Say something.

Something...anything...just to let me know that you are there. That's all I'm asking - to know if you are there. Because if you're not, I can't be either.

I wish I had the ability to be nostalgic - write pretty,flowy, meaningful words to commemorate 2009 and wax poetical about my hopes for 2010. I seem to lack the gene that makes me get all gooey and tearful when it comes to the end of one and the beginning of the other. We start all over all the time; well, at least I do.

What's the big deal?

So, to you, 2009, I say: Adios. I am happy for my health, my family, friends and good fortune.

2010: Let's see whatcha got.

'Cause I'm game.

Can't stand the quiet noise
that infiltrates my ears
and makes
my brain do cartwheels
I need to fill the white sound
with solid black knowledge

It's hard to type when you are laying down...

Here's the thing. I think that I am attracted to half-people...well, half-men, for a reason particular to my situation. "What we have here, is a failure, to communicate."

Not half-man like, as in Centaur, but half, as in, not whole, not complete, no matured, not ripe, not ready. Sometimes I feel that I am drawn to those who are still cookin' because I am too...simmering away at this vile brew that's festering and heating up inside of me. You see, I have to let the nastiness get hot and boil over - before I can create a culinary masterpiece that good and right.

And sometimes I think that it has not so much to do with me being done as it does with me not wanting to be held accountable; it's easier to be dismissive and not have to try with someone who is not a finished product. Still struggling, his missteps are forgiven. Because some how it seems, if he were grown, those errant choices would be more grievous.

But who is ever done? Who is ever not searching? Completely content? Even when you are happy, you always have an eye peeled for whatever it is that will make you happy next. We're like sharks...we can't just be still, or we'll die.

And aren't we a sum of all our parts? Past, present, nasty, good; we are all of these contradictions that we've created for ourselves in life, right?

Right?

Before the inspiration dips below the horizon of my heart...

"I gave her my heart, and she gave me a pen." Say Anything

I am starting to know when something is right...I feel it. I just know. I don't question it. It just is. Like an instinct. Like the sky. No doubt in the addled brain means a lot. But I am also learning that even though I know something, it doesn't always mean anything...because some of the feelings that I have, though valid, can't ever breathe the light of day if they are not shared. Other feelings are significantly mine: when warmth spreads through my belly: inspiration. When my pupils dilate, my lips part and my skin tingles: excitement, curiosity. When I isolate myself on the island of my cold side of the bed: loneliness, self-induced. When my toes hit the sand touch the waves: my spirit, my home. When my throat feels closed, tight, tense: mute. Oh yes, mute is a feeling to me; not using my voice, burying myself under a mountain of each other person's expectation will be death by silence. And it will be a quiet, hurtful violence if I allow it to happen.

It is ok to feel in color, to hear so acutely, to bundle up each tiny emotion in it's own unmarked box so that I am never sure what I am pulling out of the attic of my soul. It's ok to want to fish with the egrets in the salt marsh and covet Christian Louboutins: pumps, black. It's ok to be wrong, it's ok to fight when I am right, even if that means everything around me will change. It's ok to want it all, from one opposite end of the spectrum to another.

And it's ok to be afraid, as long as that fear is an impetus. Because if I don't take my respect for the things that I love and turn them into something useful for me and the world, it will be a waste. No one can write about the heart-breakingly beautiful shades that the intercoastal can be on any given day like I can. No one can wax poetical about her love of a small beach town and live in the greatest, craziest city in the world like I can. No one can talk my particular brand of smack and use the same mouth to sooth a fussy child like I can. No one can feel people and read people and really see people like I can. I can, I only have...all I have is to try. But I know before I can do any of it I have to be without fear. I am ok with trying and failing. I am not ok with dying and never knowing.

What I have longed for is this. The words; somehow communicating the intrinsic beauty I see in the things that are special to me. I have been trying to feed the longing with other things, I have been thinking that what I ache for is him, or that thing, or this place...when really I have been aching to be me. It all makes me stupid with distraction, discouraged that I can't seem to get it right and no one seems to get it. But I am not trying to be anything but a fraction of me, a shadow of the dark, sweet, honored power that I posses. I ignore and I pretend and I smile and I hope for the best, but nothing else will mean much until I use what I have at my fingertips...my very own heart. No one can see it or judge it or measure it, only me.

My gift is me.

You have a strong heartbeat. I can feel it when I am close to you, I can see it pulsing in that little tender area of your neck. And sometimes, when I touch you, even just the slightest touch, I can feel your heart begin to race. I thought at first that it was just your physical nature, but then I noticed that it happened when I spoke, too. Like a revving engine.

That's what I got. That's the only indication that I am different. There are few words, there are few actions. There is just your heartbeat.

It's just that I can't feel it when I am not close to you...

It seems that the can of worms that I have considered closed for years now has been pried open by the other owner of all of the memories, emotions, and f-ed up sentiment that I have been trying to stuff back inside of it since it's creation when I was years younger. My conventional method of sealing the lid on said can of worms forever, i.e. ignoring it's squirmy, burrowing, dank, dark presence and going about my daily business, doesn't seem to be binding anymore and the lid on all of this drama has for all intensive purposes popped right back off in my face because he is insistent upon allowing the mealy mouths of each individual worm see the light of day.

Curses.

My ex-fiance. Wants closure from me. The same man who dissappeared with no explanation while we were still engaged, tried for a second chance, watched me walk away, accepted my decision to not speak with him anymore, was without any knowledge at all of me for six years, during which time HE GOT MARRIED, and then randomly, TWO YEARS AGO, ran into me on the streets of the most unlikely city in the world to cross my path, and all of a sudden his world is in turmoil, his marriage goes defunct, and he feels the need to make amends with me...to get closure. From me. It's like an un-redneck version of My Name is Earl and not nearly as funny. I mean, I am not even close to being as searingly funny as Jaime Pressly is...

W.
T.
F.

Why must we "bomb" the moon?

 
 
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/11/13/moon-ice-nasa-lcross-disc_n_356926.html
 
What has the moon ever done to us, except be hauntingly beautiful and make people a little crazy now and again.  Man, we humans really can't leave anything alone.  Sheesh.

I exist in two small places...my shoebox and my cube.  So much for "out of the box" thinking...cliche, anyone?

If you are going to say that you don't care what people think...you really have to not care.  For real.  Otherwise you are just going to end up making yourself feel bad.
 
Trust me I know.

Ahhh...the inevitable "shoulda's": shoulda called more, shoulda asked more, shoulda visited more, shoulda tried harder...
 
I was wondering when these were going to set-in.
 
Shoulda's are useless to me and Grandma and my family right now.  Gotta concentrate on prayer and hope.

It feels different. It feels like a bunch of different things...it feels sad, and stoic, and wise, and slower. It feels like the kid in me might kick up a fuss when she realizes that I'm growing up. And it feels different because that usually makes me wonder what kind of mess I'm going to get into; now, instead, I just wonder what means of knowing and taking care of myself I will utilize to make myself learn, feel stronger, and move on.

When did this happen?

This hurt my heart...


