creepy caroling

Christmas music blared overhead and lulled into a false sense of security and joy, I began to sing along with the song, "We wish you a Merry Christmas..."

In the Spring the city introduced me to the joys of public singing. This was different. As I passed a woman she was also singing along.

I passed a couple who was singing the lyrics together.

And then I got a little nauseous.

Not that I don't love my fellow man, but weird. I mean it would have been cooler if it was a Bright Eyes song like "Something Vague" and I just happened to hear it on the radio and started singing along and knowing all the lyrics and then someone at the cafe would also hear it and sing along... the likelihood of that happening is nil.

I started thinking about how we all have this collective consciousness and Christmas songs, regardless of how you feel about the celebration of Christmas, these songs are all etched into our memories, which is weirder still because they only become increasingly played for a six week period once a year.

Then I started thinking about Christmas.

One of my favorite jokes about Christmas was on Futurama when Fry finds out that Christmas has been boiled down to Xmas. Of course, even though it's supposed to take place in the future, it's clever satire for the way America has consumerized and secularized a religious holiday.

As I get older, the thrill of presents has faded. I still receive some, and in only recent years has it seriously dwindled; this year I have asked for no gifts and I was last in the line of the four siblings to say so. My mother has shifted all of her focus from us kids to her grandkids, which I suppose is far better than trying to please and excite a bunch of twenty-somethings and a thirty year-old with gifts they will probably sneer at as they open them.

My most successful gifting moment was the birthday books and even that got screwed up a bit; someone gave me a book that simply looked good and was not their favorite and I ended up reading a lot of quirky fiction that I would never read willingly. I am not a fan of gift cards and find that no one really knows what else to give me. So I tell them not to get me anything.

If I had a choice in the matter, I would not really participate in Christmas or Xmas at all. My favorite thing about it is that people act nicer to each other. I wish they could be that way all year. I hate the pressure to buy and give gifts, I hate feeling like my mom has a big credit card bill to pay off for the next couple months and I also hate how ubiquitous it is, how absolutely dominating it is as a cultural phenomenon. I can't imagine what it is like to be any other religion celebrating a holiday and having it shoved aside for some fat guy in a red suit with a shitload of presents.

What usually happens every year is that I complain about it until the week before and then I start to get excited. I start to participate a little. Last year I bought everyone thrift store presents. I figure I will contribute my consumerism in a little different way. For some reason, kids books or toys at thrift stores are always either broken or look like seething germ factories, so I buy their stuff new. I never buy them the thing they most want (I leave that up to the parents) but I hear that the things I get them are cherished more than the video games or mp3 players.

And even though the things that others give me are never quite what I need or what, I try to incorporate them into my life or pass them on to someone that can.

Anyway, bah humbugging over.

when the past finds you on facebook...

Well I suppose it's my fault. No one twisted my arm or anything. No one said, hey, by the way, you have to get a facebook account or you might as well jump off the lame cliff with all the other technophobes out there. The truth is, being on facebook doesn't make you skinnier, prettier, or even, younger!

So why did I join facebook?

Simply because I like to consider myself on the cutting edge of all that is the internet. Simply because I can't admit that somewhere along the way I lost that edge while being consumed with school and it's dealings. Simply put, facebook has been my downfall.

As soon as I joined and realized that it is pretty unpalatable, my first bump in the facebook road arrived fresh on the heels of my distress over not being able to alter my profile to my liking, having to decipher all these weird applications, and more importantly, being overwhelmed by just how much I'd been missing on facebook while being a myspace addict. That bump was a supposed high school chum of mine who found me in the relatively easy manner of a few clicks because facebook tries to organize people into groups and then they give you the opportunity to search those groups. So someone in a matter of clicks went to the high school portion of their search page and clicked on my graduation year and bam! he wants to be my friend.

Problem is, I don't know him. Don't recognize his name, his face, or his attempts at jive talking. It's been FIFTEEN years since I started high school! Of course, there are some people I will, sadly, never forget. But this poor guy, I DO NOT KNOW. So do I ignore him? What do I do? I feel bad and made him a "friend." He has since gone on to actively doing things via facebook that I can hardly understand (some of those applications are WEIRD, it's not just because I am old...) and every time I log on there's a message or something from him. So now I just ignore him. Far be it from me to tell people how to go about using their time (unless it is the burnham, of course!). It is so easy to be "friends" with anyone on these sites.

This innocuous relationship somehow managed not to be the harbinger for the the even worse fate that was to come.

On other "socializing" sites, you are not always your given name. This manages to seclude you somehow from persons who want to look you up and find out how your life has been in the decade passed. Or, maybe their search engines are not as fucking good as facebook's. Whatever the case, I have been contacted by some guy I knew via the internet (turned out he wasn't a serial killer!) over a decade ago when the internet was still in it's embroynic state or what I call the Era of AOL and Compuserve. This guy I actually remembered even though we've never met in person. But more horrifyingly, he wants to catch up on lost time and I have no idea where we left off.

And even if in the murky depths of my brain I could sort out where we left off, WHO CARES? A DECADE has gone by and we never even met and until a couple days ago I did not even remember that name. It was put away. And now, I'm not sure what he wants. He seems to be saying that emailing back and forth for a while is just okay. I don't know what the something else is (maybe he is a serial killer in the making) but he is unable to ask outright and I am not interested in calling someone on the phone--I barely call my present tense friends on the phone!--or going to visit them or having them visit me--I barely...well you know!--so what else is there?

I have my own versions of this game and it never feels right: hello, do you remember me? You were my first love. I loved you more than life itself. I was fourteen, you were a couple months older than me, hee hee, at the time it seemed so much older...

hello, do you remember me? You were my best friend. I thought you were so great. We listened to oldies and made dance interpretations. It's been a decade, but how the heck are ya?

hello, do you remember me? You were my first boyfriend. I broke your heart and lost touch with you. I always think about you when I pass the house where you used to live. Will you be my friend?

Though it would be nice to find out if these people are still alive and well in the world, it would be nicer to remember them just the way I do, in a hazy blur of nostalgia.

small town, big city

As I was looking for the bus a familiar face entered my view. She has known me for years, but not really known me, we have hung out here and there, and she is someone I would like to get to know better. She was my coffee girl, from the bux on roscoe and paulina.

In the years that have passed, all of her major qualms have been appropriately dealt with and are no longer problems. The job she hated has been replaced by something new and different. She decided to go to cooking school and is working in a restaurant for a very difficult chef, who, she says with some cheerfulness, is supposed to teach her something about the business and is supposed to be very good.

She says all this with a five day old burn on her hand covered in bandages.

A long time ago, she ached for love. She wanted it more than she could ever admit to, and each time I saw her I could see the pain of loneliness in her eyes. She has recently found someone to be with, someone who lives with her, someone who is right for now...

When she first told me about her, the glee in her face was a glow and she had to write it down on a piece of paper for me so that no one else would know.

In just this year, that age when people start getting themselves together, stop working the shitty jobs they hate, start doing the things they've always wanted to do, she is doing it all. And yet, there is a sadness in her eyes. There is a pain there that I will not know for sure. She and I have always shared a certain winking kindredness, a kind of knowing glance in which words weren't needed.

I hope as I begin to clear out the messes in my life I will have room for the intriguing people I've always wanted to know.

the signs were all there...

I suspected that behind his sharp hawk-like stare there was nothing more than scrutiny. I wondered if it was just a matter that each time I arrived at the bar I said hello to all but him and her. Also, was it that I knew so many people, his people, at his bar?

Last night I heard him ask, "Why is Walter a chick magnet?"

It's true, Walter was surrounded by four beautiful girls, each one different in their beauty, but all hanging on his every word. The bar was full and it was late and Walter was in his prime. His friendship with each of us is more than an assumption, it has to be asserted constantly, but it will always be just a friendship. Walter is one of those sad unfortunate men to know how to charm women, but he finds they only want to be his friend in the end.

And how does he do it, this man, who at a glance seems boring and lame, the kind of guy who isn't even vanilla ice cream, he looks more like a vanilla flavored frozen yogurt. Does he have magic? Does he hypnotize? Does he really have a magnetic field around him that attracts chicks?

