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Entries in Brian (7)


Knickerbocker Circus 019: A Bit On Blood & Pudding

I found myself travelling back to MA on Holly's birthday.  Anniversaries and birthdays, Thanksgiving marked 10 years for her.  My Mom and I sit in the car, "She would have been 34." Brian was a Christmas baby, he would have been 33.  Within the last few weeks I have been receiving many beautiful letters about Blood & Pudding. The book has sold almost entirely off of word of mouth which just sort of baffles my mind but also touches me deeply.  I received this email from someone I very much admire a few weeks ago.  Thank you to everyone for your continued support.

So I've been reading blood and pudding, just so enveloped. It's something i am parceling out. I am tempted to race through it, and I could. but I want to make it last. I want to have more to come back to, so I can have it when I feel like I might need it.  Snarky writer part of me says there are scads of lines I'd love to steal. But real me says there are so many lines I thoroughly feel attached to -- at the hip, head or wherever. Thoughts that I've had but havent always made concrete.  Thanks for putting this into words. 

I created these two journal pieces for Eight Cuts Gallery.  Click either of the images to be taken to the exhibit.

Holly and I used to quote the beginning of Trainspotting every time we'd go on a road trip.  I used to call Brian my "Sick Boy".  Seems appropriate I end this entry with just that.



Dreams Are Real 030: Thirteen Years Later The Chelsea Hotel

Thirteen years ago Brian died of a heroin overdose.  "Maybe you ought to get a 13 tattooed on you." Shannon said as I paced the kitchen.  Thirteen is a magic number.  The moon has thirteen lunar cycles, it also travels thirteen degrees across the sky every day.  As human beings we have thirteen major joints, it's a fibonacci number, there are 13 archimedean solids.  Thirteen is also the number of the Death card in tarot, the card of rebirth, old cycles dying while giving birth to the spirit.  We both knew this was going to be a transitional year.  But it's been a good year, full of new experiences, and a wisdom I have never known before.  This year I came into my own.

And with that just a few days ago another cycle ended.  It was the day of Cynthia Von Buhler's Dr. Sketchy's.  I was running late and planned on wearing a fancy dress.  Five minutes before Liz and I were about to leave I changed my mind, furiously changing into my gypsy skirt and ripped up Beatles shirt, grabbing the pistol necklace off the bureau and cut bangs.  We headed to Bowery Poetry Club, leopard print coats and all.  The Sketchy's was wonderful and all my favorite people were in attendance.  We had plans to go to the afterparty in Cynthia's hotel room.

As it turned out that Hotel happened to be the Chelsea Hotel, a hotel I have been obsessed with for years.  Now the odd thing is Brian and I had a Sid and Nancy type relationship.  We almost died to the Soundtrack as well.  The reason I've been obsessed with the hotel was because so many of our favorite people had lived there, not to mention we wanted to live there.  We'd settle for a squat if needed. So we went to the hotel and into the room, room 103. 

Now we couldn't stay that long at Cynthia's party as there was a Hubert Sumlin show we had plans to see but we drank some champagne, took some photos on the staircase and headed over to Iridium.  Now I love me some Howlin' Wolf music and Hubert originally played with Muddy Waters so I was in my glory. Later that evening the Sex Pistols took over the jukebox as we drank in a LES bar. 

The next morning Cynthia and I talked about the significance of room 103.  Originally Nancy was killed in room 100 which they have since removed and added to another room.  They don't say which room but Cynthia and I entertained that it could be 103 as it was the room right next to 100 at the time.  Later Liz and I discussed how weird it was that I changed my mind so drastically and wore that pistol necklace, how I had been talking about the car ride that almost took my life, and how sometimes strange things happen to bring you to new places in your life. 

So this the thirteenth year is finally the year I don't feel sadness.  There's a sense of calm and being grounded tonight, like everything will be ok.  Maybe the ghost of Nancy Spungen is asking us all to move on.  Brian would be proud.


Knickerbocker Circus 018: B&P The Church & Alley

Rachael Krasnova took me to document what I had only written about.  "While we're there, I have to show you this place I found." She said as we crossed the street. 

"And I have to show you the alley where I'd run off with Brian."

We couldn't find either until both of us looked across the road.  "I have a feeling it's over there.  My memory isn't so good." I told her.

We crossed the street and entered the alley.  "This is it!" I yelled and ran over to the graffiti strewn walls.  I draped my arms over them.  "I remember these.  I was here.  We were here.  This is where we came." 

She took a few shots and stepped forward.  "This is it!" She yelled.  "The alley I wanted to bring you to, with the secret staircase covered in ivy."

This happens a lot.  When lives parallel without meaning too.  We take the same streets with years passing between those steps.  Our memories imprinted in those alleys, in the air, and on the brick.  She takes a few pictures.  'Funny how these things work out in the end."

