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.

I am so numb that my limbs, my shoulders and my hips, my back, feel like they are moving in slow motion, like there's something thicker than air surrounding my body, something I've got to wade through. I feel sleep dumb and out of it...my body is trying to be quiet because my brain is screaming. No matter how much I try to numb my body, my brain will never ever shut up. Only when I am asleep will it hush long enough to give me some peace. No wonder all I want to do is sleep.

Bottom line? I am angry. And this is a current of old, deep anger that I've been floating on for awhile. This is anger that's been festering and feeding on itself for ages. Consciously, I don't dwell. Consciously I have moved past this and grown out of it. But in the back of my screaming brain, always, there is this anger fueling this ranting voice and it's just gotta go away.



There is this tattoo that I know of, it takes up the entirety of someones back...it looks like a story filled with probably every emotion that a human being could possibly deal with. It's black and it's dark and you would never know that it was there. I find myself wanting to trace every story with my finger, hear the thought behind it and just breath. In everyday life, this is me. And then, in my heart and my mind, this is me. And it's the same. Does that make sense? I made a record, so that I could move on and be me in everyday life.

I feel like my words are this record. My words are my only positive release and I have to let all of this out before I can move on.

I never say never, but I am a good guesser, and it might be true that I never get to hear these stories because of a choice that I made. And that just adds to the anger.

And it hurts, too.

I want to write. That is all I want to do. All.
I am a writer. I want to be an author.
It's time to stop hiding in the shadow of who I could be.
I'm meant to write books. And that's it. No I'm going to, no what if, no excuses.

Enough is enough and it's time.

Jesus Christ, I need a hug. Pronto.

Good thing some more St. Auggie love is headed my way on Tuesday – they’re gonna be hugged out by the time I get done with them.

So I am done with winter. Done. Done with the coats, the boots, the stockings, the umbrellas, the scarves the gloves the cold nose the numb ears the layer upon layer upon layer of clothing…yes that’s right I want to walk around like we do in FLA in a bikini and a beach skirt. Nothin’ else. Not even shoes. I literally feel like I need to strip layers off of my soul to feel normal again…

Which is why I wore a wrap dress with no stockings this morning, without even considering that it was still cold and WINDY and I might be better off in pants, or at least a skirt that doesn’t have a FLAP in the front. These are things that I feel should occur to me more often than they do…

So I walk outside looking a prize in my wrap dress, my bomber jacket and my little shoes. Cute. I am a matchy-matchy person’s worst nightmare personified, that’s a fact. I figured (see, I even thought about this and came to the same grievous conclusion) that if it was cold or breezy, I had a slip on so I was covered on all fronts, no pun intended. And the front that I am usually concerned with is not so much the front front, but the booty front…it sticks out a lot more.

What I didn’t account for, and should really take into consideration because I’ve dealt with this butt all of my life, is the ride up factor. When I had worn this slip in the past, it was with tights. So it didn’t ride up. Evidently, when you wear the slip sans tights and are shaped like I am, it rides up. To your waist. So FYI, if you’ve got some junk in the trunk and your waist is maybe, disproportionate in size in relation to your butt…don’t wear these slips with a wrap dress. Unless you're into public...underwear wearing. While it was fun to see the expression on the old guys face when I inadvertently flashed him, 7 am is way too early to be starting with this type of shenanigans. Especially when it's still so freakin' cold...dang.

Captivated by the moon.
Again.

Only, I feel less connected to it here. Here it is between the buildings, across the cold gushing water of the East River...home, it was on the beach mingling with the sand between my toes, dancing in the water against my bare skin, breathing patience and wait and go into my skin so that I was ok with me.

At home the moon was at my fingertips, it was mine to have and to hold.

Here it's still here and still bright and still strong, representing many things that I respect. It's just harder to feel, instead of just see. Like everything else here, it's harder to feel.

I can't help but think I was spoiled for too long...maybe it's supposed to be harder to feel.
Maybe I should work for it. Seek it out, instead of what right in front of my face.

99 Problems...

and a bitch ain't one.


Damn skippy, man.

Here's the thing. I work my ass off. You have to, in this city. So I know that I am not the only one. In fact, most of the people I know run on a mixture of crazy hours, caffiene, social adulation and alcohol. So there is not much beyond working my ass off and blowing off steam and sleeping that I find myself tolerant of...

Someone pointed out to me the other day that most girls don’t get annoyed over the things that I do. Like, a boy being very obnoxiously persistent. If we’ve just started seeing each other, and I get three text messages, a voicemail and another call back before I have the chance to respond to your initial contact, ya done. It feels so invasive to me it almost makes me nauseous. If I just met you, nothing is that important. Reservations at Double Crown? Fine. Make 'em for 8:30 and I'll try to get there. It’s like I used to tell the kids when I was working at the daycare when they would put up this big dramatic fuss over nada, I'd say “are you bleeding? Are you killed? Can you see? Can you walk? Then you’re fine. Go play.” Most of the time, before I was done talking, they'd be laughing. I'm fine Miss Kelly. And you're silly.

Exactly. Life is too damn short to waste it on drama...says the flamboyantly over-acting female who can't tell a story without exaggerations stretching at least a mile long. I guess maybe I mean to say that it's too damn short to waste it on fake drama...

Eh, too tired to explain what I mean now...

Silence cuts
in a way that I've
never
been able
to make words that
sharp enough
I would have to create them
out of stone and steel
and tougher stuff.

The only weapon I have
sharpened is silence.

It'll rain, and it'll all be gone. Just like any other ash. Washed away. Gone.

Just like every other impermanent thing. Gone.