To him I would say that Walter is non-threatening. For myself I would say that Walter is an excellent conversationalist, and he gets better when he is drunk and loses a little of the politeness that makes him seem fro-yo.

All this time I thought that he was such a cool dude, such a wild beast, sulking about the bar, protecting his territory and friends, eyes constantly scanning the room for trouble, but it turns out that he is nothing more than a lame-o. For him to be jealous of a guy like Walter and to ask why when it is plain as day what he does, well, that is pretty sad. And like a deflating balloon, his power faded, and I was left to wonder what it was about him that interested me in the first place.

hear this:

It is one thing to say what I say here. It is another to have it facing me. I can't say that I hate them. They didn't know that they were so important to me, that I spent so much time wailing about their weirdness, wondering what their problem was, deciding that I just simply couldn't deal with them. I also can't say that I like them. For the most part, there is nothing wrong with them. The only thing I could say was that they just were not my kind of people.

At my birthday, my glorious friend Annie had the exact phrase for her, the precise term to describe her nature, the thing that I couldn't find to explain her.

She took three years of my grappling and came up with it in less than ten minutes. I had not told her one bad thing about them, about her, I left that in the past. I did nothing to preface my introduction, I simply let them exist and gave them a chance to be themselves. And that was my friend's assessment and she could not have gotten it any more clear.

The problem is, the problem was, they are his best friends, his kind of people, and I know that they come with him, they are part of his list of people to give xmas presents to, they are part of his life. If I want him, I get them. If I want to spend the rest of my life with him, I will have this relationship to contend with.

Ten minutes in her presence and I get gripped by irrational anger. How this dowdy, unpleasant, unattractive woman manages it is through her flaunting of her intimacy with him. She has always done it, perhaps to reassure herself that he cares for her, to publicly mark her territory, or maybe, just to get on my nerves.

I smile secretly with the knowledge that my friend has pegged her just with one penetrating glance.

Her meddling, her siding with him constantly, her absolute doggedness to be with him is odd, but it is a fleeting thing. He is mine and I am his and there is nothing she can do, no bragging she can claim, and his smile is just for me and she sees that.

She is my nemesis, my enemy, she is someone that I will never trust. She is a fun sponge.

five years ago

Looking back;

It was nearly perfect and yet, I found the imperfections. Under the glare of my gaze he cowered. We spent three months in total bliss, then it took only three months to erode the love we made until it was nothing more than a routine we could barely justify continuing.

And yet, we are still here, standing together. We are more casual about it now, to save face, to keep rejection at bay, to avoid feelings getting hurt. In recent weeks, it is almost like none of the bad stuff ever happened: his sour roommates are married and in their own place, his lines more pronounced in the sand, his annoying habits tailored and tended to. In short, he is the man I should have had, the man I wanted all along, he is becoming a grown-up finally, but there was no end to the suffering he caused me until I left.

For my part: I am out of school which was an exhausting, all-consuming breach of our time, I am working stress free stable jobs, I have eaten a lot of crow and apologized for taking it all so personally, being unforgiving, being unaccepting of so much. Leaving gave me what I needed. Finishing school gave me a newfound sense of confidence. Finding him again was more than I could ask for. Every man that has loved me has become a sacrifice for the better person I could be and he was willing to meet that better me despite how I ravaged his heart. That he could still love me is how I finally realized after being incapable of accepting it for so long; his heart had always been for me. I simply could not receive his love.

I wish that it could have been better, different, but that is the way it went. I am totally complete with this and have been able to put it all behind me. Perhaps because I can look back at the many entries I wrote, I can consider it behind me. One of the things that I realize is that I needed to learn how to love and be loved and I am glad that we were able to do that for each other. He is still angry about how things went, how unfair I was, how bitter I was. I wish I could make him understand that everything I did I was certain I was right about it, and even when I knew I was wrong, I found it very difficult to stop.

We are sharing a television series together, we are cooking and baking together, we are working things out together. I love his ways, but I also have a creative energy that I lose in my contented bliss because I know there is no room for my passion between us, because I know it makes him feel bad about his lack of creating, but I cannot hold myself back for him, and I will not.

For me, even though there is a sourness, a tinge of sadness to our time together, what I see most are those shiny moments that the love between us was evident and genuine and enough.

thirty days

Yesterday marked one month to the day that my application for the writer's workshop is due.

Given that all they care about is the writing I have to show them, then yeah, I'm doing okay. I've been working on some new stuff and I have some old work I can send them.

Otherwise, I am very behind. I haven't looked at the application for the school, taken the GRE, or looked at any other schools.

Considering that I do my best work when I"m pressed for time and in the throes of procrastination, I am hoping for the best.

I can't imagine not going there, to Iowa. It just feels like it will be the starting point of my career. I consider other schools as a back up plan but nothing has the same allure, the same compulsion. I want to go to Iowa and I will be working on all the things I must do.

I just can't believe that this year has passed by so quickly. I guess it is a good thing I was having so much fun...

disposable disappointments

the breath of (once fresh) stale air came to the cafe today. his beady eyes found me instantly and he pretended not to see me at first. then I had to say hello and he complimented me in that weird weighty way he does, and instead of saying thanks, which I was never good at doing, I deflected and said something about having a shower. the rest of the time he was there I busied myself with the newspaper and basically ignored him, though not to be rude, I just had nothing to say and no longer felt the need to be pretend to be interested in what he had to say.

betsy's owner is either really very insecure and unable to gather my interest like a bouquet of flowers or he is simply not interested. sound familiar? He is my new man of the year, I suppose, but I had such hopes for him. I thought he was different somehow, and yet, he has not done anything with my efforts and my interest has withered over this expanse of time.

to realize that the trader joe's guy did not even recognize me, that my face and smile had been erased from his beaches by time, well, it seemed alright, and yet, not right. His eyes still caught mine, he still had that wonder for me, that curiousity, that glimmer. Over a year ago now, he made my visits to the store a welcome treat and we even managed to have our paths cross outside that store once. that night I learned that no matter how much he stoked a giddiness in me, a sheer delight in being next to his body, his thoughts were just not...right. and now, being here, I see the error of my one sided affections with such embarassment that I am glad nothing happened.

those that I do share delightful conversations with are closed to me. they love my ways but have no room for my love. they evoke such a passion in me and I leave them wondering why the ones who love me leave me wanting and the ones I love leave me wanting and why am I always in such a state of wanting and so rarely fulfilled? I suffer from an unending loop of disappointment that leaves me numb to being happy.

I wonder if I can stop exerting myself up and down this avenue of one sided and half felt affections and truly enjoy the meal I chose instead of languishing over the menu I could have had?

for it is with the burnham that my heart lives. I am happier after he calls, gladder after his company, settled and content after his love reaches me. I just feel like it is so hard to struggle for what should come naturally, what did come naturally. It is like loving something you have to wrestle into submission and then wonder if you did the right thing in trying to contain such a beast. And I also know that there are appreciations of me that he cannot provide, a vast array of areas unknown to him that he will never be able to reach, a chasm of my Self that he cannot traverse. I love him and he loves me. He is mine and I am his. his love will always leave me wanting.

the most ironic place to see a famous person is at the zoo.

he wore a jacket that screamed for attention. and he was tall. and striking. and strangely familiar. and we were just talking about him...

his jacket was a turquoise and black plaid with a hood. I have never seen another like it and it caught my eye. I'd spent all afternoon watching Project Runway, so fabrics and fashion felt like a visual assualt.

he was tall, but also taller thanks to these clunky boots which were exotic because they must be expensive and therefore not seen often round these parts.

his hair was mostly white. Not gray, white. And yet, he had a moustache that was peppered, almost like he'd gotten it dirty while drinking a hot chocolate to stay warm.

a third look still could not solve the mystery of who he was. I just know so many people in so many different contexts. damn people.

I caught his eye several times until I realized I was looking at Bill Murray. Less than ten feet away from me, he was nonchalantly milling around the entrance of a gift shop at the Lincoln Park Zoo in the Lion House.

