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?
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
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.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
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.
If it will break this, I will take it.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Thursday, July 09, 2009
"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
- 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
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
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.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
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 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
Friday, June 05, 2009
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.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
"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.
- 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.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
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...
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...
Friday, May 22, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
"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.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
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.
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
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
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.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
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.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
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.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
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 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.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
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?
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?
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, March 13, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
99 Problems...
and a bitch ain't one.
Damn skippy, man.
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...
Monday, March 09, 2009
Thursday, March 05, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
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!
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!
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
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.
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?
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?
Monday, March 02, 2009
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.
"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.
Friday, February 27, 2009
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."
"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."
Thursday, February 26, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
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!
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!
Monday, February 23, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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