I suppose I tend towards poetry when I don't want to say how it feels. I display every aching sound that's waiting at the back of my throat with pretty words. Pretty, pretty words. I know that I can have power enough over those words to say them one day and I know how much it will mean when it happens.

Until then, it's poetry for me. Pretty, pretty words.

I just lint-brushed the cat. And she liked it...ha!

Still thinking about writing letters...actually, writing a letter. I think it would be a fabulous story to tell, anyway. I guess all of the other stuff would just have to fall into place...see that's me not talking myself out of someone before I even get to know him.

Yeah, good luck with that!

I am lost in the romanticism of letter writing. How much more I would get out of a relationship if I could participate in at least part of it by writing. I am enraptured by the thought...

It seems so much more a personal form of communication than the spoken word. So much more...unlikely to induce lies and shallow intentions. Much more of a forum for love to bud...and real understanding to take place. It seems like a medium that I can get down with, and an era that I totally missed out on.

I am resoundingly happy, right now. I've just had a great friend in for the weekend, and am expecting two great friends in just two weeks. I've had a heart to heart with Mama Blake, I'm reading a good book, my apartment's clean so that I can relax with a glass of wine and some good cheese. I am busting my butt at work and am gleaning some major satisfaction from that; I am learning to trust my instincts in the office and on the dance floor. I am getting to know some real, interesting, genuine boys, and have a thought in my head to make a very uncharacteristic move by going completely old school with one of them...stay tuned for how that goes.

And all of this because I turned the damn television off.

Go figure.

Apres moi le deluge (after me comes the flood)

I must go on standing
You can't break that which isn't yours
I must go on standing
I'm not my own, It's not my choice
-Regina Specter

Yes, I can say no. Yes, I can put my foot down. And yes I will. I reckon the problem is twofold: A. I am never one to deny myself something that I want and B. I always want to see what happens when I touch the hot coil on the stove. Never mind that I've been burned before and brandish the scars to prove it...it's just so enticing when it glows the bright orange of Pele's Lava.

Even if it's not as dangerous as the hot coil...I've adopted a bit of the ocean's attitude - rolling with the tide. It might be a mistake to feel that there are somethings that I just have no control of. And that some people may have perfect and exacting control over most aspects of their lives, but it all just seems so exhausting to me. I would rather just concentrate on happily keeping myself afloat in the swells and just see what new and interesting thing that I come upon.

It sounds a bit negative to my Virgo yet somewhat hippie ears...essentially I am waxing poetical about floating, drifting, having no anchor, no place to plant my feet...can you see what's coming next, people?...no stability. Sometimes I feel that this might even be what the loneliness, the lack of a sense of belonging or purpose comes from. And yet, I resist taking that damn bull by the horns, even though I will stand straight up to it and take a horn in the ribs. You will call me nothing if not brave. And I will die to prove it.

I hurt myself last night...some piddlin' little pain, but none the less, it hurt. And instead of stopping to make the pain go away, make myself feel better, I just sucked in air through my teeth and welcomed the pain, as if I deserved it.

Why do I think I deserve such pain?

10 Minutes...

"From your mouth to God's ears"...don't I know it.

I don't know what it is about snow that makes people go stupid, but it does. And someone needs to explain to me why it slows SUB-way service down...SUB as in below as in where the freak is the snow that is making my train 20 minutes late.

We were at the theatre last night and our usher, who I suspect was drunk or on her way to being, screamed at us (well, me) for finding our own seats. "E-scuse me" tap tap tap on my shoulder "you have to wait to be directed."...

"Yeah, it's ok...I think she just found our seats. Thanks though. Can I have a play bill? And your flask? Thanks."

I was just outside the office this morning, when I see one of our managing directors approaching from the opposite direction. Nice guy, doesn't know quite what to do with the power that he naturally exudes so he throws it around a little bit too much, but whatever. As we draw closer to the office, a Fresh Direct delivery truck stops at the curb long enough for the driver to look at me and say, "hi. Nice ass." Lovely.

I was digging for my key card and paused to grimace at the guy...I enjoy a good catcall now and then, but not at 7 am when somone I work with overhears. I thought he was gonna choke on his coffee, he was so squirmy as we walked through the door together. Tripped up the stairs and thanked me profusely for holding the door for him. Thanks. Thank you. Thanks very much. Uh, sure. I'm thinkin' "that made you uncomfortable? Curious. Maybe you'll think about that next time you're throwing all of that misguided power around."

If I don't mess something up at least once a week, I get very nervous. Because that means something big might happen...

Good news is, I messed something up today, so I'm probably all set. Don't worry, I just knocked on wood.

The problem is the guilt that I feel when I do something wrong. Not "wrong in the name of fun" wrong (cute boy, for example - that's totally wrong but it is sooo much fun, it doesn't bother me at all), but messing up at work (today) or forgetting to do something for my family or neglecting that phone call that I really need to make...everything else I can put to the side and deal with; guilt is almost debilitating. I know that people make mistakes and I know that no one is perfect and I need to learn how to deal, but here I am. Sitting at my desk. Writing my ten minutes because I feel so bad that I can't do anything else.

Boo to guilt.

I felt like this was applicable after last nights "exchange":


Friday, May 04, 2007

Ironic Karma

I swear to God...
And I really do. Shit is funny. It's good that I find it humorous, because it's the way it IS. If I didn't - lots more drinking than I already do, I think. That's all I'm saying.

