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.

Life isn't a tv show, girl. It doesn't fit cookie cutter into a neat little halfhour shape in your day. It doesn't always have the twists and turns that make it fascinating, it doesn't wind up all ok in the end, working it self out in a satisfying, cliff-hanging, tear jerking, joy inducing from start to finish plot line.

Life just is. "Life is what you make of it" life is hard and boring and itriguing and fun and gruesome and sweet and beautiful and annoying and hurtful and...well, you already know all of this.

It hardly ever make sense. And in those moments that it does, you stop thinking and just live and thank god for it all. Those moments that make your insides stll and make you feel like you're sitting on the seawall again, dangling a foot over the edge and staring at the moon through the rippled water. That right there is the only thought that you're allowed to have in the moments that all make sense. Thank God. Even the pain can be sweet, if you stop and you feel it. But you have. To stop. And feel it.

Ya know what, no...

"He would like you if you'd let him."

 

A statement which promptly elicited an eye roll and a terse "he's been given ample opportunity to 'like me'.  Now shut up with the girlie stuff and drink your beer."

 

This is not the first time that this has been said to me, and it probably won't be the last.  And it usually always gets an eye roll, universal indicator of "that's crap".  I know the difference between letting someone care for me, and having to poke, prod, and cajole to persuade someone that it really is ok to care for me.  For one, I'm not that frantic to be in a relationship.  Two, I am not your mother and therefore will probably throw in the towel if I have made it readily apparent that I see you for who you are, like you for that, don't want to change it, and you for WHATEVER reason can't handle that.  There are times in life that you have to fight to love someone, but if I don't have the foundation, then I likely don't have the patience.  So even if those feelings might be lurking in there somewhere, and even if the might be obvious to everyone that knows me and him, it's outta my hands.  

 

I know that I am weird and I know that people wonder about me and I know that the way that I come across is not always the way that I am.  That said, I also know when I've tried and struggled enough to get my point across and the struggle just becomes futile.  There have been a few men that I've cared deeply about (Caleb, for one, which is probably why I am so resistant to this line of thinking) who just couldn't freakin' handle it.  Honestly, I would almost rather "I just don't feel the same way, Kelly" than "I do absolutely feel the same way but I don't know how to deal with it."  Not only have you made it difficult and seemingly stupid for me to care about you, but you're also showing a weakness that is bewildering, which hurts just as much.  

 

Which is why I so vehemently refuse to make it about me.  Yeah, right, I am the one who's throwing a wrench in the cogs.  It's me that has been as transparent as my emotionally retarded little heart will allow, but I am the one who won't let him in.

 

Eye roll, call bullshit, and move on.

My body aches again. It's not lack of sleep, it's not illness (that I know of), the last major exercise that I did on was on Sunday…so the soreness should have worn off by now…

So that can only mean that typical is rearing it's ugly head again…fabulous.

I need a hug.

I can smell fear and b.s. from a three mile radius…so why am I stumped with this one? I wish I was better at this by now and not so easily influenced by someone who can make me laugh…and who actually thinks I’m funny, too, and not some three headed monster out to rob him of his bachelorhood and all of the fun in his life...well, I guess that remains to be seen.

Oh my God, why am I awake at 7 am on a Saturday? Blasphemous!

Oh yeah...it's 'cause I am oddly lazy lately, yet strangely motivated by the slightest notion, which made me leap out of bed at 6:45 am.

I need to work on my priorities...

The hardest battles are the ones that you have with yourself.

I am sitting on my hardwood (read: parque) floor, legs wrapped around the tiny stool that Robert brought me from Africa, the one that I use for a computer stand.

My thoughts my attention my desire float in and out, listen to a hot song by Kings of Leon and I am distracted by the rawness of his voice...I think he probably smokes too many cigarettes or other things and that's why he sounds like that...then I think of:

"Is this weed?"....
"I should take your ass to jail, you know that?"
"For what?"
"For what?!? Look at this!!"
"That's just nuttin' but a cigarette, man!"
"This ciga-weed!"
"Well it look like a cigarette."
"You betta have glaucoma."
"I do."


In and out between fantasy and reality. I should be asleep, I am tired, but I should also write, I should be writing I should be sleeping....I should I should I should...I should just fucking be, screw all the other nonsense in between.

But I am a night owl. I like the dark.

Not so much to see in the dark, not so much to take in.

I like being awake to hear the collective sigh of the city, asleep. I like being a night owl in this city because I know that I can always find some other vagrant soul knocking about, too.

Yep. There's always somebody.

I am a night owl.

I like the dark.


Not so much to see, in the dark. Not so much to take in.


I like being awake to hear the collective breath of the city, asleep. I like being a night owl in this city, because I know I can always find some other vagrant soul knockin' about somewhere, too.