Best for Last
by Adele

Wait
Do you see my heart on my sleeve
It's been there for days on end and it's been waiting for you to open up
Just you baby
Come on now
I'm trying to tell you
Just how I'd like to hear the words roll out of your mouth finally
Say that it's always been me

That's made you feel a way you've never felt before
And I'm all you need and that you never want more
Then you'd say all of the right things without a clue
But you'd save the best for last like I'm the one for you

You should know that you're just a temporary fix
This isn't a routine
With you it don't mean that much to me
You're just a filler in the space that happened to be free
How dare you think you'd get away with trying to play me
Yeah

Why is it everytime I think I've tried my hardest it turns out it ain't enough
'Cause you're still not mentioning love
What am I supposed to do to make you want me properly
I'm taking these chances and getting nowhere
And though I'm trying my hardest you go back to her
And I think that I know things may never change
I'm still hoping one day I might hear you say

I make you feel a way you've never felt before
And I'm all you need and you never want more
Then you'd say all of the right things without a clue
But you'd save the best for last like I'm the one for you

You should know that you're just a temporary fix
This isn't a routine
With you it don't mean that much to me
You're just a filler in the space that happened to be free
How dare you think you'd get away with trying to play me
Yeah
Ey
Yeah
Ey

Yeah
Ey
Yeah
Ey

But despite the truth that I know I find it hard to let go and give up on you
Seems I love the things you do
Like the meaner you treat me the more eager I am
To persist with this heartbreak and running around
And I think that I know things may never change
I'm still hoping one day I might hear you say

I make you feel a way you've never felt before
And I'm all you need and that you never want more
Then you'd say all of the right things without a clue
And you'll be the one for me and me the one for you
Ooh
Ooh
Ooh
Ooh

I have no idea what I am doing anymore.
 
I think that was the goal.
 
This could end one of two ways...I hope that it doesn't end the way it always does, 'cause I am bored with that.

And I need a neck massage. 

Night owls that also enjoy the morning-time are constantly on the verge of existing in a parallel universe called Madness.

An interesting thing is that I don't consider myself a writer. I write, everyday. It's not in the cookie-cutter way that I imagine that it should be, but I do. Little bits, pieces and diatribes here and there, a dialouge, a rant, a thought process that I cannot work out until I put pen to paper or fingers to computer keys. Maybe it's because it comes so naturally, I don't consider it a skill; a talent. But interesting all the same that I seem to discount something that so clearly is a part of who I am.

ugliness has a comforting quality.

It's familiar.

It sits around her shoulders like a cloak...a shroud. Ugliness is what she clings to when everything goes wrong. It's there, a well worn I told you so...I told you that you would be back. It's only ever a matter of time. I told you your thoughts would come here, then your feelings. I told you so.

Ugliness says that she could set her heart to burning and spread the flames of talent and passion like wildfire from sea to shining sea. That she could clean up her act and sell it as a whole show, off-broadway. Oh, and she can triumph over all those demons, brandishing the sword of success and pride. Yes, she can do all that.

But it won't be good enough.

Because she would prefer to sit within the solitude of darkness. She would prefer to throw the pieces of her dreams crashing to the floor, as fragile and ostentatiously smashed as dinner plates thrown at a Greek wedding. "Opa!"

Ugliness is strong and common and it can win. It seeps in and takes hold, like black mold in the wall. Sometimes she thinks that the only way to “Fix” “Everything” is to knock down the damn walls, the fortress consumed by mold, and build it all again.

Starting over is the only damn thing she knows how to do without a doubt in her head.

This article, from the Washington Times:
http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2009/oct/15/troop-funds-diverted-to-pet-projects/

...sparked the following rant:

Hi, US Armed Forces? We're gonna need you to go “defend our freedom” in countries where we likely started most of these "fires" that we're "trying to put out" in the first place. We (US Senate) will give you a half a nun-chuck, some rainbow sprinkles and some duct tape to defend yourselves with; you'll pretty much need to make it up as you go because we don't have the funds to train you properly. Why, you ask? Well, because we (US Senate) will use the money that should have gone to properly fund your mission to make us (me and my overpaid over-empowered colleagues) look better. Here’s a gold star (in the form of a sticker, not a medal, we used THAT money to build a pretty fountain in Kansas that commemorates the growing of grass) for your valiant service on behalf of your country.

I don’t mean to make light, it’s not funny, but it does at times feel like this crap is one big sick joke…bring them home, or give them every resource that they need. There is no grey area here. Politics aside (which would be nice considering b.s. politics are the reason our brave men and women are dying daily for what we're not sure of anymore) I believe that every SINGLE military person fighting these battles for these fat politicians is doing so because they feel that protecting our freedom is the right thing to do, NOT because they feel that there is an tangible enemy or goal. IF they must be there, YOU (US Senate and anyone else involved in these decisions) must see that making sure, making DAMN sure, that our military gets what it needs takes precedence over Memorials and Institutions and the like. Both have their place and are commendable gestures, but gestures aren't saving any lives.

STOP WASTING THE LIVES OF THESE HONORABLE PEOPLE.

I am afraid that if you don't, we won't have any left. And it's slim pickins as is.

And then I found that I really didn't care.

I let it roll around in my brain a little bit, to see if any of its sharp edges would catch and sting as they cut into my grey matter.

I kept waiting for the gasp, the realization that it did hurt, I was bothered, and maybe I did feel a bit more than just a passing infatuation towards you.

I'm still waiting.

I thought the realization would be a revelation of sorts...a load off, a bright light, a click in my conscience...but in the end I think that I liked the thought of you. And if I really look deeply, it seems that it's always been that way; I liked the image of a man, which has always stood in the footsteps of a real one at my door.

Clarity was much more grim than I thought it would be.

She couldn't resist…she leaned back to get a full view of the other room to make sure there was no danger of being immediately observed (and therefore stopped) before she planted all five fingertips of her left hand in a different shade of watercolor paint, then brushed the palm of her right hand with a coat of black.

 

Then, after looking over her shoulder again, she ran to one of the blank walls ("minimalist is what we're going for…those photos would create too much clutter") and smacked her right palm against the wall, while marching the fingers of her left hand around it.  The rainbow colors were transparent, the consistency of a flimsy silk slip.  The black transferred to the wall as grey and made a pleasing suctioning sound when she peeled her palm away.  She knew it was slightly destructive, absolutely vindictive and would inevitably lead to a polite fight over her apathy towards making a nice home.  She knew, but she didn't care; the release that followed her little trick engulfed her entire body head to toe and towards her soul.

 

She had tried to talk.  She had tried to scream.  She had tried it all in her head while he was none the wiser,

It's funny when you know how late you are in the morning by who you see on the 6 train.

"Tall slightly Latin looking 40 something guy with curly hair that gets off at 33rd st...ok, I'm only a few minutes late."
"Tall-ish, very attractive black man who looks to be about my age and has no ring on his finger who gets on at Grand Central and off after me...yeah, I'm pretty late."

I have been avoiding writing I have been avoiding feeling I have been stuffing it all back down...I have been curling up in the cocoon of blankets on the oasis of my bed and canceling out all of my opposing thoughts. I have been staring glassy-eyed at the TV I have been turning my phone off I have realized that I need to speak and then I remember that I already have and it didn't mean a thing. I wonder and wonder and wonder why I am here but know at the same time that I am not ready to leave. There have been moments when I've thought of different cities and if it's not St. Augustine or NY these feel like cheating thoughts. I feel this raw gnawing inside all the time, nothing seems to take it away anymore.

I judge myself inadequate and can tell you all of the reasons why I fall short in the light of the world that I live in. I know in my brain what I am worth but it won't translate to anything real. No paper no conversation no work no success...nothing real that has meaning. I ramble and ramble and pause...

