I Crave Ink

Almost literally itching to write.  Keep writing random thoughts and words down, just want to sit in my cozy little apartment with my pen and paper and immerse myself in these developing currents.  Get completely swept away.  But I can't, and it physically hurts.  I can feel my voice in my throat trying constantly to get out, and it hurts.
 
Solace in this pain, though...at least it means that my voice is still there.

Glutton for Punishment

The cluelessness (feigned or genuine) astounds me.  But what is even more spectacularly astounding is my eager willingness to deal with it. 

Bad

Bad, bad bad, the reaction I just had to some news that I was given.  It was relief over negative news at work for someone else - relief because it didn't directly effect me...I was not "in trouble".
 
This tells me that I am not in a good place - this tells me that I am walking around between these walls waiting for the axe to drop and that is a horrible feeling that I shouldn't be dealing with.  And it's my fault that I am.
 
I don't like the person who is so cowed at this point that she would think like that. 
 
It's just not worth it.

People.

Respect your support staff. Whether you're in a corporate setting, a restaurant, a grocery store...understand that these people are actually the ones who make things run. And run smoothly, so you don't have to worry about it.

Our receptionist is like a ring-leader in a circus. And she is on point; she makes sure of it. She's been at this gig for 20 plus years and knows more about what goes on in this place than we do. When you work with her, not against her because you can't be bothered to defer to her better judgement, she will make sure that you look good and make your life that much easier. When you are running around like an idiot, it's your fault, not hers.

You could not do your fast-paced job without her. So say hello when you walk by, even if you don't need anything. Ask her for things, don't tell her. Communicate with her, don't assume that she doesn't need to know.

This applies to any setting that you are in - it's a team from the bottom up, but those on the "bottom" are just as important as those on the "top." And in the real world, the one where you are not that important, there isn't a bit of difference between "bottom" and "top", except maybe in attitude.

So be respectful. Dammit.

It's as simple as this, here it is
Couldn't spell it out more clearly
There's only today, and the freeway,
And the pain that keeps you near me

The animation, of sinking souls,
Strung along a telephone pole
It's easy to miss

You could circle the earth
The universe
We're shadowed in the same light
It's coming undone
So you run
While I'm circling the drainpipe

An invitation to just forget
Well I'm not finished yet, I got big plans

Cut off the table, hon and do the math
Washed out and faded like a photograph
And I spell out your name across the overpass
It's as simple as that

It's as simple as this
What I miss, I will carry to the last day
Deliver my spark
Through the dark
To the angels in the ashtray
Saturation of hopeless need
But as the asphalt bleeds
Curtains rise and

Someday you'll find me standing in your path
Whether deep in the background of some photograph
And you'll see your name scrawled across the overpass
It's as simple as that

Simple's hard enough now anyway
Simple's hard enough now anyway

Someday you'll find me standing in your path
Somewhere deep in the background of some photograph
And you'll see your name scrawled across the overpass
Someday you'll find me standing in your path
Somewhere deep in the background of some photograph
And you'll see your name scrawled across the overpass
It's as simple as that
Simple's hard enough now anyway
Simple's hard enough now anyway
Simple's hard enough now anyway
Simple's hard enough now anyway

- The Solids

I want to be the next Jane Austen:

"...enduring power of Austen's genius as a writer; he ability to create singular characters who linger in one's imagination, her unparalleled sense of irony and wit, her brilliant dialogue, and her carefully woven plots. At the same time, Austen delivers a satisfying romance...and the sheer happiness of her main characters at the novel's end has its own appeal."

My eyes are leaking.  Hate it when that happens.
 
Oh.  And I think I'm gonna puke.  This is why I don't do emotions...at least why I don't do them well.

Shiver

I just had a little tingle that ran up my back that felt so. good. ...it was like an angel's devilish wing stroked my spine.  It reminded me of purity and lush, deep feelings that pause time.  In a few seconds I felt a rush of fresh air and this deep ache.
 
Stunningly delicious moment.

Quite a feat. What you just did. My edge is so far out there that if you reach it, and push me over it, you at least deserve the applause that you get from the few that stand on the precipice with you.

Welcome, my friend. They say.