I didn't know what to do. I'd just declared not one hour before that he was one of my favorite comedians to give credibility to funny guys doing serious roles in movies. We decided that comedians make the best actors because they have more of a range, and he is the king of that ability. And there he was. Should I talk to him? Tell him that I love his work? Tell him that he has provided me with endless hours of entertainment?

I let him be. He has family here; the two women he was with looked like they might be family. I noticed someone taking his picture in a very sly way, as if they were just pointing their digital camera in his general direction. His eyes scanned the room constantly, he saw the camera, he looked at me, and there was a panic there that made me sad.

Why do we take the things and people we love most and destroy them with our need to preserve everything?

the eighteen hour day

They declared that they knew the thing for them when they realized they could spend eighteen hours doing their job and not notice the time pass.

I am at a loss for that thing in my context. It could be a lot of things. landmark. babysitting. writing. coffee.

As my brain turns this idea between the proverbial thumbs, I keep searching and coming up empty. the only time I am completely absorbed by life is when it has nothing to do with me at all or when I am helping someone else. I am completely enthralled by serving other people.

/

I miss my apartment. I haven't been there in a week. I won't be able to make it there til Monday night. I'm sure my plants are suffering. It feels like I don't have a place of my own. My rent is due. And yet, I am hardly there. I realize this is why I don't have pets.

=

All of my free time is for him. I search him out with a guilty smile. I cannot stay away and I cannot continue down this road. I have never felt so torn. Before, I felt so sure it was no good, but now I don't know.

#

The Brit wants to take me to London, England in February for two weeks to accompany his visit with his family. I felt like I had won the lottery! I am so excited. I will have a few days off to enjoy the town while they take a break in his family's country cottage. The kids love me (except when they both have to vie for my attentions) the mom is finally doing it right and I love his family.

*

I have been reading like a madwoman. Sometimes two books a week. I don't know what it is, but it seems to be a little of having excellent reading material (the birthday books pile is pretty low at this point) and I have been buying random Faulkner books here and there and his work enthralls me about writing.

^

Spreaking of, I have ten good pages of writing with my friend and fellow writer jayme. We've begun to meet twice a week. Thank goodness she is so determined, otherwise, I might get caught up in my day to day life and completely neglect my writing and manuscript and grad school apps.

8

I am a grown-up. It happened overnight. I don't know what it was or when it was that the thing that had been holding me back finally released, but I have never felt like this before. It is a little sad. I feel more complacent, lethargic, easy-going than ever. I may just be in the throes of a terrible head cold, or this is it, I may never be the same girl you used to know ever again.

loss

I miss waking up early to go to work at the cafe. Sometimes it is the lingering night sky I most miss. Prior to dawn it sits dark blue and quiet, its dome dotted with half constellations that the city lights cannot completely hide. In his neighborhood the view is the best I have ever seen: humboldt park provides a respite from light and structures that gives an unobstructed view of the sky. Each time I have seen it, my breath catches in my chest and I wonder how it might be somewhere where the view is clearer and wider. I want that sky and that view. I want that night. I had it once on the cape, and there was nothing more perfect than that first time I saw the Milky Way.

The sky can change so much in a half hour, from dark to light and what I see above the buildings are glimpses of true beauty. Never the same dawn twice, I have seen the gradual lighting of a clear sky, one with clouds that looked like garland, one with clouds that held the light of the sun behind them. I once saw the sun rise on the one day of the year that it points due west, where it lined up precisely with the street the bus was travelling down so that it blinded us all and filled the bus with light.

I miss that sense of secret reverence between me and the day, as if I could be the one person alive in the world, as if I can feel the beating of the few things awake at that moment, a sense of calm and control, a sense that I have witnessed something few have.

In his arms, I tumble through wild dreams and tangled sheets and wake long after the sun has crept past the horizon.

I suppose that raw sensation of tiredness, that complete and ravaged feeling of being rundown is gone, but in its place I have lost some connection I had to the world, some intangible lie that kept purporting I was somehow special for bearing witness to the beginning of each day.

the year-or-so later wrap up

Funny how the world is now. Birthdays, holidays, other anniversaries pass by and what marker I see on the road is the year or so since I began this blog. I suppose it seems fitting since I record so many important feelings and wonderings here. Yet this blog, moreso than any other I have labored over has been, to me, the most interesting yet.

Firstly, let's address my thoughts as I began this spot. Harangued by a most annoying pest, I decided to completely begin anew and conceal myself somewhat from his sharp scrutiny. Now: I have no further communication with him or his various multiple personalities, much to my relief. Also, the idea of a fresh place appealed, perhaps because in my real life I devote such long stretches of time to things (years long monogamous relationships, absurd tenures at jobs, the ambitious plodding through higher education) I feel the urge to move on quickly in areas that seem fleeting in their nature. It wasn't the first time I'd completely pulled up stakes and moved on to a new venue. And it may not necessarily be the last.

My first entry here seems so long ago. That there was a time when Eric was not mine is odd. That there was a time that I did not know that seems even odder. And yet, it was the primary source of so much of my sadness for a long time. Now: We speak on a daily basis, we see each other often, we take care of each other, we are building a life together. There is a still a sense of worry, a lack of some innate and necessary trust that we may never be able to duplicate again, but we still persist in this strange dance of love and commitment and care. I often find myself lingering on the bodies of others, but I often find it unsatisfying and empty, like a habit that no longer soothes me. I have no thirst for someone else. I have no desperation for something else. I am finally, amazingly, astonishingly able to accept the love he provides and demand nothing else.

Even in that first entry, my love for him is enormous. And the possibility of loving him again seemed so tantalizing that I could hardly jinx it by even putting it into words. One of the things that I see has changed about myself is that I have become a more loving person with everyone, but I have especially opened my eyes to the love I have for Eric. The bond that we share comes from so many sources, of course our long fought battles (which we now gently tease each other about), but also our many amazing experiences; the large amount of things we have done together, the many things we still have yet to do and the enjoyment we share from each other's company. Now: for the most part, especially when we are alone together (which we were hardly able to enjoy when we lived with the fun sponges) we always enjoy each other's company. We are still not well in the company of others, when we lose our rhythms and sense of space.

The only thing I can be sure of is there is nothing I can be sure of when it comes to Eric. All I know is what is there for me. And I will tell you, we just weren't done yet. Even though it sucked, even though we needed a break, even though I wanted nothing more than to never see his face again, I missed him when he wasn't there and I wasn't done yet.

As for the other men in my life this year, there have been less than usual. Early on, things with the man of the year died out. You may remember for a couple weeks there was Mumford, who was "bonin'" another girl and was a newly minted drinker. Somewhere in there was the lover I didn't have to love, and we never quite were able to muster up enough enthusiasm about each other. The only thing he ever showed any passion about was that I deleted him from my myspace friends. I let them absorb my attentions and occupy mine, but mostly I knew they were not right for me. My propensity to have a new crush every week has slowed. My heart is unable to thrust into overdrive at a moment's notice. Others who I knew weren't right for me are no longer in my scope. The city is gone. The breath of fresh air avoids me. The old ones are all consumed.

Strangely, in some concentric inner workings of the three dimensional puzzle that is me, being happier with myself has come to pass and as a result, the teeming hordes of would be suitors all seem instantly grey.

How exactly does one come to be happy with oneself? I have been grappling with this since Friday evening in the company of my good friend Pete and I feel I have finally reached a conclusion. It is a matter of taking care of your self and then doing what you can with and for others. I always put myself last mentally and then avoided following through with my agreements in the physical realm, for I learned the terrible affliction of being unable to say no and stick up for myself. In short, I spent a good amount of time (wasted, of course) on being nice. And then I spent a lot of time bitching about how nice I had agreed to be.

A great portion of my misery came from the company of people I called my friends. Just recently you may have read how I expelled an old friend from my life. It is the third time that I have done so. The first was simply a matter of being out of sight and out of mind. The second was like walking through a rose bush. The latest, simply a necessary action that required little emotion. When I acquired these friends, I was young and unformed. I had no idea who I was and they required a shapeless mass to cling to and I provided ample space. I recall many fond memories with all and yet our interactions were clouded by my lack of enjoyment, my inability to appreciate the person beyond the callous, rude and disagreeable behaviors I witnessed on a regular basis. I became friends with these people because they wanted me and I wanted to be wanted. They called me more, they wanted to see me more, they did all the work I didn't want to do and I figured it was just a by product of friendship that you didn't always like the person. We all have our good and bad qualities.