I had my ipod on way too loud this morning – the bass in all of the songs was pounding away at my eardrums. But I didn’t care. I needed all of that throbbing noise to cancel out my gushing, tangled thoughts. I stood at the door of the subway and looked out as we passed the platform into the tunnel, when the view became dark I closed my eyes and willed my brain to completely absorb the music and just live off of that emotional sustenance for awhile.

I WANT the intensity of that bass – I want it to be my heartbeat.

God. Everything looks better in the sun.

I am AMAZED.

And for the first time in a long time...perfectly happy with being content.

Wow, indeed.

Inspiration, sent in '05 just after I moved to NYC...

you kelly, are quite the writer. 
 
i was going through some of my old bookmarks and cam
across your blizzle. kind of a coincidence that you
have not posted since july of 04 and then you post a
little before i find you. nice.

your stuff still holds my attention and you write
somewhat differently than other women (i don't mean
that in a sexist way. really the truth is, i don't
really know a lot of women who write shit that holds
me there like you stuff does). i like it.

your oct. 3rd post was awesome. never be like the
rest....please i beg you. please keep that honesty
with you. i wish the world had more kellies (plural
for kelly?) in it. rad.

i take it you are still working as a server? if so, i
have to ask you if you have a low self esteem problem?
is there some fetish with waitressing that makes you
stay? you shold be working for the national endowment
for the arts or something. wouldnt that be fun. move
to nyc for a year and do it for peanuts. you can still
serve there too. many many men.

i hope i don't piss you off cuz i want you to write me
back. later gator.

And again...

Two annoyances that had been bugging you before your exile have been neutralized. But you've still got at least one more to go, so don't relax yet. In fact, I think you should redouble your vigilance. Check expiration dates on your poetic licenses and pet theories. Scrub the muck from your aura, even if your friends seem to find it "interesting." And learn to read your own mind better so you can track down any disabling thoughts that might still be lurking in remote corners.

FOR THE NEXT TIME THAT I FORGET...AND I WILL...

Be Lost in the Call

Lord, said David, since you do not need us,
why did you create these two worlds?
Reality replied: O prisoner of time,
I was a secret treasure of kindness and generosity,
and I wished this treasure to be known,
so I created a mirror: its shining face, the heart;
its darkened back, the world;
The back would please you if you've never seen the face.

Has anyone ever produced a mirror out of mud and straw?
Yet clean away the mud and straw,
and a mirror might be revealed.

Until the juice ferments a while in the cask,
it isn't wine. If you wish your heart to be bright,
you must do a little work.

My King addressed the soul of my flesh:
You return just as you left.
Where are the traces of my gifts?

We know that alchemy transforms copper into gold.
This Sun doesn't want a crown or robe from God's grace.
He is a hat to a hundred bald men,
a covering for ten who were naked.

Jesus sat humbly on the back of an ass, my child!
How could a zephyr ride an ass?
Spirit, find your way, in seeking lowness like a stream.
Reason, tread the path of selflessness into eternity.

Remember God so much that you are forgotten.
Let the caller and the called disappear;
be lost in the Call.

-Rumi

Yeah, thanks for that, Life. I go to my dance class last night (I so missed my era – I was meant to be living in the 40’s, for all of the obvious reasons) and when I leave, pouring rain. Little ballet flats that fill with water and become slick on the bottom at even the hint of condensation are not my friend. I run to the train, fine. Run down the steps, fine. See the train there, my chariot awaits, fine. Practically swing a lady back through the turnstile in my haste (what? She needed help, those things can be heavy), fine. It is not until I am skidding through the closing doors that I did not stand clear of, and for the first time in my NY minute life pushed back open again, that I actually slip. Not a full bust, but a Risky Business ala Tom Cruise slide, right into this on the taller side guy who kept me from, well, the full bust. Uh, how ya doin’.

And it turns out that this wasn’t a “let me help you get situated back on your feet and send you on your way” save. Somehow I managed to land nose-to-nose and looking at these hazel eyes that reminded me of the Intercoastal in Florida when it’s confused as to whether it wants to be blue, green, or brown for the day so it decides to wear all three. Water was all I could think. They look like the river.

When I realized that I was staring unabashedly into the face of an unknown albeit very attractive man, I decided to peel myself out of his personal space and squish away, that is until I found that he was still holding on to me. Uh-oh. I, by the way, feel that one of the tenderest spots that a man can touch a woman is on the small of her back. And there was his hand, resting on the small of my back like he knew me and didn’t seem to have any plans of removing it anytime soon. I had my ipod on, blasting some new Deepdish, which happens to be some particularly dirty house music, and as I pull away and notice the slight pressure of his palm flat against my back, the girl on the track purrs from somewhere deep “you look like sex.” Oh good Christ.

My knees might have melted at this point, completely forgetting how to support my weight. I might’ve made a joke about this being one way to get to know a cute boy on a train, or I might have just chosen the ever-faithful big grin and chin tilt. Even opening my mouth to say hello would’ve been good, but I remained lock-kneed, silent, and stone-faced during the eternity of seconds that passed. I caught a glimpse of a question mark when I allowed myself a peek back into his river eyes, my heart sighed and waved feebly as it trudged back into its shell and I struggled with unsetting my jaw and producing the small but clearly very tricky word “hi.”
But I never managed to eek out a single syllable and I am sure my mask of a face, which displays everything I don’t want it to and nothing that I want it to, was off-putting enough to make him mumble “sorry” and drop his hand from my back like a boulder falling from the sky. Even as my brain bellowed “nonono no wait! Put your hand back! Ask me a question! SAY SOMETHING DUMMY!” all plans of collecting myself and striking up a conversation with this man were dashed when he got off at the next stop.

“STUPID” I was now saying in my head as I scowl at the dirty floor. I look up as the doors vacuum shut again in enough time to see him standing on the platform with his hand raised, palm towards me, fingers out, elbow parallel with the ground. A farewell salute. I’m reminded of that gum commercial where the woman breaths her mint-frosted breath on the window of the subway car to write her number for the cute guy that had just missed the train. Things of this nature happen to me so often that I actually curse myself for not buying any of that gum in case of just such an emergency.

Why can’t I seem to bridge the gap and make these surreal moments into a beautiful reality?

My Horoscope - Alrighty then!

First of all, my friend, you don't need any second-hand anything, let alone second-hand love. Second of all, dearest, you are hereby ordered not to hang around any third-rate situations where you feel like a fifth wheel. You understand? Thirdly, wonderful one, keep in mind that any eight ball you may fantasize that you're behind is just a figment of your own delusions. Fourthly, lover, I assure you that your sixth sense can now lead you -- if you cleanse it of its excess superstition -- to a place that is, if you have a good imagination, a suburb of the seventh heaven.

The beautiful thing about being a blank canvas is that I can be anything I want. The hard thing is that there are a lot of things I want to be.

Can't I just divide the canvas into different parts of me?

I think every office should have a sound proof room in which employees can go to shriek, bellow & scream until their corporately frustrated hearts are content.

Thoughts this morning:

Saw a guy grab a girl by the elbow to pull her out of the way of a garbage truck this morning. He essentially saved her from becoming a greasy spot on a NYC street. She turned around and looked at him as if he had flipped her skirt up to show the world her under-roos…gimme a break. You can take feminism too far, ladies. Climb down outta your self-righteous trees sometime and join the rest of us in the “I don’t have a parking cone inserted firmly between my butt cheeks” real world.

