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

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

Hmmm...

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

What might this say about me?

Curious...

Color.

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

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

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

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

Home.

2/23/09
At Merrion Square

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to ten minutes.

At least until I am not so drained...

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

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

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

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

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

I've said it all.

Twice.

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

But you won't let me.

Loyalty is a funny thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time is what I've got.

Patience is what I'm workin' on.

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

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

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



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

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

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

And it hurts, too.

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

Enough is enough and it's time.

Jesus Christ, I need a hug. Pronto.

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

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

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

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

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

Captivated by the moon.
Again.

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

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

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

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

99 Problems...

and a bitch ain't one.


Damn skippy, man.

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

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

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

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

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

The only weapon I have
sharpened is silence.

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

Just like every other impermanent thing. Gone.

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

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

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

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

Yeah, good luck with that!

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

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

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

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

Go figure.

Apres moi le deluge (after me comes the flood)

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

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

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

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

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

Why do I think I deserve such pain?

10 Minutes...

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

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

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

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

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

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