The people I did like and enjoy and just not see as often (because I didn't call them and they weren't as needy) I overlooked in some obtuseness. I thought they were a little fake, sometimes boring (always happy? no freakouts? no dramas?) and more sadly, that they must not like me as much as my "real" friends did.

My ideas of friendships were changed by one man. He actually completely upturned my assumptions about all friendships. At the same time, he was accompanied by a vivacious, charming and intelligent woman. Not long after, I was given the pleasure of knowing another wondrous woman. And still more came. And something in me realized that it wasn't that friendships were inherently bad, I had just made some rotten decisions. The difference was that I made an effort with them unlike anything I had done before. Sure, I have made some effort with people I do genuinely like, but I have made some concessions that we are living at parallel courses and cannot intersect as often as I'd like. And yet, I still do the work of checking in, contacting them, and most importantly, caring about them.

These three have surely disappointed me, behaved badly (though I have yet to see one of them falter much), and have annoyed me somehow. But they have also given me so much more than I have ever received from those so called friends: honest listening, understanding, sympathy, encouragement, balanced conversations, fun, good times and I trust them completely. I know if I ever needed them they would race to my side to help me. I could not say the same for those other three.

I try to imagine that a year ago I was at the end of the school race. It seems so much longer. I may have graduated last May, but I finished classes in December, and honestly, it was no easy task. Given that I had no home for the beginning and then was trying to settle into one, it was difficult. And yet, one of my few true achievements is that I finished that undergraduate degree. As I look forward, I have no idea where I will be next fall, but I feel somewhat certain that I will be a student again.

Another milestone: my time at the cafe is really, truly done. And though part of me will always miss it there, I am so glad. I love babysitting and taking care of these particular children, though it has it's trying times, it is nothing compared to one bad customer at the coffeeshop.

And my apartment is actually a fully functioning environment I can call a home. It is totally me. Every time I see a friend's apartment I realize with a certain small pride that I am good at something and it is creating my own spaces. I recently and finally set up my new printer. I am constantly going through the endless junk I have somehow accumulated. I no longer trudge through piles to arrive in bed. And it is a good feeling when I can have someone over and not be embarrassed at all.

Finally, there was 30. I could easily agree with all the things you always hear, but more importantly, I will say that I always thought it was farther away. I somehow felt like time would go a little slower for me because I was so far behind. Now I feel alright about things. I am okay with being a late bloomer. I will always be a little older than everyone and a little out of place. I don't look at all of this as wasted time, so much as I see what I have learned while it passed.

Thank you for reading this chewed up bubble gum. You are the best part of why I do this.

Sweetness from Duane and Gretchen

Sweetness from Duane and Gretchen

Last Day!

Last Day!

the hunt for red velvet:

I get into these food moods where I basically want to eat something and in the vain search for that precise flavor, I will hunt and be disappointed, I will resist the temptation (which only increases the determination) and I will finally satisfy it or move on to something else.

Last week it was the sabinas frijoles from Nuevo Leon. It is the world's best bean dip. It begins with a layer of refried beans, melted chihuhua cheese, and diced tomatoes, covered by chunky strands of onions. As if this wasn't enough, the entire plate is then placed in the oven for optimum flavor mingling. This appetizer dish is so wonderful that I am often tempted not to eat anything else.

The red velvet cupcake is my current obsession. A visit to Eatzi's started it, but their cupcake was drier than a towel left in the sun. A couple days later, at Bittersweet, I reluctantly chose a chocolate cupcake with buttercream frosting and spied a red velvet just sitting on the counter! Not presented as an option, I was torn between eating the chocolate sitting in front of me or asking for the red velvet. Another disappointment ensued.

My last day at Siena is Wednesday and my only request of my coworker (who is also a fantastic baker) was red velvet cupcakes. In order to make my quest even more ridiculous, I asked that they be mini cupcakes.

I know that they will be moist and delicious and that my coworker will not disappoint me and I only have to wait a few more days to have that taste that my brain cannot forget...

=What does it matter? I am already dead anyway.=

The first time I met him, we were at the same fast food joint nearby school. He was tall, so I noticed him. Back then, he seemed younger, in the same way that I seemed younger, kind of unformed, still with loose edges. We made small talk. There was something in his eyes I recognized, something like a gleam that I knew. It turned out we were both fiction writing majors. Both at the same level in the curriculum. Both a little older than the average student (though still young enough to pass for their age).

We talked about our class work and how similar it was, gogol, the nose, writing. We talked about him, computers, burning man, a life well lived. We talked about me, shy, learning how to live, my love of food, coffee, stories.

I saw him every so often for a year or so in which we exchanged weighted hellos. I wondered if I wasn't with Eric might something have happened. Nothing did.

I befriended a young woman who knew him and though she never fully divulged, she gave me enough of a composite to understand that though he seemed different and unusual, his proclivities for some things were beyond my taste.

As she and I grew closer, I saw him more and more. By this time he'd finished his bachelor's and was working on his master's as well as teaching computer applications on campus; he was heavily involved in the fiction department. I took some time away from the department to do my general studies and loathed the department from afar with it's weird cliques (of which, of course, he took part).

I remember once we spent some time in his office, the three of us, and it was slightly awkward. He showed me the first video I ever saw on the internet and I remember being astounded at such a feat. The previous night Jon Stewart appeared on some talking head show on CNN and got into a shouting match, the next day we watched it in his office. The books on his shelves were part books I'd read (sci-fi, fantasy, some classics) and a lot I hadn't.

When things soured between my friend and he, he began to ignore me somewhat, which was okay, I supposed, since I seemed guilty from knowing so many things about someone I had only really spoken to once. He also seemed harder now, his edges cooked by drugs and alcohol and misplaced trust. The innocence he had was gone. That gleam was shielded.

Maybe I had grown harder too.

I heard his name bandied about. I clicked on his myspace profile. I saw him around campus.

Story goes: he was up late writing and had an accident. Died around 1:15 a.m. Trying to finish a novel. His thesis. He was 34. His name was Frank.

I can't believe I get paid to do this either...!

the constant

The cafe. Counting the years seems astounding. It has become the plateau that my life has stretched from. Lovers, Jobs, friends, my stories; essentially my whole current life has evolved from my stint at the cafe.

When I started working there, I was twenty. It was memorial day weekend. I didn't think I would get the job because when I applied, I realized with horror that green painted nails might be scary. Vinny told me they were hiring. His friend worked across the street. She liked me from first glance, my boss, and I was the first person she hired.

That place has run the gamut from home to jail and evoked every emotion of the human condition: anger, frustration, love, awe, sadness and joy; all in varying nuances.

I have changed a lot since I started working there. Of course, much of that change was just that I grew up. Part of the growing up happened when I left the first time to begin working at Starbucks (which is a brief yet horrific chapter in my life) and realized that the things I hated so much were so insignificant compared to the "real world" of working where I was written up (on a permanent record kinda thing) for being three (that's right 1-2-3, just three!) minutes late to work, where the chain of command dictated I tuck in my shirt, and the strange odd world of in your face co-workers became a frightening prospect.

Coming back to the cafe was like going back to my grade school when I was a high school freshman. Everything was slathered in the dewy glow of nostalgia and it all seemed shrunken somehow, like I had become a giant and everything was smaller suddenly.

Part of coming back was temporary (what was supposed to be a month ended up being nearly a year and a half) but the truth is, when I began working there again, it was because everything else around me was crumbling and I think I sensed that and sought out that familiar place. I was graduating college--a huge accomplishment that took up a lot of my energy--and at the same time my relationship reached a boiling point and my home life ceased to exist, it was the one thing I could depend on, the one place I could go and feel at home. Think of it this way, I've lived in ten apartments since I began working there and only two of them really felt like home (you know, you can walk around naked and not feel weird).