So, it is a common trend, influenced by Murphy's Law, no doubt, that the minute you swear something off you are inundated with so many temptations Job would break. It never fails. At least with me anyway. It's how I know God has the kind of sense of humor I can appreciate.
Imagine. You swear off alcohol (like really swear it off, not how I do, where I don't consider wine and beer to actually count as alcohol) and next second your date's standing on your doorstep with a bottle of your favorite really hard to find wine. You just say no to chocolate (why would you DO that?) in all forms, and Mom makes you a chocolate ganache fudge cake with rasberry filling for your birthday...thanks Mom.

You have decided you need to abstain for awhile from any carnal activities, and suddenly everything male with a heartbeat is offering it up to you, including the dog that is humping your leg while you're standing on the street corner, dialing your therapist. You have frozen your credit card in three graduated levels of tupperware, and ALL of your favorite stores (if you're serious about shopping you have WAY more than one) are having incredible sales. On everything. All in your size. And it fits.

What can we say about will-power, and the constant tests of our temperament and resolve as soon as we cross our hearts and hope to die over anything? 'Cause you know something, somehow somewhere is going to prove whether or not you really mean it. I'm convinced God is waving at me from Heaven going, "Hi, remember me? The one you have to answer to eventually? Yeah, I think this is REAL funny, this you-think-you-actually-have-control-thing ya got going on down there. Good luck with that."

When I got to the point of respect; for myself, for those that I cared about, for life in general, bad things got easier to drop. Even when I was tempted. The temptation seemed more like a bother if anything "eck. This bores me. I am so done with all of this. Out of my face please." Of the things that I swear off but keep coming back to, it's all so perfectly comical to me now that I don't get upset anymore. I just laugh. A lot. And shake my head.

And thank God for my friends who have fake toenails. That tends to put things in perspective.

Well then. Looks like I may have met my match...natch. I mean, Murphy's is the law that I apply liberally to my life, right? It only makes sense!

P.S. -

Did you ever stop to think that the way I am may be a reaction to you? 'Cause I stop to think that all the time...

10 minutes before everyone gets into the office...

Hmmmm....OH! Jesus! Eyes!! SWOON, my GOD. I am such a sucker for light eyes in a tan face…oh, here we go again…

Do you know how many times I typed “backend of our system” today? And do you know that I giggled like Beavis every time that I did it? Backend…huh, huh, huh huh huh...

I enjoy behaving like a 10 year old, thank you. When I am stuffed in a "cube" for 12 hours a day, I find it refreshing. No one else does, but they can bite my butt. So there.

I don't think I am going to have anything cohesive to write, right now. There is nothing that is staying still long enough in my brain. Except for the fact that I am truly looking forward to busting my ass this week so that I can enjoy my time while Shawn is here this weekend. Shawn will be the good kind of fun and I can't wait!

MOVE!
Move, move, move MOVE!

You live in the fastest-paced city in the world, possibly in the entire UNIVERSE…if you cannot manage to walk/talk, blackberry, text message, put your make-up on, ready the paper, do a CROSS WORD PUZZLE, then put all of that junk in you big manhattanite purse/man bag/whatever and GET. TO. STEPPIN’! And listen, I realize that not everybody walks at the speed of a freight train, like I do. And I realize that some people have physical handicaps that slow them down, so steps and curbs and what not are harder for them. I get that. And I have patience for them, of course I do, they deserve that. But if you are in my way not so much because you are physically handicapped (or just happen to walk slower) but more consideration-aly or spatially challenged, then shift one foot to the side so that we can get around you, PLEASE. If it is the only thing that you contribute to this earth while you are here on it, I beg of you, MOVE!

When you are on stairs or in a narrow space (supermarkets isles in Manhattan are the bane of my existence) and need to slow down, pause, stop completely, wait until you clear the bottle neck so that other people can get by you! You are not the only person in the world…I thought I might point this out to you because it seems that you haven’t noticed. I swear to God, the next time someone stops to rifle in their bag at the foot of the stairway at the 23rd street station, I am going to just put my shoulder and all of my rage and frustration into knocking them right over. And I’m pretty sure I’m not even going to pause or look back, either. Might hold someone else up if I do. God for-freakin'-bid.

Damn.

No one ever praised me for my everyday patience, folks. Especially not at 7 a.m.

I sleep with your books under my pillow, hoping to absorb the spirit of their brilliance into my brain. I carry your pages around just under my skin; when I daydream, I like to imagine that I can peer through my milky, transparent skin and see the letters form the words form the sentences form the quotes that I draw my most piercing inspiration from. I envy you and your art, I envy you and your release, I envy your voice that has imparted itself in these words and is now immortally speaking to and touching people that don't even know you.

They may laugh, they may judge, and even worse, they may dismiss, but someday they may realize that they have physically been touched by you and they never knew, never knew who...what you were. Now they do. Now they most certainly do.

That envy - equal parts respect and awe, admiration and recognition - that your voice in my head creates in my heart is what make me so determined to do what I can that I can physically taste it...it's metallic, tastes like blood and it's starting now to overpower the flavor of my food. It is the single thing that drives me and makes me want to fight, to love and to laugh every single minute that I can because I know, through it all, that these things are what will give me my own voice to put in people's heads, so that they can never again underestimate who I am.

I just woke up. I love how even my body is now in on the "let's us sleep as an avoidance tactic" thing that my brain normally uses. I have so much to do it's epic, and yet I stay up until 4:30 am and sleep into the afternoon...but "stop being so hard on yourself, Kel. You're too hard on yourself."

Alrighty then.

I like how I am growing professionally, even though I am not sure this is the profession I want to settle in. I like how I am writing everyday and being more open (at least through my writing, that's a start, yeah?) I like how I don't really care anymore if what I am doing rubs you the wrong way; even if I am wrong...I like how I am learning that sometimes people make mistakes and sometimes other people forgive them for it. I like how I am giving myself more credit, and more respect and saying no to things that devalue who I am. I like that I am standing up for myself more and more.

