, me.