Next Wednesday morning will be my final shift at the coffee shop. Part of me wonders if I came back just to have that last day I didn't get when I left for Starbucks because Kim just got upset and let me go when I gave her my last two weeks.

One thing that the cafe has taught me is that you can't be too extreme in this world, because the second you rail against something, a real person shows up to counter your beliefs. I have seen the good, the bad and the ugly, along with the crazy and it was a good ride.

it's the sound of the toilet flushing

So, you think you can change the rules of our "friendship" and get mad at me for not getting it right? And what, do you expect me to come running back to you? You came to me every time, every interaction, but now I have to call you, is that it?

I wouldn't care except I never got the chance to tell you what a jerk you were, how you thought everything I did was weird, so I slowly just stifled myself and quieted my voice until there was nothing but you and you still weren't satisfied. And of course, now you're blaming it on me, cause it's never your fault.

That you have the gall to be pissed is unbelievable. It always was.

You approached me many years ago when I was still gullible enough to think that people were good and kind and decent and that even though every fiber of my being was screaming about how awful you were, I still thought you deserved my friendship because you wanted it. You wanted me.

You told a person you barely knew that she was your best friend in Chicago. And then you proceeded to demand everything you could with a twist of the head, with a critical tongue, with such extreme entitlement that I was afraid to say no.

I helped you move, I babysat for your child (for free [!]), I talked you down from so many ledges, I listened to all of your bullshit and ate it up. I even let the father of your child stay in my home for a week and all you had to say about it was some smart ass comment about you and I not talking in two months. You couldn't just be gracious and appreciative, you had to be a jerk. And I knew it all along but I felt stuck in being wanted and being nice and then I just stayed stuck.

Even though you may not be book smart, you do pay attention and recently, you'd realized that I have new friends who I am myself around, friends that I have exchanges with, friends who I look forward to seeing, friends that I enjoy spending time with. They are not critical and full of "helpful" suggestions. They let me make my mistakes, they may have opinions but they don't kill me with them, and they would help me out no matter what if I needed help.

That you wouldn't help me when I needed you, when I asked you for help, that I had to beg you and you complied and then you turned your smiling face around and made fun of me, after all I've done for you, well that was the last thing I could take. After that, I made no secret about my dislike, I would not agree to hang out with you and I will never spend time with you again.

Standing around pointing out the small and large mistakes (which are usually just your brand of "common sense") committed by everyone else may provide you a temporary respite from your own fuck-ups, but it also brands you as someone to avoid. Good luck with that.

Pilsen love part two:

Pilsen love part two:

plantar fasciitis [heel pain]

the irony is, sitting down and keeping my feet up makes it feel worse. wearing flip flops was probably the cause, but exacerbated by the job on my feet, the extra forty pounds, my achingly lovely high arches.

at first it was a sharp pain through my right heel, then it felt like I'd bruised it somehow, so I wore real shoes again, then I wore inserts and suddenly both feet were affected, then I began to walk funny from the inserts sliding about. the ache became a throb, which became a phantom amputation.

the list of remedies is short, but sometimes amusing (I was instructed to roll a tennis ball under my arches every morning, only to have the tennis ball lost under the cavern of my bed...) but mostly I am struck by the horror that my body is slowly deteriorating and I have nothing to show for it, other than I don't really look my age (but fuck, I feel it).

yeah.

Meet Ralph:

The first day I got Ralph, I planned on taking him home right away. It had been a long week and Ralph was my reward. I coddled him like a child and was generally very excited about his arrival into my life.

I was so thrilled by Ralph that I called my friend walter to meet us for a drink at Raven's (on the patio, so Ralph could continue to enjoy "fresh air") and walter happily obliged. We then decided to go to Ranalli's for "one" martini since tracie was working and it had been a while since I'd seen her (my relentless days of boozing seem to be waning!).

Well...one martini is never enough! So of course, I stayed at the bar all night until it closed and poor Ralph was subjected to second hand smoke, lecherous stares, confused questions and other bar offenses. It was proven: given the opportunity to care for another life, I will force that oxygen loving thing into the darkness and smoke.

Ralph was shuffled from one place to another until he finally reached the warmth of his home. And there he just looked like he belonged. Our plan is to get him a bigger pot and watch him grow through winter...

What quitting cures:

What quitting cures:

Do you know what pink is for?

Do you know what pink is for?

finding that satisfaction

he uses clever words.

he practices.

I do this.

it is a small thing usually, but it is a brief connection to something and someone beyond that endless day of boredom and grief.

and when asked if I am doing well, feeling happy, all that comes to the surface is gibberish and the feeling that I am drowning/

fish tacos

The meal of a lifetime, the sort you never forget, the painstaking attempts to getting everything right, and we are wanting to each contribute to this, despite ourselves and our past.

Ralph is home here. Ralph is a conifer, a japanese cypress, petite, green, cheer-bringing, and he looks fuller already, having let his branches fall in relaxation.

I feel at home here.

And yet,

On the bus, a dozen black kids stoked a fear in me that has been dormant since high school: a creeping panic that nearly had me fainting. I was so disoriented that I don't even know for sure what happened, just that I was scrutinized by so many judgmental eyes, which is one of my least favorite things.

His visit was the buoy of my day; and my smile gave me away.

The things that threaten to sabotage my life with him and I don't feel strong enough to resist.

left to flower/gone to seed

A walk through the park revealed a european garden that reminded me of the most beautiful place I've ever been (madrid, spain), but that I was there with him and there was sadness between us; another memory spoiled and tainted.

in the peach colored gravel lay a broken bud, a beautiful magenta flower made up of hundreds of small petals that converged on its center. it looked like the flowers that happen when chives are left unharvested, but this was smaller, more tight, petals so severe that they resisted opening from my fingernail. It was there waiting to be discovered, longing to communicate something, wanting to live on past its stalk and roots and I reached down and plucked it from the ground and held it in my fingers while we tried to make sense of us.

in the lagoon, I tossed that tiny bud, and it created a ripple so large that it seemed impossible. I threw it out of frustration, thinking to myself that I wanted nothing to remember that walk or today. it stayed beautiful despite me.

too bad there is no gardener for my memories.

small gestures keep us together while we pretend not to notice everything else...

denouement

My eyes followed him all night. He was everywhere, he was the hero; and yet, he hardly acknowledges me. Is that why I find it so hard to resist him? It can't be anything else, for he is fairly average and seemingly lacking the verbal skills to satisfy me, which is hard to know for sure since we haven't had a conversation and only exchanged gestures.

He is nothing special.

And yet, he manages to capture my attention completely each time, and I cringe as I remember how obvious I must have been, my scrutinizing eyes trying to find his staring at me, but each time he was not there, and everyone around me knew it was him I wanted to talk to. She figured me out because she feels the same, we all do, panting and languishing in his presence, fiery, older, wanton, brazen, and it is just how all women are around him.

I don't understand the why; maybe it is biological, innate, something we cannot know. It must be, because he is so lackluster in the usual ways.

He seems too cool for school, so above it all, so disinterested, and that veneer is a shiny prettier version of what I hear about him, that he's actually very excited by things, he's baffled by things, that I know everyone but him is why he is so aloof. He skulks about like a panther, but he's really just a chimpanzee with poor posture.

When he is out of sight, he is out of my mind.