And now I am ravenously hungry and need to go see if there is any food I like before I become the largest crank ass within a five block radius and kick someone in the ankle again.

Bless.

"So, cute boy that I met last Sat...is this sat going to be as fun as last?"

"Damn, well it will be for me, but prob not for u, b/c I'm out of town at an Alumni wknd in Providence. Can I get a raincheck for next wknd? Like ur style!"

OOOOhhhhhh m'goodness...

"Oh, did u think I was askin' u out, cocky? & not just curious abt the cute boy that belongs to the # I got lst wkend? Verry innteresting ;-)"

If he responds to that with style, I might have met my match...but probably not. Dying laughing, and wondering if I will ever be able to resist the urge to entertain myself. Probably not, tehehehehe...

And what the fuck is "Like ur style?"

Thoughts I had yesterday, in between bitching about college educated goobers:

Eeuu, the only child in my just reared her brattish head, jeez.

I find it odd and strangely comforting that painful, hurtful things make me feel better. It’s like being a cutter, only this time it’s just emotional and not physical. Which is why getting this tattoo might start me down an interesting path...

So I guess another sign of “Kelly very busy, grunt” is when she drops the last bite of her much needed (because they won’t let me drink at work) 3 Musketeers Bar on the floor while talking to someone in senior management and doesn’t even blink while she bends down, picks it up, blows it off mid-sentence and pops it in her mouth. I am such a world-class professional!

10 Minutes, everyday Amber. Because Mama Blake said so...


10 Things to look forward to this weekend (I am not really sure why I am throwing down with the lists, it might have something to do with the 12 hr days I've been working for the past two weeks and lack of brain capacity for anything else, I don't know...)

10. Sleep. I love sleep. I miss sleep. I am not really sure that sleep even remembers who I am.
9. Trying my damnedest to ignore a really strong urge and my natural instinct when it comes to said urge.
8. Cleaning my apartment. No seriously, I am looking forward to it because it looks like a cyclone has come through and I've lost the cat under piles of stuff more than once this week.
7. Writing for longer than ten minutes
6. Wandering, which I haven't had the time to do in a long time
5. Going to a party with a boy that I barely know and a bunch of people that I don't know at all - sounds like fun for me, right?
4. Figuring out where I'm going for the 30th b-day vacation
3. Figuring out what I'm going to do for the 30th b-day in New York, because you know there's gonna be a party
2. Seeing Rudy to get my hair did...god knows the mane needs to be tamed!
1. Sittin' on some babies.

I am sooo sleepy!

Ten Responses:

10. Really Dude? Really?!?
9. You are Lame.
8. Um, no. Nooooo....eh eh EH - just no!
7. Right, well, do feel better, darling. (said in a cockney accent)
6. You got dropped on you head when you were a baby, didn't you?
5. And you are?...?
4. Sunday was rough, huh? Pansy.
3. Such a waste. I mean, look at ya.
2. You're friend was funny - is he a moron too?
1. ....*Crickets*...

Yeah, I know. We all knew I was going with 1 before I even started this list. AS Ashley said "Cut and run, Kelly. Cut and run."

Cut the anchor rope and run before the wind. I freakin' love it!

Nerd.

Sunday, April 29, 2007
The house plant is giving me eyes...

Yes. Thank you for dinner.

Thinking that you want something, and knowing that it's wrong for a multitude of reasons, but being perfectly willing to do it anyway, usually comes to an end at some point in a person's life.
When you say to yourself "EVER-Y time that I do this, the end result is ALWAYS bad..." then you're either going to learn to stop doing it, or experience divine intervention, or DIE.

In my case, most of the bad habits that I insist upon perpetuating won't end tragically. Some things I learn to get better about, and some things God has given me signs about, in varying degrees of obviousness from the appearance of a butterfly to a flashing neon sign that says "hey MORON, knock it OFF", indicating that I should not keep doing what I am doing. What I find interesting about myself, and humanity in general for that matter, is how much we are willing to listen. Or not listen at all, to be concise. We stumble around in our lives trying to make the right choices, and trying to not get too upset over our mistakes.

There are some mistakes that are so easy to make, that feel so good, we just can't seem to get the point...BAD. And even if we do - "ah, what's this time gonna hurt? One more time is not gonna throw me too far off the path..." even when we know good and well that it does. Why? WHY do we do that?

I, for my part, am getting damn tired of feeling like a kid with a helmet, banging my head against the same wall over the same tired junk.

I think I'll take the helmet off. At this point, busting my head open or breaking my neck might just be the f-ing wake-up call that I need.

Friday, July 06, 2007

The Things That Make Me Happy:

Sunglasses, a bikini and my camera.
Rough waves...any waves, Starvin' Surfer at Stir-it-Up, the Monkeys, a happy baby, old crushes, Brown Ale, a brazen racoon and bare feet on hot sand.

A sketched out cat and an itty bitty teeny little dog who sounds like a herd of elephants and tries to gobble my nose, parallel parking, funny stories "remember when we did this?", watching the clouds pass while trying to absorb the sun, my infamous funny tan lines "I swear, you're just meant to be striped!" The half-moon making a trail across the water, practically crooking a finger to invite me to dream.

Blueberry picking and clever, funny kids who are growing so quickly, seeing a guy who now has enough patience to wait for me to settle down and look at him, talking to the woman who has made me cry more than any person on this earth, coffee in a go-mug because I don't have time to sit and drink it...
Grinning at my life. Resting my heart and soul with people who taught me how to be peaceful on the inside, not just trying to look peaceful by cloaking my face with a smile. Resting the same on the beach that is everything spiritual that I will ever need, and knowing that in the end, it is what I will always return to.

