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.