Blood and Pudding page 42: The Car Ride

I'll build my world around you
I'll bless the day that I found you
I'll stand beside you, I'll never leave
Or tell you all those lies
That you'd never believe
I want to be haunted by the ghost
I want to be haunted by the ghost
I want to be haunted by the ghost
I want to be haunted by the ghost
Of your precious love
Of your precious love

Haunted- The Pogues


Blood and Pudding page 37 Chapter 2.5


Knickerbocker Circus 07: Blood and Pudding 04-Brian

Twelve years ago yesterday I found out Brian had died.  It's been a tender time, a time of reflection.  I tend to get frantic, wonder why, and then get hit with a giant "Damn." So forgive me if I'm quiet, unresponsive, rude, adamant, or just plain needy. These things tend to go in cycles.

Rest in Peace B.  I miss you.

This post was originally written on my former blog. I thought it was appropriate.

I had forgotten a moment in my life. I had forgotten a huge moment in my life, or so it seemed at the time. It had been pushed aside by small memories of kisses beneath a street lamp or how a bride ran away from her fiance right before they were supposed to move. Walking towards Sherene's last night my ipod shuffled to "Haunted". Funny how you remember singing the song to a person but forget the actual event until all aspects of it collide. Memories... It was a misty night, both nights, way back then, and now. I was wearing the same red velvet dress and velvet jacket. I was soft looking.

1996?: Brian and I got into his car. I can't remember where we were heading. I popped in the soundtrack to "Sid and Nancy" our favorite movie at the time. He was in the drivers seat, bondage pants, Social Distortion tee, and leather jacket, his hair was in liberty spikes. I pulled gently at his piercings as we drove out of the parking lot. My song came on "Haunted", I always like to sing it to him. He laughed at me and smiled. I turned it up, he looked annoyed but it didn't stop me. I was playful that evening. I grabbed hold of the steering wheel. "Let go." I said.
"What are you doing?"
"Trust me."
His feet were on the gas and I steered the car. "I'm going to close my eyes and I want you to guide me. But you can't touch the wheel. Not at all." I said. (The music was getting more dynamic.)
"You're crazy."
"Just do it." I closed my eyes. He guided me with his voice, his hands wrapped around my waist.
the music played in the background.

I'll build my world around you
I'll bless the day that I found you
I'll stand beside you, I'll never leave
Or tell you all those lies
That you'd never believe
I want to be haunted by the ghost
I want to be haunted by the ghost
I want to be haunted by the ghost
I want to be haunted by the ghost
Of your precious love
Of your precious love

And the song ended, we stopped the car, and we were safe. Or so I thought...



Knickerbocker Circus 04: Blood and Pudding

Photo by Richard Mann

Nancy Spungen just wanted to be "somebody."  You can't knock her for that.  Growing up I had a fascination with her.  I think most of us grow up and want to leave some kind of legacy behind.  "Somebody" means different things to different people though.  In my teenage years my cousin Holly and I would take road trips with no destinations just to dream.  We wanted to be "famous", for what, I'm not sure.  I knew I was leaving for New York in a few months and she was jumping from job to job in Boston.  All we knew was that we needed each other.

My life has been a series of co-dependent addictive relationships.  I think my friend Ben summed it up best when describing me years ago.  "Kat is like vanilla ice cream sprinkled with crack.  Smooth, tasty, and goddam what a rush." When I think back to my highschool years, this is exactly what I'm talking about.  Teenagers have a way of thinking they are immortal.  They are fearless, we were no exception I'm sure.  Looking back on who were were, I would have placed a bet we'd be dead by the end of the summer.  But we lived, for a while at least, and then there were a series of deaths. 

This all has a point, I swear.  You see in a few weeks I'll be releasing Blood and Pudding.  It's weird to call it memoir since I no longer know the girl who wrote it.  Seems she died the same time the love of her life and her cousin did.  It's also strange to be releasing journals we once tried so hard to hide.  Back then we all brought out the worst in each other.  We were addicts, mental cases, thieves, and lost.  We came from good homes.  We wanted attention.  We wanted to be "somebodies". 

Blood and Pudding took ten years to put together.  It went through three editors, four micro-cassettes, five re-writes,  and something like six journals.  Some of my editors and friends wonder why I didn't send it to a big publishing house and I really did struggle with the choice.  But in the end I made my decision because of this:


Kat: "What should we do with the book when it's done?"

Holly: "Just release it.  Those who need it will find it.  No one should ever force something on the world. Just make sure it's pure."

What she meant was "Make sure it was true." She was okay with tiny edits, paragraphs being slightly altered, or grammatical errors being fixed.  She was not okay with changing the tapes, reforming sentences, and making our secrets marketable.  And being that she is no longer here.  I had to respect that.  Looking back, maybe she had a different definition of "somebody" than I did, but if it's one thing I've learned over the years, it's to always respect the dead.

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