Right now, this is ten minutes that I could be at work, knocking out some applications.

But I will write, because it is all I seem to really want to do.

And when I think about that, I think about missed opportunities, and about how I didn't try hard enough to be who I was, to figure out what I wanted to do. I had a conversation with my Aunt when I was in Philly - I think I scared her a little because I was almost manic in my desire to figure out a way to impart that lesson on my cousin - figure out what you're good at, several things, and do everything in your power to integrate them into you life. If not, you're constantly looking at your life and thinking, "what the fuck am I doing this for? What is this FOR?"

I am good at writing. I can do it all day, about anything, bullshit, politics, horseshit, current events...oh wait, that's all the same shit. But I choked when decision time came, because I felt that my writing was too personal to me and I might just be killed if it were to be criticized. Coward. While it was the only therapy that was cathartic and that I would accept, I think the only way to bring all that full circle is to write it, to share it with other people. Otherwise, all that I have learned, all of those words in all of those notebooks are gonna rot like the blood orange sitting in my line of vision right now...

Such a waste. Such a fucking shame.

OK. Ten minutes everyday....go...

........

Well, I figure I have ten minutes until I finish my coffee, so here goes:

the square patch of sky that I can see out of my window is cloudless-blue. I woke up at noon when I should've been up hours before because I went out for two nights in a row and was in at 3 am and 5 am, respectively. This made for a Worthless Kelly Sunday, which wouldn't have been that bad had I not been in the mood for wallering. There, that was a minute...

Main Entry:
in·tim·i·date
Pronunciation:
\in-ˈti-mə-ˌdāt\
Function:
transitive verb
Inflected Form(s):
in·tim·i·dat·ed; in·tim·i·dat·ing
Etymology:
Medieval Latin intimidatus, past participle of intimidare, from Latin in- + timidus timid
Date:
1646
: to make timid or fearful : frighten ; especially : to compel or deter by or as if by threats

As if by threats....? I got this one thrown out at me again on Saturday, Valentine's Day, wearing a fru-fru dress and spike-heeled leather booties...yes, real frightening. It actually kind of made me mad and I called bullshit. And then I called for another beer and shrugged it off, but still, baffling. Especially since I almost fell off of the booth when I was trying to push myself into it with my spike-heels, but whatever.

Five minutes, bully. Halfway through...

God, gorgeous
she has to tilt her head back
even in her spiked heels
to look into your open face
you wonder what other
facial expressions you might create,
and think you want
to find out
right now. Right now, is all.

Right now, this moment, this heartbeat,
there is a grin, head to the side,
eyebrow arched...
God.
Gorgeous.

Then someone screams
loud
and suddenly she is packed into her coat,
her bag crooked into her elbow,
she winks, bye, and is gone.
The air is cooling now
where her body had stood, all wrapped up in you.
Your fingertips smell like the nape of her neck
when you drain the last of your beer...
God.
Gorgeous.
And Gone.

Note to self: It's never a good sign when someone makes you feel like getting sick in your mouth a little...common sense to most but I am forever the idio....t....er...optimist. Uh-huh.



So I kicked a girl in the ankle today, walking on the sidewalk. I knew it was going to happen sooner or later, but I thought it would be an all out, wound up, punt to someone's shin. This wasn't actually on purpose...she meandered across my path like the UES brat she likely was, and I just didn't yield...and kicked her in the ankle. I'm not proud, but she seemed an idiot and there really wasn't any other option.

And P.S. - I want this one. If it is right and real, I want it. Because, my GAWD.

I'm just sayin'...

Old OLD stuff that yous guys asked me to bring to the forefront again. Not so much to remind you, but to remind me, huh? I get it ;-)




Saturday, February 23, 2008

Figured I’d trot this one out again.

I've stopped trying to explain a long time ago, in order to preserve my sanity and my faith in mankind. What I will reiterate, even though I'm more than fairly certain it won't make a tad bit of difference, is that when I write, it is for me. When I write on here, it is for me and my friends, who know the deal and the demons, to see what's going on in my brain b/c I either cannot express it verbally or don't get to talk to them much. When I do write about "you" it is a way for me to process; to try and figure out what I think and feel about things. My communication talents and my introspection abilities are rustic at best, and this is the one way I've learned to work things out.

Therefore, if you are offended, I will not apologize. If you don't like it, then don't read it. If you think it's about you, it's probably not. In moments that there is a specific "you" it's more than likely a trial of an issue that "you" have brought to the surface than a specific indictment of you as a person or a friend.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Evidently the Power Point presentation wasn’t a bad idea after all, Alicia.Because I am at a loss. I, throughout my life, have done everything I know to make you understand. Pictures, charts, maps, mimes, informational films (and not the good kind), smoke signals, pig latin, hieroglyphs…you name it, I have done it all, while standing on my head, holding my breath, painting my toenails and whistling Dixie. And for God’s Sake I am quite sure that I don’t even know the proper tune, I was always just winging it. All of that to have you look at me like I am speaking another language (although I think I’ve tried that too) altogether different from the one that you know.
A little dramatic? Well, yeah, sure. Duh. But it is how I feel sometimes. Like I did something in a previous lifetime that sealed my fate in this one to be invisible and mute.