He greeted my friend, who he has explored, and I half expected him to go on ignoring me, fanning the flames of my frustration, but he said hello after all. It was lackluster, of course. He was already turned around and going back, but right then I wasn't paying attention and walked into the beaded curtain, which caught my face and hugged me. I yelped and spun around and bumped into the wall. Giggling, I ran into the bathroom with my friend and wondered how a chimpanzee could turn me into a goof with nothing more than a hello.

soon-to-be scarf

the quarters

I receive them with glee. I put them in my purse. I collect as many as I can. Imagine doing laundry, playing galaga at the dirty bird with walter, but most of all, I want to pump his meters full of quarters so he doesn't have to worry about getting a ticket or needing quarters or his beautiful gray eyed betsy doesn't get besmirched.

this random auto-assignment was something that occured to me one day as a nice thing to do, but it doesn't really make sense. but I like to do it. it gives me great pleasure to take care of people. but most of all, I like to imagine his face when he realizes I've been there. I wonder what he thinks of it; is this arrangement odd? does he wonder why I do it? does he find it charming or stalker-y?

his vehicle is a thing of beauty. it is the first time I have been enchanted by a car. I see it immediately from any vantage point, its curves slightly pushing out past the line of the typical slim hipped cars, betsy takes up space but she carries her weight well and she is amazing. he keeps her in pristine conditions, never once has she been muddied or not shining with dazzle in the sun. I imagine him at the wheel, his big hands and tattooed arm in complete control of this large beautiful thing, his sunglasses down, his teeth clutching at his lower lip, his music turned up real loud and I wish I could be there, screaming into the wind with him and betsy.

in short, it is the first time I have had a crush on someone via their car, and I don't know what to do other than take care of her, and him and hope that someday my reward will be a ride in that soft well maintained plushness with him happy to have some one at his side.

too long

It's been so long since I've knitted that I can't remember how to start the stiches. As I get going, it comes back to me, but it strikes me as odd that I haven't knitted for almost a year, even though it's one of the biggest stress relievers I've ever known and I love making beautiful things.

but then again, I have no time. busy busy busy.

right now my eyelids are weighted with sleep, my back hurts, my feet hurt, it has been a long exhausting day, but I'm still writing because I want to. But sometimes I just can't muster up the wanting to more than wanting to sleep. same goes for most of my solitary extracurricular activites. As much as I enjoy reading a book, crafting a shadow box, collaging with my endless supply of paper and photos, I just can't seem to make time for those things that bring a deep sense of satisfaction and joy to my somewhat lackluster life.

there's something else though; I constantly push aside stuff for me to do stuff for other people. it's dumb and I don't want to do it anymore. I have never been a conciously selfish person, deciding to do what's best for me first, but it's about time I start.

first step has been letting go of those few friendships that only make me wonder, why am I even bothering to hang out with this person?

my second step has been having my day off be my day and not scheduling anything else...though sometimes this doesn't always happen.

next, I've been doing small things that make me happy and fulfilled in an effort to accommadate being so busy: I'll put a card and envelope in my purse to write a note during a lull, carry a bigger purse so I have a book to read at all possible times (usually during travel on the impossible CTA) and I've been trying not to deny myself every single thing that feels like a treat, because the truth is, one bagel and cream cheese isn't going to make the difference.

Excuse me, I've got to get back to my knitting...

helium head

maybe I just needed a day off. maybe it was last night's drinking combined with no dinner and four hours of sleep; no coffee consumed til four in the afternoon. useless, I was.

the only sense of accomplishment I feel is that I started reading a book today and it's nearly done. happened to me the other day too. usually that kind of consumption is something I regard with some suspicion, wondering if it means that I am holing up again, fighting off the urges to do the shit I've absolutely got to do.

It feels okay because one of the things I've absolutely got to do is write my manuscript, and I can't write when I'm not reading something. It's an odd phenomenon, but my writing feels forced or trite when there's nothing I've been reading.

I can tell it's about time to begin my manuscript; I've been wanting to write here more often, I've been writing super duper eloquent text messages that I save with some sense of pride and I've been having dreams.

I'm sure I dream all the time, but I hardly remember them. Every so often I have transcribed the details of some dreams I remember online. I find it interesting that when I go into this kind of period, it is usually fall, which used to mean school, reading lots, I also tend to dream in a vividness that gives it some concreteness so that when I wake, I have strong recollections of what I was dreaming about.

Also, I have become agitated. I find the dullness I encounter from living day to day almost painful. I am bitter and bitter is bad.

this is what I know from watching others: do what you want and you will get what you deserve. wasting time not doing what you want is mind-numbing. doing what you want actually changes people from morose Eeyores to vibrant people who make a difference.

fuck. what am I doing here? my friend dan the man is thrilled that I want to go into the peace corps. maybe it's the right time to give myself away to a cause that's worth my time, my exhaustion, my sore feet, my cracked hands, my smiles, my tears, my heart.

we are all dorks trying to be cool pt. 334

raven's. "the dirty bird." life is in the way. drink until it doesn't hurt.

if life manages to remind you that it sucks, take a shot.

when you remember someone who's done you wrong, delete their number.

when you've had too many, have some more.

when you get home, eat things you would never eat when sober. chew til your jaw hurts. eat more.

live in excess until it somehow feels better.

extend the life boat to others who feel like they are drowning. no use being alone at a time like this.

when your friend's "troubles" seem silly, watch the crap on tv. even if it is the bachelor. be glad that the guy is hot, even if he is a stupid fuck that makes you wish you had a shotgun.

remember how tv is something that you miss until you see a commercial that makes no sense and the guy who is cooler than you because he's sober and a know it all bartender who doesn't think you're hot enough to give cheap beer to (or maybe he doesn't want to demean you, but you can't tell) and then he tries to tell you that it's the commercial's way of "arting it up."

said bartender pretends to be a nerd by searching for star trek on the tv, but when you ask him if he prefers TOS to TNG and he doesn't understand,

you suddenly understand that he's just a fuckwad who thinks liking star trek somehow makes him cooler than you.

feel like an ass when your favorite band is on his ipod and you can't tell just by the first thirty seconds because you didn't have that album, but at least you don't have a fucking ipod.

hate hate hate life. drink some more.

sixteen years later; victory

being fourteen was hard for me. fuck. being any age other than the age I am right fucking now was hard for me.

sixteen might have been worse than fourteen, but I remember fourteen is when things began to change for me, when being a tomboy wasn't okay anymore, when hormone driven crushes ordained my days and I still had an innocence about me that sparkled; it was so shiny.

and then he came and dulled me.

if you wonder why I am afraid of the slightest invasion of my three feet of space, surely he was the beginning of the anxiety. if you want to know why I jump when limbs come my way, he is why. if you want to know why I don't trust men, he is one of them.

The Harold Washington Library. Research. A table. My books everywhere. My gangly limbs in a tangle underneath.

He sat nearby. I noticed him. I noticed everything even then. Him though, he has a certain discomfort, a tidal wave of noxious energy that is alarming to behold...his tabletop covered with sheafs of sketch papers, endless arrays of stolen profiles, caricatures, souls.

he spoke softly, like a secret.

: can I sketch you?

I felt scared, unsure.

: it won't take long. I promise.

he pulled up a chair next to me and began to make long strokes with charcoal across gray paper.

occasionally, he reached out to touch my face and I flinched.

: stay still.

he rearranged my arms. it felt like forever but twenty minutes later he had stolen my soul and transcribed it to paper.

I looked sad.

when I arrived at the coffeeshop this morning his hunched shoulders gave me pause, his profile looked that familar still and it was him.

I couldn't sit there with him there. I know he didn't do anything wrong. he just took some slight advantage of me. he didn't hurt me. he didn't molest me. but there was something in his touch and intentions with me that felt creepy, felt like he'd taken up my skin and crawled around inside, seeped into my pores, and took immense pleasure in stealing my soul.

so when he was in the cafe, my cafe, my place, my second home, the one constant I've had in the last ten years, the place that has been the fork in that road, led me to the life I have now,

well I couldn't let that bogeyman stay.

when I asked him to leave, I figured he'd just take off and go. I figured he'd been asked to leave lots of places. he still had that creepy unease spilling out of him, but when he turned and saw my face, the anger there, the bitterness,

he asked: did I do something wrong?

and how could I remind him? I just shook my head no and told him it was time to go.

he used them all in a range of calm to furious;

: I spent money here, how dare you be rude to me, you racist, red neck fuck.

I have seen him around the city in glimpses tinged with fear always wondering if it was really him.

and I hope I never see him again. ever.

Millennium Park

Strangely enough, this bedraggled city project has become something of a remarkable thing to me. I adore it. I am proud of it. I wish I could find more reasons to go there.