Welcome to the club of few who see her turned back, as it sprouts the wings that it needs to surpass the edge, and fly away. Move on, if that's what you need to hear to understand.

This is the stupidest bullshit in the history of bullshit.  Zit on my face and I revert back to the insecure 15 year old who wouldn't look people in the eye and was practically mute (unless incensed or otherwise provoked) so people wouldn't look at her face.
 
Ridiculous.  If nothing else from all of the crap that I have put myself through, I should at least be able to resort to remembering I have a strong backbone and "this too shall pass" and all that jive...I refuse to believe that I have struggled for nothing...

Why?

Why. Am. I. Sitting. In. This. Office. When. The. Sun. Is. Shining. For. The. First. Time. In. Days. And. It. Is. Warm. Outside. For. The. First. Time. In. Months.  ?!?!?
 
Oh yeah.  Because my job has me whipped like a plow mule.  At least that ass gets to be OUTside.
 
 

I used to be a good writer.  I used to be funny, and insightful, and dexterous in the way that I spun words together to form a story, a world, a point.
 
Now I am dumb and encumbered by life's crap detritus and I can't seem to dig my nails into the grimy wall of this hole in order to pull myself out.  Clawing and screaming and shaking my ineffective fist I pause to sit at the bottom and wrap my arms around my knees, lay my head down and wish for defeat.  But I know that it will never come because I will never give up...
 
I am just resting my soul.  Building up my strength, my resolve, fixing a point with my mind's eye and aiming for it.  Don't worry - no matter how many times I have to try, I will Ne-ver give up.  Don't worry, don't worry.
 
You know I am talking to myself, don't you?

Hurry UP!

Hurry hurry, before you get buried under so much emotional baggage and bullshit that you won't be able to create a sentence anymore, let alone a full book of them.

Shit shit shit shit SHIT.
 
That is all.

These are your choices

Make it funny, make it a lesson, or let it torture you needlessly forever.
 
Bless.

My life is a series of corners that I turn to find the light.  One day I would at least like to exist in the light for a greater length of time...at least until a sweet darkness falls each night.

Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength.

- August Wilson quotes

Him: "Kelly, you are a beautiful disaster."
Me: "Thank you."
Him:"The disaster part doesn't bother you?"
Me: "No. The beautiful part does."
Him: "Then why did you say thank you?"

Me: "Because it means you know who I am."

No. Peter Pan. I do not have a twin.

And the mold shattered when they made me, so it's a slim chance that you'll find anything close to compare.

Bless.

glazed gazing

I wrote this 5 days after I moved to Manhattan...I want this girl back: glazed gazing

There is not a sound in this world that I could give voice to, wrap my vocal cords around, that would do justice to the noise in my head.

I am starting to resent the fact that I allow people to make me dislike who I am.  No really.  It's making me angry.

I wrote this when I drove to Atlanta by myself to see Sasha in a tiny smokey club there. Andy thankfully went with me, and while I hung with the guy who inspired this poem, Andy stalked the perimeter of the room and the peripheral of my vision. This poem has always reminded me of him, oddly enough.


Hard hands
lingering at my hips.
The pulse of the beat
throbbing through my bitten lips.
I feel your
blue pinstripped shirt
beneath my skin,
the touch of the fabric in my fist -
or brushing my flesh rakishly
as you wrap your arms
about my waist
helps to spin the passion
of the night into my brain.
I move.
Aware of how near you are
how warm with sweat and fun.
Aware of the arousal
that lingers like
the thick smoke in the air.
I close my eyes
and let waves of feeling
get carried away
by the master of a trance...
I open them and you are gone
and I am left only
with the smell of you
in the beginning light
to remind me
of hard hands and bitten lips

Roses...

Rosie Rosie Rosie...she is growing in my head.  Beauty and thorns, and all.
 
And then her name was Roses.

I wish that I could play these computer keys like a piano...that the words would charm like a simple melody and communicate without heavy logic - that I could say how the music haunts my heart and makes me feel beautiful and alive and achingly real.