Had to go to my happy place on the subway to keep from calling the guy next to me “Senor dip shit” for having his newspaper open wide enough to take up the space of three people on a crowded train. I had to go deep into my happy place to keep from ripping the damn thing outta his hands. Even my happy place was a little affronted by me this morning.

I have got to stop curling my lip in distaste at random men as they walk down the street, just because they look like the typical Business World Happy Hour Douche Bags. It really is Pavlovian conditioning but I can at least try to stop.

AAAANNNNNDDDD it’s only Tuesday.

Bless.

I love you.

And ain't that just a kick in the pants.

Ack.

Laundry. Big juicy raspberry to that, and how. And you know you live in NYC when you get stupid excited because your laundry room is now using key cards AND just got 5 new washers - that's newsworthy stuff, right there. Like what kinda cheerios Tebow prefers. I'm sayin'.

I am slowly but surely immersing myself into the deep water of this book thing. I never realized how many hang-ups I had about doing this. I thought I'd just be able to pick up a pen and go to town for all of the words and stories and thoughts and points to make that are banging around all the time. But it seems that there are some issues that not only apply to writing my book, but also apply to just life in general.

One - writing can no longer be just a creative outlet. It has to be work. I have to try hard and concentrate and do the best that I can and make outlines and plans...just typing that makes me a bit twitchy. Writing has always been something that I've inscribed as it came to my brain, I've never made a conscious effort to do it. In life, I tend to shirk off major responsibility, not because I'm not capable, but because I don't trust myself.

Two - I need to get used to the idea right now that this will be like cracking open my breast bone and exposing all of the gunk and finery that I've got goin' on inside of me. If I am to publish something, there are going to be people that don't like it. And because writing is so personal to me, it will feel like they don't like me. In life, I tend to keep quiet rather than try my voice because I am never sure how people will take what I'm about to say. This becomes a survival tactic for some military brats...you make enough waves by being new, no sense rocking the boat even more by saying shit that's gonna keep people looking at you funny. Now, this doesn't sit well with me. Now I resent it when I can't say what I need to say.

Three - It will not be perfect. I will not cut myself off at the legs before this creature is even finished being created, but it will be OK if it's not the next The Power of One or Pride and Prejudice. As long as I do this, it really doesn't matter if no one but my friends and family buy the damn thing...I will be able to say that I've accomplished one of my dreams, and that's enough. I think you can see how this directly correlates with life.

I think this will be the culmination of what I've learned thus far in my life. But I don't think it will be the end. No no, this will be the jumping off point. To the Late Bloomers, my Brethren:

It's Never Too Late To Bloom...right where you are.

Oh man, how'd I miss this one...this is a soundtrack song...


The Airborne Toxic Event - Sometime Around Midnight Lyrics

And it starts, sometime around midnight.
Or at least that’s when you lose yourself
for a minute or two.
As you stand, under the bar lights.
And the band plays some song
about forgetting yourself for a while.
And the piano’s this melancholy soundtrack to her smile.
And that white dress she’s wearing
you haven’t seen her for a while.

But you know, that she’s watching.
She’s laughing, she’s turning.
She’s holding her tonic like a cross.
The room’s suddenly spinning.
She walks up and asks how you are.
So you can smell her perfume.
You can see her lying naked in your arms.

And so there’s a change, in your emotions.
And all these memories come rushing
like feral waves to your mind.
Of the curl of your bodies,
like two perfect circles entwined.
And you feel hopeless and homeless
and lost in the haze of the wine.

Then she leaves, with someone you don’t know.
But she makes sure you saw her.
She looks right at you and bolts.
As she walks out the door,your blood boiling
your stomach in ropes.
Oh and when your friends say,“What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Then you walk, under the streetlights.
And you’re too drunk to notice,
that everyone is staring at you.
You just don’t care what you look like,
the world is falling around you.

You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You know that she’ll break you in two.

I can't finish writing because this thing inside of me chokes off every word at the pass...ruling it all invalid, silly, stupid and trite. The words don't seem to want to come freely, they seem to want me to work for them, concentrate on each one, hold it up to the light and see it for what it really is to make sure that it's good enough. Trouble is, the thoughts and inspirations pass by long before the words are done being examined, and I am left with nothing but numb frustration.

If it will break this, I will take it.

Love This Day
Be Here Now
Make your way
In a Moment's Gaze

To the cook at old town bar & grill who peers directly into our office @ nite: send over burgers & fries for us, then maybe we can talk

I would like romance to stop robbing me of my common sense.

"The first rule is to keep an untroubled spirit. The second is to look things in the face and know them for what they are."
- Marcus Aurelieus

It's a good thing I can look you in the face and know exactly what you are, then. What troubles me the most is that it doesn't even sting a wittle bit anymore...I've cast the red rose into the freshly dug grave of "what could have been" and smiled, the feeling is grim and delicious and I like it...when did that happen? And why does it make me feel strong?

The Dance (Lyrics)
Inside my mouth i can hear all the voices say
do not lean over the ledge
i shouldn't look down and i shouldn't have found
that your lips i still taste in my head
raising my glass to the head of the class as she powers out steps one through ten
i think i'll be fine if i'm covered in wine nice to hate you and love you again
and see you againand see you again
weary and worn little monster is born
tell me lies and i'll justify them
desperate today and it's making me pay for that night for that kiss for your bed
whoever dared to love someone out there i don't need a balloon and a pin
the name of the game is out
running the blame so i hate you and love you we're friends
guess we'll be friends
i guess we'll be friends

oh why (why) can't (can't) you take me in your arms now?
why (why) can't (can't) you take me?
why (why) can't (can't) you take me in your arms now?
why (why) can't (can't) you take me?

better stop crying hello and goodbye-ing go on through me slip right through my hands
you get your time and the other half's mine it's okay this love weighs fifty men
it's okay this love weighs fifty men
it's okay this love weighs fifty men
oh why (why) can't (can't) you take me in your arms now?
why (why) can't (can't) you take me?
why (why) can't (can't) you take me in your arms now?
why (why) can't (can't) you take me?
why (why) can't (can't) you take me in your arms now?
why can't you take me?

amen amen amen
amen
-Charlotte Martin

bobble-headed
waa waa waaaa wa -ing like
Charlie Brown's faceless teacher
Charade-playin'
teeth barin'
hot mess condoning
figment of a woman

Where'd your heaven go?

Michael Jackson is dead.

It is still raining, I feel saturated with rainwater and everybody else's bad mood.

I just spilled my Greek yogurt on my dress and while it all came out ok I can't help but wonder lately "why does stuff like this happen to me all of the time and it seems like it never happens to anyone else? What magic pill did they take to keep them from being a space-case klutz when they became a grown-up?"

And on the note of grown up I still don't feel like one and hope that I never will because all of the "grown ups" I've seen are pretty much boring, lifeless, colorless, drab and redundantly consistent lemmings and I refuse REFUSE to become one of them. I can be responsible and make good decisions and take care of myself and others without being grey and lifeless. I refuse to wait to die instead of living. No freakin' way. I really don't care that I am two months from 30…ok yes I do it freaks me out a little when I think about it, which isn't as often as maybe I should because, after all, "Age ain't nothin' but a number. Throwin' down ain't nothing but a thang." Thank you Aaliyah, truer words may have been said but none that apply so succinctly to this rant.