Every saturday for the duration of the summer, there has been a free session of yoga decent enough to leave my limbs aching. I have been there for the saturday yoga with my friend Val five or six times, seen a concert there once and visited the video fountains twice this summer with The Kid. It is stunning. It is an unrivalled mecca.

at 24 I was pretty funny:

Thursday, April 26, 2001

Regrets:

Dropping out of school.
My estrangement with my various family members who should know who they are.
Letting my relationships get all taken for granted.
The way Vince and I got engaged the first time.
Passing on opportunity.
Not volunteering for a good cause when I should have.

Goals:
Graduate college by 2006.
Be a millionaire via intellectual property.
Be a generous millionaire.
Write a novel or two before I turn 30.
Volunteer and learn more about marine biology through Shedd Aquarium.
Become a mentor.
Become more involved in YCA.
See my nephew at least once a year.
Have the wedding that I dream of having.

Interestingly enough, the only goal I managed to make good on was graduating college by 2006. And even that is a little off, because my last day of school was December 18th, 2006. Of course, my regrets are the same and even have new offshoots of them, and my goals actually don't sound so bad, except for the wedding part. I almost left that out, but that and the millionaire part made me laugh.

I've been reading through a lot of my old journal entries trying to identify the "great writer" that Scotty's brother Tom claimed to remember from my bugs in amber days. It's been a while since I looked at those entries and to a large degree what I see is a person who is me but not me, my life is completely different now and everything I used to hate I have learned to embrace. A lot of what I wrote were highly amusing stories that took place at the coffeeshop:
liar, liar, garbage can on fire!
the jesse jackson of clark st
seven strikes you're out!

So did I see a great writer? I don't know. I wish I could say that going to school and spending sixty grand on a fancy education made me a better writer, but I think it made me a better person, so it's not such a loss. I think my journal writing hit a brilliant summit during the dating and exhilaration that was Mr Burnham (which can be viewed at the diaryland site).

Take them or leave them, online journals, blogs, chewed up bubble gum on the sidewalk, there's something to be said for being able to transport back in time with a few clicks on a keyboard.

in that place

I am in that scary-ish place where life seems to be making sense and yet it feels awfully hollow, like I've got it all figured out but there's no satisfaction in having it be comfortable. I am fine. Things are good. I am paying my bills. My apartment is nice. I have a good family that loves me. I have great friends who care for me. My jobs are fulfilling (what's more amazing than contributing to the growth and development of another living being?). Nothing is wrong here.

and yet,

the love of my lifetime is a slippery being who eyes me with distrust and distances himself away from me in ways that hurt more than a month of his self-proposed exile. we are as good as we can be and I have even managed to find a way into his blackened heart, but he is holding himself tightly for someone that is not me. And as much as I know that, I cannot turn away from him and his defective version of love. I love him so much that even the toned down carefully scripted version of him is worth it.

there is the feeling that there is always something I could be doing that I should have done that I'm not doing because I'm a selfish jerk with attention deficit disorder thanks to that shithole job I can't stop working in.

there are those few people whose attentions I could do without, whose flavor digusts me, whose turns of phrases make me want for the friends whose eloquence far surpasses the slugs I sit across from, and when the opportunity comes to brush them away, I don't.

and get this, I am stubbornly reading a terrible first novel just because someone gave it to me to read which I promptly dirtied up in my typical way (it spent one week in my jungle of a purse) and now have to buy the person a new unfilthy copy of a book I didn't even really want to read anyway.

see the pattern? I do. And part of me is afraid that moving to a new state for a new school is a fancy grown up version of discarding the half lived life I've had here and try and make it somewhere newly, as a butterfly instead of an uncharming cocoon with some potential for something greater, full of promise and nothing more.

I have a great fear of failure and somewhere in this pattern is the set up for what feels like the inevitable rejection letter from Iowa, a place I have arbitrarily chosen as the place for me without any research into it whatsoever (which has not done me wrong in the past, and served Cher pretty well in Kiss the Girls).

Luckily, I have sabotaged my old self that persists in many lizard brain ways and the things that are a shock to me, the things that I now accomplish with ease, the fact that anything I put my mind to gets done means I will fail (if I do get rejected) in a different way than before: At least I did something else. And then, I kept doing something else.

Pete's bday

new job: iris

Look what I landed on

love, daddy

Last night when I arrived home and opened my mailbox, I found a letter from my father inside. It surprised me since I had just sent out a card in the afternoon describing my worry of his absence from my life. Some of you regular readers may have noticed his phonetically spelled uber comments have petered out, which I assumed was due to his recent move but would return after he got settled in.

The occasional cards from my daddy have marked birthdays and holidays, but otherwise, I don't get letters from him. It's okay by me; I have always enjoyed his comments here and he sometimes sent emails. Ah, how our modern ways of communicating kept us in touch. I sent him a father's day card some time ago and heard nothing...not a phone call or text message and I knew he was without a computer, so I filed it away into that part of my brain that is devoted to the things I do not understand or know the reasons behind them and went on my merry way.

A couple weeks ago, I decided I wanted to send some real letters and got out a card set and sent some notes. He was included on the short list of people I don't see or speak with often enough. I sent him a photo from my graduation and my best wishes.

It turns out that his letter and my card were written just days apart.

He hasn't had a computer and mentioned he missed reading my silly chewed up bubble gum blog writing. Part of me wonders if part of the reason I haven't been writing here as much is because I knew he wasn't going to be reading. He's read nearly every blog I've written for the last five years or so. I was thinking that perhaps I ought to mail the entries to him; it might be a good reason to finally hook up that printer I got almost two months ago now.

I enjoy the idea of having a pen pal again, and I've been enjoying sending out cards again. It makes me feel like my words have some small value.

the storm

the next day left us with the evidence of the storm, the kind of destruction so unbelievable, so widespread, so complete that it was amazing each time it was viewed: whole huge trees uprooted from the earth, limbs and trunks of trees fallen to the ground, huge branches lying across things like cars and sidewalks, stories after stories of nearly missed falling branches, power outages, and the where we were when it happened.

and little things too, like leaves splattered to the ground so hard it seems they've become part of the cement, soggy twigs scattered everywhere, garbages filled to the brim with leaves jutting out of them, reminders everywhere that nature can still wreak havoc and who it hurt most that time was trees, so many trees.

in the middle of it all, where was I when it happened when hurricane caliber winds were sweeping through the city, when driving rains soaked the city and flooded train stations and sewers all at once? I was on my way to him, ignoring any signs of danger (huge bolts of lightning that made my umbrella fearsome) and all the while wondering how long it would take to be in his arms and recover from our own stormy morning.

"what?!"

in a drunken rage I broke my cell phone. not enough to deem a new one necessary, but enough to render my communications via text message useless. I don't know why I did this. I also broke a small mirror in my purse. instead of seven years bad luck, I had seven days bad luck and went through the week like a coma refugee.

[today is the end of day seven.]

I haven't wanted to write in a while, long since before the week of bad luck. I don't know why. I tried to figure a reason, but even that would not come.

Sometimes I hate my life. Everything is a series of dominoes so complicated and precarious that even one breath can alter and affect the next. it becomes so frustrating to try and retrace my steps, discover the origin of this mistake and that issue, and to what end? for justification of what? the withdrawal of my love.

as it always was. but now, not always, just a habit now.

to approach myself from what makes me happy, feel good, and fuck the rest, it's really different. to see my life through the words of an eight year old (who knows more than you'd imagine) is startling. and yet, why is it that I am constantly surprised by just how very amazing I am?

She smiled and in her grin was a significance I did not understand. I said hello. I met her bemused smile, with its reaching cloying mirth and asked what she would like. She said in the most joyful way, that she would like one of my delicious cappuccinos. Then I knew her. A week ago I made her a cappuccino, and she presented me with the order that I love best of all, one that makes the most sense to me, one that shows that she is someone who really understands coffee.

She ordered a small cappuccino with three shots of espresso. that the cup is twelve ounces means she has created the perfect and correct ratio of coffee to milk to foam. No one else could ever appreciate such a thing except for me and I relish in the opportunity to make this drink. When I present it to her, I say, "Making cappuccinos is my specialty." She seems unimpressed by my boastfulness, but today she says that I was right, that later that night she had gone to starbucks and they had made her a terrible cappuccino which she requested the same way and she even told her husband that the little shop down the street has a better cappuccino made by this woman. and I was that woman.

my new job is great. not only do I get to hang out with a sarcastic kid who loves video games and cartoons and the disney channel and eating all the things I like to eat and doing all the things I like to do (so far we have seen a movie, gone to a ballgame, searched the zoo for dippin dots and gone to millennium park), I don't work as much at the coffeeshop and that is good.