Even as I continually shriek with all of the force of my lungs and pirouette at odd, jerking angles that make me stand out from the back of the fluid, albeit unremarkable, chorus. Listen, I’m not trying to be a pretty ballerina here, just an expressive one. The theory of "what’s that girl doin’?""Don’t know but it looks different. Let’s pay attention to her."Has clearly failed me.

But where I once thought it was for your attention, I have quickly come to realize that my black sheep, odd man out, carve my own path out of stone mentality had nothing to do with you, them or anything else at all other than becoming who I am.Huh.You mean I am not a bobble-head doll, here to please you?You mean, even if I make you angry or hurt or confused, or God forbid if I make you think, that it is ok because it’s all coming from a pure place, instead of a calculated, ill-contented, off balanced one?Interesting.

So, what I’m hearing here is, all this drama could be about me, and not you?

Ok, let me catch up. This could be about me figuring out my life, exorcising my previously internalized demons and healing the wounds that they left so deeply inside of me? I could be re-learning how to communicate; i.e. open mouth let words that express true feelings escape without the strange urge to throw myself into traffic and then, be patient enough, not cringing and twitchy, to see how they were received and then reciprocate accordingly? I could be learning how to let my walls down…you mean to tell me that I could be testing the water to see how it feels to me? To me without being concerned with you?Well, that is astounding, really.That all of my fumbling and fussing, loving and hurting, clarity and confusion when it comes to every last one of you can be about me until it becomes about us.

That it doesn’t matter if you understand, as long as I am true to myself, my family, my friends and my faith. All of this is going to come together eventually no matter how hard I clamor at the wrong human being to be heard.

This is all very mind-blowing and revolutionary.

I might need to sleep on it.For a few years.

Until I get woken up.Or until I get tired of chasing my tail and entertaining myself for the moment in my dreams.Whichever comes first.Because, believe it or not (and I know you don’t believe it at all) through all of this, I still believe in Prince Charming. I just don’t believe that I have to wait for him to wake me up. I’ll do that myself. Then draw my sword to slay a few dragons and ogres before I meet him in the Land of Happy Medium. I work my way towards him, he works his way towards me.
Get it? (Sorry, still a little bit stuck in the spelling it out for you phase).

What? I can’t write my own fairy tale?

Saturday, June 30, 2007

This one seems to be doing the rounds for a reason

..> ..> I wrote this over three years ago. Matt reposted it on his page, and I am reposting it now on mine...Every now and then, old friends need a reminder. And then there are new friends who need to be informed, because they clearly have issues with understanding.

But for real, thank God for my Monkeys.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006
..> ..>
i hope she doesn't hate me for this...
the following, my friends, is why i feel it is necessary to wake up on days that i would normally pray the sun would never rise. its not enough just to know someone who can write these words; rather, the ultimacy lies in the fulfilling nature of being a part of it. knowing that any percentage could be directed at you.

When it all comes down to it, maybe it is a question of how much you mean to me. Maybe you don't understand. Fair enough. Now I'm telling you. My love is strong, and pure. If I love you, I worship you for your strengths, and realize who you are for your weaknesses. Because I am such a potent mixture of both strength and weakness, I see the beauty even in the things that you hate about yourself. I am the one who will see the greatness in you, even when you hurt me. I will defend you, your right to be mixed up, anti-social, angry, sad, silly, skippingly happy, glaringly wrong or triumphantly right. Whatever in this world you could possibly feel is necessary to being you, I support you.

Once I have told you, there is still room to mess up. To disappoint. To annoy and ignore. Because when I say I love you forever, I mean forever. If I have claimed you as mine, a possession of my heart, which is rare, you will exist there always. Love is something that I was born to give, freely and generously with no exceptions. Relationships and friendships are existences that follow the tides. Sometimes full of warm, lolling waves and moon kissed waters. Sometimes waning and choppy, dark and cold. There is no way in our power to control the consistency of the surf, and where the waves will break. But that doesn't mean that we ignore the ocean...we jump in, embrace it, and just hope that we make it out alive. I've come to the point that I've made it out alive enough to know that, even if you hurt me, I will continue to live and live well.

Here is where I warn you: It takes a strong person to love me back. I deal in respect, consideration, love, loyalty and honesty. All of these things are intertwined. Even if I love you eternally, if you hand me back anything less than what I give you, continually or maliciously or flippantly, I don't have room for you in my life. In my big and strong heart always, but not my life. I will always take care of myself, and if knowing you detracts from the complicated beauty of my life, than I just won't know you anymore.

my only wish is that everyone could know somebody that wise and willing to love. as for you, you know who you are, thank you for letting me in.

Friday, September 07, 2007

Zombie thoughts of a tired girl

There is a "special needs" cat named Ty that I want to adopt. My heart always yearns to love something broken. It's not sure what do to with offerings from other hearts that are whole. My computer is not working and I will continue to die a slow spiritual death if I can't find some sort of creative outlet. Other than drinking. But that's not creative it's numbing.

I have no TV and just bought a Jack Kerouac compilation b/c when the book fell open in my hands he was writing of San Francisco on one page and New York on the opposite page...I spent five minutes dreaming of the descriptive words of opposite Beloved Cities being mashed together when the book was closed and reshelved, spending the night in it's place between the other books and wished suddenly and passionately that I could somehow mash myself in between those words and breath. I took it as a sign and bought the book. Along with Friedrich Nietzsche's "Thus Spake Zarathustra" simply because it mentioned discussion of the intricate relationship between Christianity and Judaism.

I have a crush on an Irish Bartender whose music makes my muse run high and who doesn't seem to have enough pens; not to mention it is evident that he's no idea what to do with me (surprise) and who would (once again) be a bad choice in the long run, but (for the first time) I don't think that I will choose him.