Drawn as I am to the hauntingly off-key ...it only strikes me if it's oddly juxtaposed to what society would rather see. Slightly ugly, a little worn and oddly bold is so shiny and pretty to me. I see it, this bit of macabre and I want to consume it...like a blood red apple with a tiny, cute little worm.

Dark beauty strokes the underbelly of my heart, calms me. I understand how rich and pungent the fallow side of a rotting log in the forest is...I want that deep texture and color, even if it comes with creepys and crawlys and things of a skeevious nature. They crawl away, or they make friends...but they are not scary.

I am not scared by the darkness. I am scared by the false light.

LIKE BLOOD LIKE HONEY

You want to catch your breath you want to get out
But as you surface you don't really know how
How to live upon the solid ground
Sometimes it's easier to let yourself drown

Love is
Thick like
Blood like
Honey

You cannot spell it out there are no words
Mrs johnson never taught me those verbs
On how to give myself and how to receive
It is something that's inside of you and me

Love is
Thick like
Blood like
Honey

Forget everything you ever learned
No one listens when you want to be heard
Just bleed the bittersweet
Seven sunrises and seven more nights
You'd think that we could learn to do it right
If nothing changes then i'm gonna stop
But do i really have a choice?
I think not

-Holly Brook

Reminds me of you.

Written awhile ago, but still ringing true...

My words mock me. They are harsh reminders, down to the very letter, that I am only operating at a fraction of my capacity. I feel that if I just try, if I could just concentrate for long enough, I will find a vein, a pulse to follow, and it will be the beginning of everything.

My problem is allowing myself to want and take and need and give everything without care. With wisdom, but without worry. I think that people give up and settle in the hulls of themselves and I find myself doing that and it's alarming. I know that everyday can't be rich with all manner of beautiful stimuli (and even as I write that I think, "why not? Who says?") And I know that it's good to still feel surprise and wonder and gratitude. But I think it's tragic, in a small way, that happiness and joy shocks me so much. Like I don't deserve it. And sometimes, I find myself trying to hoard it, like a tangible thing because I am not sure when it will arrive again.

The barrage of thoughts and indictments of self that are the fallout of my bad habits are exhausting. Stability is good. Roots are good, forming a foundation and a network, all good things. But stagnant, stale, tired and hurtful behavior is self-destructive and only lends itself to honing out the hull.

You are not above this happening to you, but you can be. This should be your mission, everyday. As elusive and indescribable as these steps may be, you need to actively seek them out, every hour of everyday.

Now.

I have never understoood why looking people in the eyes is such a powerful thing to me; more intimate than most acts generally judged as the end-all of intimate acts. I mean, I get the "windows to the soul" line of reasoning, I guess it's a little of that. But it's more that I can't hide from you if you're looking into my eyes. I can make my face a mask, I have mastered all forms of indifference as a painter does his canvas, as an art. I make absolutely no claim of being proud of this...in fact it's really starting to bother me. But I can keep nothing, no thought, no emotion, out of my eyes. I am painfully bare and exposed, you see me as the wounded thing that I am, scars and pride and even happiness and all...I don't think that I've much been ready for anyone to see this. I've wanted plenty to look into my eyes, but I haven't been able to let them.

My brain just waved a figurative middle finger at me and said "bugger off, I've stopped work for the day."
 
I think it might be mad with me for depriving it of sleep for two nights in a row...the sentiment "I'll sleep when I'm dead" clearly is not going over well.

My View From Here

All I see
in my mind's eye
are landmines matted
in the neurons
of my brain

And by the way, I resent the fact that this is like...like a common-law...relationship. I avoided relationships for so long as not to get wrapped up in this b.s. And here I am, by default.

Fuck.

I am stuck in the middle of a vast, clueless sea in a tiny origami boat.

With only one oar.

'cause God KNOWS, I love to travel in hopeless circles.

My life is in overtime right now...

"You're the red in her painting." - I Am Sam

So simple to know something so profound. To have that inate sense of gorgeous love and struggle and contentment and darkness.

But we ignore it. We ignore that simple right-ness; it's a small little beauty, really, even when it seems so complex. We ignore, in favor of the more brass and obvious pleasures of the world. The ones that are sometimes adversely complex, yet empty, meaningless, and ever harder to obtain. We are always searching for what will make things better, what will make us appear bigger, smarter, more beautiful, better to ourselves and the rest of the world.

