I am still numb from the experience.Half the things I wanted to say are forgotten because someone's other half is a blank wall needing to be written upon by people who assume everything about her like she assumes everything about everything else. Some people are too angry to understand how happy the hand is that they've been dealt to them. They're too busy blaming the dealer.E-mail likes to take away every other thought I've had. When did distractions become more important than the things I love? Ever since the cable got injected into the computer full-time and never likes to go to sleep. This is why I study in the library, where things can still be archaic to the girl without a laptop.I feel guilty when I talk to a friend. I feel terrible when I try to sleep. I want to kill myself when I surf the web.Why does any of this matter to you now? Why should it matter when your life is going to be mapped out in numbers from now on?What do you want to be when you grow up?A 4.0 at least.Anyway...I get there. Finally. It's smart to go wandering about for the damn venue with only vague ideas of where it is. But we make it.First thing I do is buy the book. About time I found a copy.The entire stage is decked out in coats that were offered up by the audience members. I didn't trust the stage so I held onto my coat while I made my way into the crowd to get to my seat.Piano music's playing on a loop.Then the lights go dark and she appears. She's more beautiful in person than I could've ever imagined and she's already speaking before I realized where she was. Her words were accentuated by minimal movement. A lighting of a candle here, the unraveling of Christmas lights there...but that's all that was needed. I wasn't sure before how this was going to work as a visual performance, but it worked beautifully. Most of the staging relied on lighting and often, that was all that was needed. The rest was done in her voice.This was not a concert, nor something that I could describe easily. All I can say is that her poetry and her delivery is absolutely...well, I don't know. I think that any word I write will be unworthy of her, so I really can't figure out what to say. But by the end of the show, I just wanted to go home and cry. Not speak to anyone, hell, I didn't even know if I could face HER. Just go home, hold her work on my hands, and fall asleep hoping to dream some wonderful poem. Maybe I should get my notebook out. Lately, I've been letting things fly away too fast. College is making me bland.Most of the poems were new works, or at least ones I hadn't heard before. But they were all excellent. All of them. She also did "Holy," one of my favorites off "Dead Inside," and a chilling version of "Victim," her voice cracking and falling into hysteria as she swung a light above her head, the only light in the room. Halfway through the show, we had a little audience participation session...jiggle your keys when this applies to you. Perhaps it wasn't smart for me to be so honest, especially when you have family members sitting next to you, listening to the soft tinkle when the screen asks if you've ever thought about jumping in front of a moving subway train. I swore I heard a gasp next to me. Oh please, like you haven't thought about it too. [no you don't jump you twit, you just like to float on the thought because it takes you away, calming your nerves for the fleeting moment it occurs to you. but no, you DO NOT JUMP.] I also don't believe I'll ever be loved. And I don't forgive. And I don't forget.And this is as far as I'm ever gonna get. [I know I'm not alone in that respect. I've had the end-of-our-purpose conversation with way too many of my floormates to know that.]The finale was her singing in a white dress, staining her hands, her arms, her chest, her neck, her face with fake blood. When I came home, I found the song in the book. It was written in dedication to Matthew Shepard. I read it again, and it became that much stronger.After the show I didn't want to speak. I tried to get away with talking as little, as little as possible. I got a hanger (because they said we could) that mentioned how girls have wings. Really. Then why did a student go tumbling down eight floors a few weeks ago? Maybe no one told her. I don't like this. There's been two deaths since I've gotten here. That doesn't seem right.I wrote a simple note in her notebook of comments. I didn't know what to say, but I wrote that I would be doing what I'm doing now. Writing. I'm going to write until I can't keep my eyes open anymore And fuck sleep, fucks finals, fuck Taylor sequences and average total cost and intransitive verbs. I am writing.She was taking a bit to come out since she had to clean up. It made me all the more nervous as hell. Do you actually tell people you admire that they're an inspiration? How many times have they heard that, and are sick of it? How badly do you feel because you think that your own work is just a cheap imitation, unworthy and a plain insult to her? How stupid are all these worries? Very. But I'm trembling and nervous and DAMN, I have never acted like this before. I think I can understand now why teenies get so silly around their pop idols.Finally she appeared, her hair wrapped in a towel and her eyes redone. She first goes and talked to whom I assume are her parents. After talking to family and friends for a bit, she turned and moved onto the lot of us waiting for the book signing. Now, how the hell do I approach her when I can't even move my feet, much less speak?Well, I didn't have to worry about moving after all. When I get really scared and shy, I tend to look like I'm twelve (or at least I feel like it). And she must've noticed that and taken pity, since she saw me and said "Hi," very sweetly. I wish I could calm down, but NO, my brain decides that I'm not through with my bad bout of fandom. I told her that she was wonderful, she said thank you. I was about to start crying. Yes, I was this nervous. And yes, I was making a huge fool out of myself. I can't stand losing the ability to treat someone like the talented human being they are, instead of trembling in front of them like some worshipper (there's such a huge difference and I'd like to think that people prefer one type of fan to the other). I can't even ask her for the signing, I'm so afraid to (I have this thing about autograph requests that makes it almost impossible for me to ask for them unless within the most comfortable of situations). She offers to sign the book and while she does, I mention what an inspiration she is to me. Another thank you. And as she moved onto the next person to chat, I got the hell out of there.I could've handled that a lot better. I have an insecurity complex where I NEED to leave behind a good impression of me on anyone I like. And I sure didn't do that this time. Sigh...oh well...done is done. I got to meet one of my biggest inspirations. And I finally got the book. FINALLY.I know this review doesn't come close to describing exactly what Nicole Blackman's work is about. But suffice to say, there are not the right adjectives provided in the English language to properly sum up my feelings on her. Recall the awe and respect I give to Diamanda Galas and equate that to her. THAT's how much I admire this woman. Find something with her writing on it and see for yourself. Golden Palominos' "Dead Inside," Recoil's "Liquid" or her book, "Blood Sugar." Because she is why I haven't thrown out my latest poetry.She is why I can write something, and not always hate the results.She is why I now live through my pen.

- On Nicole Blackman written in January of 2000- my senior year.
A friend e-mailed this to me; I don't even have the original copy anymore. I remember how much I loved writing. I like Nicole's poetry but...she's too dark now...at least for me...she wasn't then though she was "perfect". But it's funny how as you grow some things grow and some things fade away...that's normal right? So, I don't remember much around this time in my life...I was just getting back to school after being absent for a while...really really absent and I was just getting into the swing of being able to have a social life again...
but this brought back a lot of memories and why you decided to send it to me now is beyond me...but thank you.