My cat has suddenly decided to attack my face for no apparent reason other than she doesn't like the way that I look at her. Great, another being in my life that gets all offended every time I make a move. I can't win for tryin' with anything, anywhere, lately, and I am sure this must come off as a fatalistic woe-is-me way of seeing things. It's not, but I honestly don't care to explain myself because I am in a bad mood and this is my blog and it's my party and I'll cry if I want to when I hear Man in the Mirror on Pandora Radio.

I've been told in the past few weeks that I am hard to read, stubborn, competitive and "what are you too good to trash talk?" I feel blindsided by these opinions and while I honestly never see this crap coming, after I have a few minutes to process I think, "well, yeah. And what? You wanna talk about you for a minute?" I am tired of apologizing for WHO I AM and if you are on the wrong side of this argument you better watch out because I've just moved into the "take no prisoners" frame of mind and I'm not entirely sure I will be able to control my mouth but am more than entirely sure that I don't care anymore if I do or not.

What's funny to me is the way that I view myself and the way that others apparently view me. I struggled a lot with myself growing up, and possessed a lot more self-loathing and guilt than self-esteem and confidence in myself. I realize that I may come off cocky and as if I don't care a lot but even while I realize this I think it's so weird because I'm not really cocky and I care a lot, about a lot of things and a lot of people who don't seem to even know it. The thing is, I can't seem to figure out how to tell them that without getting stomped all over. So I keep my mouth shut and my head high and I laugh, all the time I laugh, have you noticed that? Always smiling. Or stone-faced. Can't seem to settle on a happy medium, one extreme or the other will have to do for now.

Which is why on this rainy fing day I feel that I deserve this 10 minute rant and I will not feel bad for my verbal vomit. Yes, I know I am blessed with too many things to count and loved by some of the most amazing people I've ever met. I have a job and my health and I live in one of the best cities in the world and am doing just fine. My life is good.

My mood is bad…maybe because the carefully crafted façade is cracking again.

And even that is good in its way.

It might just be scary to the people in my life who haven't witnessed it yet.

A new addition to the Blake extended family - Daphne Durand Kibler is born!! Welcome baby girl!!

When the rain is falling 3 droplets at a time at a 4 second interval, you do not need an umbrella the size of Texas and Oklahoma combined, I PROMISE. Leave the golf umbrellas on the course where they belong, for the love of God.

And while we’re on the subject of stupid things people do when it rains in Manhattan…the stairs down to the subway are slippery, kids. Now, I am as impatient as the next person at 8 in the morning, but you’ve gotta realize that people are gonna slow down because they don’t want to fall, which would actually serve to delay things even more. If you push past me to run like a moron to the train when everyone knows full well that there is another one right behind it, and I fall, rest assured that when I get up, dust myself off, locate you as you wait because you inevitably MISSED the train you knocked me down to catch – I am going to tackle you by the knees. Ya goin’ down. And while writhing around on the platform, I hope that every particle of subway junk imparts itself onto your cheesy Brooks Brothers suit.

You are not that important.

And a friendly tip – please do not stand in front of the turnstile whilst you dig for your MetroCard. I don’t care if you aren’t adult enough to plan ahead and have it in hand, just get out of the way if you need to rummage through the what-all that composes the contents of your bag/man purse/wallet/what have you. One would think that the hundreds of people swarming around you looking annoyed and maybe not so accidentally bumping into you would give you a clue, but One is proven wrong, every single minute of every day. Poor, One, to be consistently refuted by the droning masses.

Draft two, after some thought and some remembering. Still not done, but better.



I saw you once
Inked up from the neck down
Pierced, God knows where all
Charming as possible
After being jailed for two years

Your energy was huge
Something to prove
Nothing to lose
And damn, those eyes
That smiled like ya
Already knew

All this, fine, made you noticed
What seared you into my thoughts
Was your arms
Arranged
Across my lap as you knelt beside me
Casual as anything, chatting away

My friend was engaged in the banter
I certainly was not
Captivated as I was
By the slight warm pressure
Of your hand
Around my ankle

She saw too
And proceeded to take you to task
For possessing me so quickly
I still sat there mute
And eventually karate chopped the air
To hush her mouth

They think they need to, it’s ok
I was ok
with being possessed
When it was done with such tenderness

I've got the waking-hour stuff under control, but the dream stuff is really starting to work my last nerve.

I dreamed that you made special potato chips for my mom while she was visiting me and sitting at an unknown tavern on a stool slightly separated from the bar. She was eating the chips out of a bag and insisting that she call to thank you. I pshawed and belittled and refused because I was too proud…too proud to say thank you because you might think that I wanted more than to just say thank you.

I don't remember how, but suddenly you were there, bathed in an amused, knowing aura that I've come to associate with your demeanor towards me. It's not a bad demeanor; actually quite comfortable, which makes things all that much more muddled in my brain.

You looked down at me and I ignored you, except to smile and bobble-head my way through my discomfort. I nodded my way right through the urge to hug you, actually look you in the eye, tickle the palm of your hand with my fingertips. Nothing, real, no. Because then you might think that I wanted something more than just being happy in your presence; a furrowed brow might mean that I was going to ruin the good time by being serious, by taking more than I deserved from the odd relationship that necessity and stubbornness has created. Even in my dreams I am proud. And stuck. It's an unsettling feeling to be stuck even in my dreams.

For some reason Zana has now appeared in the dream bar, burdening me with her obvious displacement and my inability to contain her. You offered to take her off of my hands while my mom was with me, to take her to your apartment for awhile. You made some comment about the normal distaste that you were lacking when I protested that you hated her (why is Mikey the only male that gets along with my cat? Is it because she's black? Are y'all scared?) and would probably shove her in your hamper. Nose buried in her seal-like inky fur, you walked out, laughing at me.

You left and my mom made the "you idiot" face at me, which is juxtaposed to real life due to the fact that in real life she doesn't seem to approve.

I woke to the rain and the cat fast asleep across my upper arm. I chalk the dream up to being reminded of you last night, the fact that the cat probably pinned me in my sleep and I had just sent my mom an Utz do it yourself potato chip kit. I sit up and rub my belly, yawn and slide seamlessly into my waking-hour nonchalance.

My mask of nonchalance hides the grey tint that shades my thoughts for the rest of the day, matching the weather but not my mood.

I care from a distance.

"If dreams were not beautiful, they would quickly be forgotten."
- Milan Kundera

If you want to crack into a small portion of my brain, read the dog-eared, underlined, finger-oil worn books on my top shelf. They're smudgy, soft, bent, torn and I thoroughly love them. The way that they feel in my hands is indescribable, for sure.

Books are my maps.

It's hard to avoid you in a studio apartment.

Your blank face stares at me from every corner, no matter where I look, no matter where I bury my eyes. You are there holding yourself upright and proud, asking me to meet my future.

And exhale the last dying breath of sameness and routine.

Wide awake.

And newly obsessed with Cake Boss on TLC. "I'm en-fumed". Enough said.

And I just looked at flights to Kenya for next year. And put some money in an envelope.

And then I wandered into the photography class section of "Dreams to Check off that Ever Elusive List" and put more money in another envelope...and then pulled out a another envelope for art classes. Do they do just watercolor classes? And I think it's kinda funny that I don't feel the need to take writing classes. Huh.

I guess it's good that I'm gonna quit drinking for awhile; I'm gonna need more money.