I am restless, I know that things are changing I can feel it in everything and I know that I have to wait and act. All at once. I can't keep my body still I could never make my mind stop and I see that I am going to start testing my boundaries more than ever very soon. I am told that I am hyper-aware of time, that I just know things and have always known things and will always know...that I will save women and those weaker, that I run away from what I don't know how to deal with and will be stuck in this very same holding pattern until I deal with why and stop acting like I don't care.

I realize that what I have been stuffing back down my throat for years is power that I am afraid I can't contain once it's been released...and I find that I am not afraid anymore. Stirring the pot is a good way to make everything come to the surface - I'll take the good that comes from upsetting that balance even if it means that there is a lot of bad that comes up with it.
Safe is nowhere in my heart, my head. Not for awhile.

Someday.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Shouldn't we get an f-ing manual? Some sort of guideline/rule book/in case of emergency outline...something?

There must be some way to deal with this other than avoidance, resistance and shots. Of Jameson, God yes please. There's gotta be some zen-esque plane that we can all relax on - a sort of male/female common ground that nobody will fuck with.

It's quite a shocking revelation to notice that I've been throwing stones at a mirror; not quite living in a glass house but really tossing some monster unfairness around at others when I should be looking long and hard at my very own green-eyed reflection. Entienda? No? Me either. Intente explicar? Ok. I get impatient with people who are closed. Unresponsive. Passive, nonchalant and unforthcoming. If you will not offer yourself up to me, I cannot be bothered with you. So be gone.

Or so it seems...because I know I am not that way. I just haven't a clue how to tell any of you that I am not that way.

Anybody who has dated me, feel free to chime in with all of the instances in which I have been all of the above towards you. Don't all rush in here at once, now. Because while I am just as guilty as anyone who I try to poke a finger at, these things are a defense mechanism (it does sound lame, doesn't it?) honed to perfection by years of disbelief over all of the scandalous ways that people treat each other. It's not because I don't care. It's not because I am aloof or duplicitous, it's not because I can't be moved or don't have any feelings. It's because I have watched and learned, vicariously and personally.

It's a thick skin indeed that I have crafted around this painfully sensitive soul.

I'm ready to feel the tiny pin-pricks that mean my being is becoming un-numb. I am ready to get hurt again, be angry again, and deal with it. Because until I allow myself to feel these things, I won't be ready to love.

And that's what I'm here for, really.

OLD STUFF:

Wednesday, July 09, 2008
"Who’s butt did you kiss to get in here?" Current mood: determined
..."Well, the list is long, but distinguished."
A cute reference to Slider's package is made at this point in the movie, which I will substitute with:
"Yeah, so is the list of frogs that I am accumulating..."
Evidently I am on a Top Gun quoting spree today, good for me.
I am the kind of dork that likes to type. I like to hear the sound of the keys click-clacking, the fact that I've been able to type without looking at the keyboard since I was about 10 or so; I like to watch the words form quickly, letter by letter across the screen. What was once vast whiteness is now marked with something that I created. Even if it's just an e-mail.
I like writing with a pen better, though. Especially gel or fountain pens with that richly pigmented ink. I like to watch it sink into the paper, tatooing the pulpy skin of a fresh sheet. I like to imagine writing on my own skin, letting the ink sink in and mingle with my blood. Ink and blood in my veins. Words to spare, sentences forming as quick as the sheen of sweat on a muggy day. I got your stories. I got your words. I got it all right here...
...yeah. Right Here.


Monday, March 24, 2008
Souls on a River Current mood: sad
I’m walking along the streets of New York and my eyes are day-glo green because I’m crying them out. I walk along, never slowing, not even noticing that people are looking at me, and listen to my Mom tell me that my 82 year old Grandfather was happy that he got to hug and kiss his 92 year old brother good-bye before he died.
Sure puts an interesting spin on the happiness we strive for, right?
One day I think we’ll all be by the River again. Catch a few for me, Uncle Wilmer.


Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Oh for God’s Sake.
Ag, GOD!!!! Grrrrr...back up OFF of me!! I swear to God, it was like I was a magnet for...just...CRAP this morning!! I get up at 5:30 am. That's disharmony enough for the day, right there. My pants were too tight, the cat shredded my hamper, and then proceeded to scratch me in the face for good measure. It was too warm when I was walking to the train, so I try to wiggle out of my coat, looking like a maniac in the process, only to find that somewhere in the shuffle I lost the rubber part of my earbud to the abyss. I HATE riding the train without my ipod. BOO! Then I get on a nearly empty train, and at the VERY NEXT stop some jackass with personal space issues gets on and stands about 2- seconds-away-from-getting-a-back-hand away from me. He proceeds to pull out his broke down refilled since last April water bottle that sounds like 35 sheets of bubble wrap being popped at one time when he drinks from it and suckles from it like a baby COW. And he's still 2 inches from me, by the way, no matter how many times I do the "get away from me" dance. Then at the NEXT stop (I've only been awake for two hours at this point, folks. This day is looking questionable) a power-walking purse-flauntin' Starbucks-carryin' woman gets on and stands right behind me. Well hell, now I'm boxed in. I got bottle sucker on the side and Louis V gym rat to the rear. I'm pretty sure I had a small seizure trying to keep my composure. I looked around at 23rd St. when I got off to find that I had left a hole in the crowd of every single standing person on the train, while tumble weed blew by down the emptiness that was the REST of the car.
...WTF!?!?!?
Now all I can think of is soothing my frayed nerves with a large dose of caffeine. As I am making my way to my usual coffee station, this big bleary man with the coloring of a tomato steps IN FRONT OF ME, takes a cup, and gets his coffee. I just stand there, jaw agape and wagging in the wind. I say "WOW." 'Cause I really am just amazed right now. He turns around looks at me and says, cheerfully mind you (can't he even have the decency to be rude at this point?) "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you behind me."
Huh.
Then how'd he know why I said wow?


