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.