Now onto the other thought that was pogo-ing around in my head all day:
Pros/Cons for the tattoo -

Pros:
- I wrote out a line from Rumi on my wrist the way that I used to this weekend. I liked that it was there. I liked seeing it when I moved my arm. I liked that I had black words on white skin...that I was the paper. I was actually one of the tools of my craft.

- It would be for me. I keep hearing "in this day and age, it would be original to NOT have a tattoo." But that's the point...shut out all of the opposing views & voices, sit down cross-legged on the floor of my soul and say "what do you want?" I respect everything I hear, because I will only listen to people that I respect, but it is time for me to respect my own voice. It's been long enough.

- It's time that I hear "permanent" without freaking out. It's time that I try to look at something day in and day out and not throw up in my mouth a little bit. I've got to sit down and decide what I like, where my passion is - what I love enough to carve into my skin and even if I have the irrational urge to scratch it off at various points in my life, learn how to deal with it. A little more of the fight and less of the flight.
- I know who I want to do it and trust him


Cons:
- It's permanent
- My Grandparents would flip the f out
- I think of my cousin but then think that I would rather get one than not when I think of him...
- people judge, no matter how ridiculous it is
- I would probably have to keep it wrapped at work unless I did a white one
- It's permanent
- I like my pale skin and am very hesitant to put a permanent mark on it. Maybe I can just paint a wrist with a tattoo on it and that will satisfy the craving.
- Still can't decide on a color
- Can't decide on the actual text, but I know I want it in my writing.

...The cons are longer but the one thing I can't justify out of all of them (because I've already figured the rest of them out and dismissed them as reasonable) is marking up my skin. All in due time will I have wrinkles and age spots...why do I want to add to the laudry list of old age?

I still think I'm gettin' it...

"You wear your re-lig-ion like a war sweater..."

The piano loop to this song is circulating in my brain over and over again, because it's spooky sweet and off key. And I keep seeing the color blue. Blue jeans, blue eyes, blue ocean. Maybe it's time to look for the colors of the intercoastal again...

"Watercolor isn't finger paint." he said as she dabbed her finger in a bowl of water and swirled it on the cake of red watercolor.

She looked up from her lined pad of paper, tried to focus on him, cocked her head like a sparrow and painted a streak of weak, red pigment down the bridge of her nose towards the mischievous grin that was dancing on her face.

"It's not war paint, either. Not strong enough." She blinked at him for a few seconds more, then returned to her intensity, from where she hardly heard or cared when he took his offended nature out of the room.

Hours later as she straightened out her spine and shot her hands over her head for a satisfying stretch, she caught a glimpse of herself in a old-timey, tinny mirror nearby. The paint had dried back to it's original powdery state on her nose and she looked like a little girl who had been playing with her mama's rouge. Ghosts of conversations past floated by in the light of her daydreams like dust motes in a ray of sun; all she could do now was wait...and resist the urge to make watercolor fingerprints all over the boring cream colored walls.

I am completely worthless today. Just wanna write. And lay my forehead down on the cool surface of my desk, swing my feet back & forth and day dream.

When I forget

A comment for the wind that just made its way back to me.  I love my friends.

 

10/23/05

 

If I could expose my breast to you
open the cavity
that holds my reality
that tangible symbol of life
no doubt would be that I am alive.
Right?

Simplified, life is breath
sustenance, waste, and renewal.
It'd be a magnificent trick
to coax the soul into
thinking that life was simple.
As my attention fades
I think of all the simple things
that create life as a maze.

My sanity wanders
head thrown back
arms outstretched,
I turn in faster and faster circles,
spinning, dizzying. Giddy.
Embracing it all and understanding
nothing permanent.

The perception shifts every second
that I turn in this spiral
here a question
there an answer
then a feeling
next a logical derivative
explaining said wayward toss of my heart.

When I stop spinning
the horizon tilts
I grasp my knees,
and know that I must become intent
on a fixed spot in the distance
so as not to faint dead away
fall permanently
into spinning routine
of doubt and expected deliverance.

It is fall.
And my nose is cold,
and I am happy
from acting like a five year old.
As my head clears,
Hazy Distance becomes sharper
colors bolder, impressive.

It is so still in this cold.
so beautiful, and yes, simple.
I will that cold clarity to seep into my bones
even with the recognition
that anything warm
will be gratefully accepted to change it.

Anonymous said...

Kelly, thats what I like to see! I would like to tell you that it's beautiful; your PASSION, your WRITING, and YOU. Yet, beautiful is an understatement, so I'll leave the words up to you. KEEP WRITING!
I will leave you with a few words from Rumi, "Let the beauty you love be what you do."
I love you, Amber

October 26, 2005 12:50:00 PM EDT

The squeaky wheel gets the oil, but never underestimate the quiet one...
She's always watchin' for a way to make her mark concisely, boldly.

Aw, so proud. My cuz just asked for advice on a nice way to break up w/ a really cool girl. He's turnin' out ok, that one!

Boo to all this crap, life is a choice

Alicia – you're P. Sawyer and I'm Brooke Davis.  K?

 

Things that make me happy on another rainy day:

 

Rain boots, yellow.  While wearing said rain boots, splashing in every big puddle that strikes my fancy.  Sticking my tongue out at the guy who rolled his eyes at me. 

 

Lookin' like Rainbow Bright threw up on me – purple tank top, green shawl, orange bag, pink umbrella…now all I need is Starlight to ride to work.  And now I want a white pony with a rainbow mane and tail and a star on his forehead.  Oh wait, I think I met a guy just like that at a gay bar recently…

 

My i-pod loaded with new music – that Ciara video featuring Justin Timberlake is pretty hot, have you seen it?  Some good tracks off of the N.A.S.A. album, too.  Good beats.  Oh and a line that made me think of you…"couldn't bust a grape in a fruit fight."  Well, I really don't think ya could.  You didn't even know how to change a tire until I told you…that should've been telling…

 

Toasted everything bagel with cream cheese (and that little dab of cream cheese that gets stuck in the bagel hole…tehehe), a banana and coffee, loads of coffee.  Saving the other half for a snack.  Telling the guy in the little store every time that I am in there that I don't need a bag.

 

A funny little kid who remembered what I said and bellowed in the middle of a dentist office "WAIT A MINUTE…GO GATORS!!" to my bemused Ohio State lovin' friend.  Even better when she tried to get him to say "Go Buckeyes!" and he said "what's a buckeye?"  Gators are way cooler than a poisonous nut to a 4 year old.

 

A glorious rant with one of the few people that knows exactly what I am talking about, whose laughter is a cleansing sound and who shares my concern with the current state of boys world wide.  Not so much a problem with boys, but more of a problem with the man/boy ratio.

 

And ya know what?  All of this is more than enough.

Life isn't a tv show, girl. It doesn't fit cookie cutter into a neat little halfhour shape in your day. It doesn't always have the twists and turns that make it fascinating, it doesn't wind up all ok in the end, working it self out in a satisfying, cliff-hanging, tear jerking, joy inducing from start to finish plot line.

Life just is. "Life is what you make of it" life is hard and boring and itriguing and fun and gruesome and sweet and beautiful and annoying and hurtful and...well, you already know all of this.

It hardly ever make sense. And in those moments that it does, you stop thinking and just live and thank god for it all. Those moments that make your insides stll and make you feel like you're sitting on the seawall again, dangling a foot over the edge and staring at the moon through the rippled water. That right there is the only thought that you're allowed to have in the moments that all make sense. Thank God. Even the pain can be sweet, if you stop and you feel it. But you have. To stop. And feel it.