Monday, February 11, 2008
Acting as opposed to... Current mood: chill
Reacting, no?
Instead of "here's what I'm going to do b/c of what you did."
I prefer "Here's what I'm going to do." Period.
I know what I have asked for is going to be a hard one. I know what it will take and when I don't know what it will take I know that I will have the where-with-all to figure it out. My mantra, as my fingers worry the cool stone beads of a rosary made for me by a woman who, in her illness, learned of "faith" instead of "religion"...my mantra is act instead of react.
If I spend my energy dancing whenever you aim your gun at my shoes, I am going to lose. Lose a lot more than the leather from my boots, too. I am going to lose me. And I am working so hard to maintain that girl. I"m not ready to let her go yet to bad habits and ghosts.
Tangible is my goal. I'll look you in the eyes someday. Stroke your check.
Until then, I'll worry my beads. And listen when spoken to.


Thursday, December 13, 2007
"When you fish for love... Current mood: giddy
bait with your heart, not your brain."
That Mark Twain. Whatta smart man.
Although, as I've recently come to see it, I ain't fishin' for shit. My heart can be fed with other nourishing things and my brain can be occupied with making my life what it will be. Besides. When I used to fish with my grandfather off the end of their dock with bamboo poles, he always caught more fish than me. Ya know why? Because while I jiggled my foot, slapped at misquitoes, made the bobber dance around on the surface of the water, pulled my bait up ten thousand times to see if it was still there, jerked my pole back b/c I always thought I got something when I didn't, he would just sit there. Sometimes I thought he was dead. He didn't talk. He didn't sigh or fidget, he just sat. And the fish came to him. When I was little I always wondered what he was thinking about to keep him so quiet. When I got older I realized that he wasn't thinking about a darn thing, and that's why he could sit there like that. He was content. Just happy to be sitting on his dock, with his granddaughter and a pole in the water.
And the fish came to him.

The light you give off
did not come from a pelvis.

Your features did not begin in semen.
Don't try to hide inside anger
radiance that cannot be hidden.

-Rumi


Her fingers brush the glossy wood railing - she pauses for a moment in her concurrent yet gushing thoughts to appreciate the old-school craftmanship of the warm piece of wood, worn to a shine by all of the hands that had come before her. She is skipping up the stairs now, but knows by the time she reaches her destination she will be puffing slightly and wondering why she never paced herself.

Images of a winter day short-stopped in front of her through windows set into each landing. She saw the snow making it's descent in fat, succulent flakes as she stopped for a breath - it wouldn't do to arrive with a sheen - and she flashed back to a time, not so long ago, that she brushed such fat flakes from his hat, taking her glove off to cup his jaw in her hand so that she could use her thumb to skim off the condensing crystals that had dusted his long lashes. She had looked into his eyes then, something that was hard for her to do, and had found all of the different inflections that life had left in their hazel discs. She knew then how judgemental and wrong she had been, but knew at the same time that it was time to move along...there was no back-peddling anymore.

She came back to the surface of reality and realized that she had dallied for too long...daydreaming was such a luxurious bad habit and she couldn't afford it right now. As she continued her climb upward - halfway there - she remembered how powerful the edge of his jaw had felt in her palm and how absolutely she surrendered to the thought of his trust in her hands. Her dismay came over how quickly she dismissed that power and her ability to handle it.

Her step slowed to a trudge and all of a sudden she felt like a pack mule...very useful but totally expendable.

I need to find a way to detach my mind from my mind - the creative subconscious from the nagging conscious, the feeling thoughts from the plaguing, worrying ones. A delicate balance, it would seem - to keep from detaching myself from reality...whatever that is. It's like I need to float over my body, come completely out of whatever inhibiting skin that surrounds my heart and just form this other self. Deal only with this other complete person that hasn't been created by nature or nurture, she just is. She is nothing else, nothing described, but herself. I know that person - I run into, no stumble (because it's never quite on purpose), upon her on occasion. I see moments of her and they make me so happy. When I see her, images of Matanzas Bay from my perch on the seawall come to mind. Sitting on the balcony of A1A with Shawn, Amber and Jolie, tellin' each other about each other. I feel myself, lying flat on my back on my beach chair, trying to absorb the lazy, heavy heat from the sun into my bones.

I know where she is, but I can't return to her until I learn to quiet, or at least contain the other girl. The one who personifies suppression. I don't want to be rid of her completely, she's a part of who I am, but she clamors so much more loudly than anything else that I can hear right now. She stomps around, banging pots and pans while humming into a kazoo...the problem is, if you corner her, take her pots and pans and rip the kazoo out of her mouth, she can't honestly tell you exactly what she wants. It's like being possessed by a poltergeist. They make a lot of noise but have no way of telling you what the hell they're doing there. You, the chump, gotta guess how to make that ghost follow the light to her peace.


The point is, contentment is not something I consistently am at this point in my life. But I can't claim my place as content girl until obnoxious hey look at me I've got homes and ambitions girl is pacified.

Murph. Came around the bar to hug me before I left the bar...

Do what now? I was so flustered by this sudden display from the typically crank-ass bartender that I didn't put my coat on for two blocks...it's 20 degrees outside!!

I guess it doesn't take much now, does it?

I would like to ground down my soul; powder it into a pigment, the deepest hue- to show you, the world and myself the true color that I am.