We scorn innocence, pureness, faith and hope as naiveness and silliness. We are above it, we grow out of it. We don't remember this Neverland where colors are bright and fun is of utmost importance and love just is, because it's true. We never seem to understand that though we don't remember it, we are always trying to get back to it in the things that we do because we can never find enough to satisfy us like this particular little space in our souls.


Children are still there in their minds, if they're allowed to remain for the duration of their childhoods. And sometimes I think those with special needs are there too...they just never wanted to leave the warmth and amazement of the Never-Never for the seemingly bleak "real world". Others are lucky to catch glimpses of the light and the Lost Boys as they stream by in their debauchery...fleeting spots of sunlight that dapple the otherwise bleakness of the common day.

I see your real world. And I think I want my soul world instead. What I would give to be the red in someone's painting.

Scream

I wanted to scream.  Loudly and with much gusto.  But do you know what I discovered?  I can't scream.  My voice appears to be broken in more ways than one.

P.S.

I know this is for a reason, but I am in awe of my reaction right now...I am happy and hopeful, but terrified that I will mess things up.  This step means more to me for some reason, and it's just making me raw.

Go figure.

I lied.  I didn't mean too...in fact, I meant what I said and believe what I said...all of the things that came out of my mouth from my brain were true.
 
It was my heart, the lying bastard.  My heart lied to me.  And in it's trickery, it led me to believe that I felt something entirely different than I actually did.
 
Let's see if it can work itself out of this one.

Um. Yeah.

A reader calling herself Rebellioness collaborated with me to come up with five revolutionized approaches to the art of rebellion. I present them here for your use, as they identify the kinds of behavior that will be most nurturing for you to cultivate in the coming weeks. 1. Experimenting with uppity, mischievous optimism. 2. Invoking insurrectionary levels of wildly interesting generosity. 3. Indulging in an insolent refusal to be chronically fearful. 4. Pursuing a cheeky ambition to be as wide-awake as a dissident young messiah. 5. Bringing reckless levels of creative intelligence to all expressions of love.
 
- Free Will Astrology

I mean...your Grandma has a tattoo. But it means something to her - that's the only reason you should do something, dear. If it means something to you.

What do I love enough to brand myself with?

Is it bad that I am having trouble figuring that out? What I love enough?

I had another revealation...i am perfectly happy sitting by myself & watching people. What makes me uncomfortable is other people's discomfort when i do so.

Say something.

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

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

What's the big deal?

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

2010: Let's see whatcha got.

'Cause I'm game.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

My gift is me.

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

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

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

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

Curses.

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

W.
T.
F.

Why must we "bomb" the moon?

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

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

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

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

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

When did this happen?

This hurt my heart...


Best for Last
by Adele

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah
Ey
Yeah
Ey

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

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

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

And I need a neck massage. 

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

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

ugliness has a comforting quality.

It's familiar.

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

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

But it won't be good enough.

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

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

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

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

...sparked the following rant:

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

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

STOP WASTING THE LIVES OF THESE HONORABLE PEOPLE.

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

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

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

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

I'm still waiting.

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God. Everything looks better in the sun.

I am AMAZED.

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

Wow, indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And again...

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

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

Be Lost in the Call

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Rumi

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Horoscope - Alrighty then!

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

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

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

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

Thoughts this morning:

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

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

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

AAAANNNNNDDDD it’s only Tuesday.

Bless.

I love you.

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

Ack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


The Airborne Toxic Event - Sometime Around Midnight Lyrics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If it will break this, I will take it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

amen amen amen
amen
-Charlotte Martin

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

Where'd your heaven go?

Michael Jackson is dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And even that is good in its way.

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

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

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

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

You are not that important.

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I care from a distance.

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

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

Books are my maps.

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

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

And exhale the last dying breath of sameness and routine.

Wide awake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I forget

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

 

10/23/05

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anonymous said...

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

October 26, 2005 12:50:00 PM EDT

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

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

Boo to all this crap, life is a choice

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

 

Things that make me happy on another rainy day:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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