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.