Ya know what, no...

"He would like you if you'd let him."

 

A statement which promptly elicited an eye roll and a terse "he's been given ample opportunity to 'like me'.  Now shut up with the girlie stuff and drink your beer."

 

This is not the first time that this has been said to me, and it probably won't be the last.  And it usually always gets an eye roll, universal indicator of "that's crap".  I know the difference between letting someone care for me, and having to poke, prod, and cajole to persuade someone that it really is ok to care for me.  For one, I'm not that frantic to be in a relationship.  Two, I am not your mother and therefore will probably throw in the towel if I have made it readily apparent that I see you for who you are, like you for that, don't want to change it, and you for WHATEVER reason can't handle that.  There are times in life that you have to fight to love someone, but if I don't have the foundation, then I likely don't have the patience.  So even if those feelings might be lurking in there somewhere, and even if the might be obvious to everyone that knows me and him, it's outta my hands.  

 

I know that I am weird and I know that people wonder about me and I know that the way that I come across is not always the way that I am.  That said, I also know when I've tried and struggled enough to get my point across and the struggle just becomes futile.  There have been a few men that I've cared deeply about (Caleb, for one, which is probably why I am so resistant to this line of thinking) who just couldn't freakin' handle it.  Honestly, I would almost rather "I just don't feel the same way, Kelly" than "I do absolutely feel the same way but I don't know how to deal with it."  Not only have you made it difficult and seemingly stupid for me to care about you, but you're also showing a weakness that is bewildering, which hurts just as much.  

 

Which is why I so vehemently refuse to make it about me.  Yeah, right, I am the one who's throwing a wrench in the cogs.  It's me that has been as transparent as my emotionally retarded little heart will allow, but I am the one who won't let him in.

 

Eye roll, call bullshit, and move on.

My body aches again. It's not lack of sleep, it's not illness (that I know of), the last major exercise that I did on was on Sunday…so the soreness should have worn off by now…

So that can only mean that typical is rearing it's ugly head again…fabulous.

I need a hug.

I can smell fear and b.s. from a three mile radius…so why am I stumped with this one? I wish I was better at this by now and not so easily influenced by someone who can make me laugh…and who actually thinks I’m funny, too, and not some three headed monster out to rob him of his bachelorhood and all of the fun in his life...well, I guess that remains to be seen.

Oh my God, why am I awake at 7 am on a Saturday? Blasphemous!

Oh yeah...it's 'cause I am oddly lazy lately, yet strangely motivated by the slightest notion, which made me leap out of bed at 6:45 am.

I need to work on my priorities...

The hardest battles are the ones that you have with yourself.

I am sitting on my hardwood (read: parque) floor, legs wrapped around the tiny stool that Robert brought me from Africa, the one that I use for a computer stand.

My thoughts my attention my desire float in and out, listen to a hot song by Kings of Leon and I am distracted by the rawness of his voice...I think he probably smokes too many cigarettes or other things and that's why he sounds like that...then I think of:

"Is this weed?"....
"I should take your ass to jail, you know that?"
"For what?"
"For what?!? Look at this!!"
"That's just nuttin' but a cigarette, man!"
"This ciga-weed!"
"Well it look like a cigarette."
"You betta have glaucoma."
"I do."


In and out between fantasy and reality. I should be asleep, I am tired, but I should also write, I should be writing I should be sleeping....I should I should I should...I should just fucking be, screw all the other nonsense in between.

But I am a night owl. I like the dark.

Not so much to see in the dark, not so much to take in.

I like being awake to hear the collective sigh of the city, asleep. I like being a night owl in this city because I know that I can always find some other vagrant soul knocking about, too.

Yep. There's always somebody.

I am a night owl.

I like the dark.


Not so much to see, in the dark. Not so much to take in.


I like being awake to hear the collective breath of the city, asleep. I like being a night owl in this city, because I know I can always find some other vagrant soul knockin' about somewhere, too.

Illustrating the process:
Draft 1: Direct from brain, translated without edits:


I saw you once
Inked up
Pierced
Charming as possible
After being jailed for two years

Your energy was fierce
Something to prove
Nothing to lose
And god those eyes
That smiled like ya
Already knew

All this, fine, made you noticed
What made you remembered
Was your arms
Arranged
Across my lap as you knelt beside me
Casual as anything
Chatting away

My friend was listening
I certainly was not
Captivated as I was
By the slight warm pressure
Of your hand
Around my ankle

Rare is it
In such a fine
Drinking establishment
That I pause
Focus
And breathe

And after only once
Really still see you so clearly


I don’t think that it’s done, it doesn’t feel done. And here’s where the breakdown begins, and where I need to school myself: I have to finish it. I get rough stuff down all of the time, and it’s fine, but I know if I sit still for long enough, focus and try beyond the initial impact, it will be better. I have to bridge the gap between knowing that it can be better, and actually making it that way.

Oh. Look. It's raining. Thank you for the rain...can u please make it stop? Thanks.

Ah, insomnia. My old friend. It has been awhile, but can't say that I've missed you.

I miss "my kids". I miss my ecentric little autistic kids, my so ADHD that I fall off chairs and run into walls kids, my sweet CP kids with their resoundingly hopeful little spirits.

My little band of misfits, the ones that I understood. The ones that it was worth it to try for, and cry for, because at least then I was making a difference.

What the fuck am I doing now?

Becoming numb to nearly everything was not a sign on the path. I guess I never really knew that it was a choice...because in the end, it all comes down to choices. Everytime.

10 Freakin' minutes every mo' Fu' day...if it damn near kills me.

So I have a character. She's weak and literally just an outline, like if you saw her walking on the street all you would see would be this pen sketch of a chick on a piece of lined paper blowing by...

Kinda like me.

I figure it this way: I've got another year and four months on my lease...another nearly 5 months until I'm 30. 3o. I didn't shudder this time, but every time I say it, I gotta at least say it twice. I think in that time, I can do this. I can write something that I like (knock on wood, I don't like anything) and do something with it. And if I start the positive energy now, maybe that might actually be true.

I know that I am ok with floating in the tide because I don't want to dissappoint myself. That's fine for a 10 year old whose dealt with the small things that I have, but not for a 30 year old. 30.

Jesus Christ.

The edges of my resolve are blurring.

Things that I would have never considered before are coming into sharper focus...

And I realize that I don't want you to be that boy to me. I am realizing that there are a lot of things that I want and don't want and I am denying what I want and dealing with what I don't want...why am I doing that?

Why am I working so hard against being what I am?

I've been moving color around to train my mind to let go.

It's helping. The deep pigmented colors make me silly happy and the ugly, weak ones make me contrite...make me realize that the bad is just as necessary as the good, as ugly and weak as it is.

Hmmm...

Wonder why pain makes some people want to cry and it makes me want to punch someone in the face?

What might this say about me?

Curious...

Color.

Inky, seal black that glows a burnished, glossy sheen. Red of the insides, freshly pumped blood, Bordeaux held over a candle flame. Deep deep deep down that color lies within her - it represents life and rage and rich, brightly glorious and slightly disastrous beauty.

Heat, juicy red lips pulled back over teeth that bite into a plump bursting fruit. Red, against black and white, radiance of crimson soul held up to a backdrop of starkness and light...the contrast so pure it robs the lungs of their breath for seconds on end. Red fabric clinging to milk-cream soft skin, grazing the breasts and exposing a collarbone meant to display the throat...a pulse trickles, flutters by each second and hounds it's body with its presence - your heart is here, your heart is here, is here, is her.

Fingertips smudge rouged lips and cause eyelids to fly closed...the touch is so faint and so promising that there can be no other moment in the world but this one. In the stillness when everything stops for a time, feelings are okay, to be felt and to be seen. The planes of a face, the scoop of a jawbone meeting a tender neck is all for the offering, the taking.

This is another space that they inhabit - just this tiny nook that she had been looking for and was missing, every time. She warmed at the thought: Love was so much warmer, felt to the fingertips, than what she had been experiencing.

Home.

2/23/09
At Merrion Square

Maybe I was avoiding writing for so long because it's like any other habit: the more you do it, the more you want to do it. Until it keeps you up at night. Until it steals your appetite. If this is my habit, the happier I am for it. I talk, and all I want to do is write. I read, I want to write. I also think that the Virgo in me (so funny how I identify myself that way) was noticing that what I was writing wasn't good...enough...for the perfectionist critic...me...

But I think now, I've learned this lesson, a big life lesson that might also apply to relationships, romantic and otherwise, if they are strong. You love it, you do it no matter what. The good, bad, boring, inane, pointless, stifling, insulting, you do it anyway. So I write, through the mediocrity, right on to brilliance. You still the contributing, uninvited yet obsessed-over voices, you call forth your own strong, clear voice and you commence. This is what I do, it's what I love. This IS me.

My face mashed into my forearm, I write with my eye-line level to the page. Something I've always done. I look like a maniac. I feel like writing is the same quirk, something I've always done. It is deeply satisfying, to scratch a page with my pen again.

She paints her eyes as black as night now
She pulls those shades down tight
Oh yeah, theres a smile when the pain comes,
The pains gonna make everything alright, alright yeah

I remember driving somewhere with Matt, one of his infamous mix cds in my cd player. Deep in conversation, though I am sure it was about nothing, like umbrellas and how people seem to go stupid when using them, I was idly skipping through the cd. I scrolled through She Talks to Angels, the Black Crows song above, and Matt smacked my hand away to tune it back in.

"Kelly. NEVER skip She Talks to Angels. Ever." He delivers with a meaningful stare.

I guess I remember this moment from eons ago because of the way he went from ginormous goofball to deadpan serious in .5 seconds, which he is still apt to do over music. I remember loving my friend a little bit more that day because it reminded me of the way in which we both seem sometimes to want to wrap ourselves in a blanket of music, notes, words, feelings and all, and be done with the world around us. Music is sacred, music is religious, music is what has kept all three of us Monkeys afloat through many times when we felt sure we might drown. The music is always there, always influencing some corner of our brain to motivate, calm or induce the emotion that we're trying so desperately to stuff down deep inside.

So no wonder that She Talks to Angels propelled me towards my computer like an Irishman to a glass of an 18 year batch of whiskey.

I've got a pot of coffee on that I've nipped from throughout the day. My weekend has consisted of cozying up under the blankets and consuming an Anna Maxted book from cover to cover...my only temptation is a cute boy who oddly won't be put off, no matter how much I let Queen Witch the Sarcastic Bitch loose on him. And I have to say, as cute as he is, I am barely tempted. Old habits die hard, and this one, knock on wood, seems to be clutching at it's last breath. Please? Please God, please?

I live in Manhattan in what should be someone's walk in closet and pay dearly for it. I can hear sounds of merriment outside my window that start at around 8 pm on Friday and slowly fade in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Sounds that used to shunt me out the door in search of at least some banal form of social interaction, now make me happy for those people who are celebrating an end to what was no doubt a hard week, and then have no trouble ferreting deeper under my down-filled blanket and returning my nose to my book. I used to torture myself over why I slave to live in this box (which, consequently I adore because it's "mine" even though it is a box) yet seem to be just fine and dandy with the few occasions that I choose to turn my phone off, try to turn my brain off, and relax alone. Used to being the operative phrase. Because honestly, and especially since I've had a batch of the St. Augustine friends up here, I am just loosing the will to nod and smile at people like a bobble head doll while silently wondering if they are even listening or interested in what I am saying, because I sadly don't give a wit about what they are talking about, either. And that's if I can hear them over the din of voices competing to be heard over whatever style of music is being played to loud.

My St. Augustine friends, My People, have refreshed the feeling that I get when I hang out with genuine, kind, fun loving folks. I relax and I allow more of myself to show, instead of doling it out in rations because I can't ever be sure if someone cares. I know that I don't try hard enough, but for some reason I feel beat down and unwilling to fight to be loved. And in the end I know for a fact that it really shouldn't be that hard.

Back to ten minutes.

At least until I am not so drained...

The good news is, I can type with minimal problems. So Monday won't suck that bad.
The bad news is that I am worried about someone who is special to me, and I know that all I can do is sit back and hope that he can work it out. I have faith in him...I just wish that I could fix it.

In other, mixed-emotion news:
We killed a bottle of Jameson between the three of us. I wasn't aware how good the 12 year batch is, which is knowledge I might have been better off without, ha.

I heart Mexican Radio. I do not heart bars (Gatsby's) where the douchebag to cool people ratio is five to one.

You, I might deal with later. Or maybe not.

If you cannot say it to my face, sober, with no inhibition, then I don't know what to say to you...

I've said it all.

Twice.

I can't say it anymore. I would...

But you won't let me.

Loyalty is a funny thing.

If I care about you, no matter what the "status" (status, also a funny thing) of our friendship is, I end up being loyal to you, almost to a fault, it seems.

Now, I don't think there is anything wrong with being loyal. In fact, I think that too many people these days don't honor and value their friendships enough to be that way. People don't honor and value other things like they used to, either, if you know what I'm sayin'.

Which is why, when I felt bad about being loyal to someone, I started to wonder why I felt this way. On the surface, I thought it was because I might have created the perfect storm for another missed opportunity, and I am getting to the point where I can't count all of the missed opportunities I've had on my fingers and toes. For the most part, these typically end up like that old Garth Brooks song: "sometimes God's greatest gifts are unanswered prayers", so alls well that ends well.

But then, as I do, I started to think about it more. I started to question why I was loyal to someone who might not be as loyal to me, when we never really had anything major to be loyal to. When I let that reduction sit in the pot for awhile, I realized it was because I was trying to make light of something that is considered no big deal in this day and age. I was starting to let the lemmings affect my thinking. No bueno.

So let's break it down here. Bear with me, because this will probably make no sense to anyone but me (which I'm pretty used to so whatever):

I don't feel bad for bringing it up. I would rather all the cards be on the table in the beginning, than have a rumor be handed up from under the table that undoubtably would make distrust spread like wildfire.

If I were to pick, if I were to look back at the years there, if I were to say that there was one person I was interested in getting to know, it would be you. I have been intrigued for a long time, and I've never had the opportunity to do anything about it. And I don't like the fact that when I did, it was 6 am and we were both...had both been...well, drinking. But I might point out, it takes two to make dicey decisions at 6 am (I was up for 24 hours at that point, what's your excuse? Kidding. Only kidding.)

So, while I'm probably getting judged for flying off at the mouth too soon, it is what it is. And both of these things are a part of who I am...flying off at the mouth and "it is what it is", that is. And if you are judging or assuming without knowing, then you should stop, just like I should.

Time is what I've got.

Patience is what I'm workin' on.

But that doesn't mean I'm not crossing my fingers and such.