I just completed my taxes about two weeks ago. I am playing an endless round of catch-up and the carousel only stops periodically, at which point I would much rather find my breath and stop the spins than clean my bathroom. I am always constantly regaining ground: reading the book, fixing the old problems which clears the way for new ones, doing laundry, finding time to shower and tweeze my eyebrows, go to therapy, dye my hair, paint my toes, shave my legs, wash the dishes, check the mail, read that pile of magazines, call those people, email my friends, it is always the same list I find each week/month, waiting for me, a continual agony of things I must do and lately there has been nothing to stop that turnstile; for a while there was school, then drinking, then him and then the love of my lifetime and now, nothing but the constant juggle of things I must do.

I am reading Light in August by William Faulkner. The writing is dense and gritty, layered, subtle; it makes me ashamed to even desire to write. and yet, there is something familiar there, like a chilly goosebumpy feeling of recognition, and this is only the second book of his I've read, but I feel like my tangle of words will be best compared to his someday and there is something eerie and scary about that feeling.

I am waiting again, a series of successive climbs, plateaus, all abstract: the application is due in November, I will hear back in March (happy fucking birthday), I will prepare to leave by July, I will be in school again next September. That is all I know, the rest are just empty blanks that I have to fill in but I have neither the time nor gumption nor desire to do any of it, except that I want so desperately to escape this husk of a life that I will fill in those blanks as best I can.

I don't remember anymore which truths are lies and what I convinced myself was true. I don't know where I'm going. I have no faith in anything except the magic of children and their ability to stop time and enjoy what is right in front of their faces. When I am with them, they teach me that lesson/over and over again I am surprised at how easy it is to let go and just be.

In all of this, there is the love of my lifetime, like flame, and each time I try to resist on the grounds of logic and doubts, I succumb and I feel no shame, just confusion, just worry that I must've gotten it all wrong at some point, but I don't know how to get back to what feels right.

yarn love

trace

lakefront

that elusive point

on the bus, the open mouths, the quiet hum, the shuffle of bodies pressed against everything but flesh, the avoidance of dirt and all things human

on my way to him, my friend, with his unwashed self and his breath and I love it that he's human around me and we have no shame.

over and over again I see the world recoiling from each other, pretending we don't exist, only to seek out that affirmed company we are familar with

defiant, I smile at them all, I nod hello in the most pleasant way, I even sometimes exchange waves with complete and total strangers who meet my eyes and search for something in them.

there is no end to the people I cannot love and the love I have to give.

like minded

landmark

mini madeliene madness!

he loves me through food:

he loves me through food:

glance

There are so many years between them that I can tell she speaks in just a glance. I recognize her angry face, because I've felt it come on mine so many times for the love of my lifetime. She has nothing to worry about, despite how it looks between her husband and me, he loves her, he loves her, he loves her undyingly.

So I steal the moments I can, without guilt, with pleasure, delicious giggles waiting at my throat, delighted smiles, furtive glances in his direction, I give him my whole undiluted self, and he gives me himself in return, even in her presence, with her leering eyes projecting such admonishment, because it is too much fun to rile me up and too much fun to stop.

She punishes me with pasta, my least liked food and it twists my stomach into knots and cramps and she knows it.

and I wonder why she has him so completely, and what it might have been like if he and I had happened across each other in another life, in another way, before they cemented themselves in children, but I know that there are just not enough things that line up, that even though we enjoy each other's company to the point of lack of oxygen from sharing the same hiccupy giggle, that is not enough to build with.

I linger over thoughts about his lack of a brother, just one would be enough for me, or the bad timing, which is really a lot of years to explain away, and finally, how she avoids my curses, or perhaps bus drivers are driving better these last few years.

I sense her feelings as if she were shouting them at me: she is left out of the fun, she never meant to be a boring house mum, she was supposed to be the "cool" one, what the hell is happening?!

Try as she might, I can never muster up the sympathy for her litany of complaints or the enthusiasm for her jilted attempts at humor. It is simply too late and I am completely smitten by her husband.

My attempts at downgrading this enchantment continuously fail. All is well until I see him again and all my mental blockades come away; like a skilled hurdle runner, he expertly handles me and it is over before I am aware that the race has begun.

I have spent some months resisting him with some success, when I realized his playful banter was present with all the other women in his life, but there was no enjoyment between us. Also, I spent those months hating that he had chosen a woman who took no more pleasure in what he so obviously enjoyed, and I wished the both of them a happy life in hell. And, as he escorted me home so many many times, it only served as a painful reminder of just how awful the other important relationships in my life were.

He wins me with compliments, both deserved and flattering, his attention, which is a combination of precise observation and referential jokes (my favorite type of humor), and his playful demeanor.

He was supposed to be gone today, and I felt the surprise and joy in myself rise when I saw his smile and I knew he was smiling for me. It felt like an awkward moment in a Jane Austen novel, his wife staring at me, me staring at him, him staring at me. I tried to suppress my glee, but I don't feel bad any longer for enjoying his company.

He is hers and she is his. And I know I am just a peripheral part of their lives.

goodbye Amos

open

three mesh screens and the urge to climb are all that keep me safe in my apartment. The voices of people on the sidewalks come inside. Their conversations float up to me as they pass. I hate them and I love them.

I could close the windows.

but it reminds me that I'm alive, that I'm not alone, that something else exists out there outside of myself. even if it is the beep of a cop's walkie talkie, and the voices scream expletives, and sometimes I wonder how long it will take the gentrification wave to absorb the ghetto building, and if anyone else cares.

in the morning, the birds slowly begin a constant chattering, a conversation brought closer by tree branches outside my window, and it is a steady chatter that pauses only for the lawn mowing equipment noises.

tonight, the windows gave me a group of people singing and playing the guitar. I hated them for singing so loudly so late, but I loved them for being together, walking down the street, singing a song.

when he is here I feel safe and content and sleepy and when he is gone it is impossible to find sleep, the voices outside scare me and I long for the quiet streets I knew.

thunderstorm

taste

strand

They stretch across places I go late at night: doorways, fences to trees, the darkness; I feel them, the strands, clutching at my skin, they are small and dainty and strong. I feel like Goliath in their wake. I feel bad for ruining what might have been. I wonder how long it took that spider to swing out and connect that long line of web, which clings to the hairs on my arms and falls at my feet.

In my bathroom I have noticed a bunch of them, clusters of dusty webs that have pinpoints of black in their centers, but I don't sweep them away. He tells me to, but I argue, and they remain. A week later they are doing the suspected and hoped for job of catching other bugs, what look like ants with wings. A week later they are empty.

His arms, his bed, his smells and I am stuck there again, so easily, what feels at the time so permanently, until some time goes by and I am pushed out of his web.

Obligations pass with a sense of relief, I am not attached to anything that does not bring me joy, and so I will step away without destroying myself in the process of trying to become free. the jobs, the people, the things I must do, the world.

The connections I have made sometimes surprise me. When they are broken it is a choice to begin again or try a different way. It is interesting what I will give my attention to and what I will work on the most.

The spiders in my bedroom prance around my papers looking for mites, and I love that they have found me.

not so happy camper

As I endeavor to make nice nice with one Mr. Burnham, I find it hard to maintain my shiny veneer, the shellacked version of myself that I trot out for mostly everyone (except for family, in which I feel it is fine to be myself in all my bitter glory). I incorrectly assumed that since I'd been working hard at being this upgraded happier version of me for the better part of a year, I'd have no problem giving him this new improved glossy me.

For a while, I blamed him, feeling that when he takes a seat next to me, I become a console of buttons that he freely and gladly pushes. I branded him a button pusher, a finger pointer, an instigator of angst, and tried to go along on my merry way.

The hardest thing to admit is that I am simply not happy. Sure, I'd like to be. I see other people being happy and it looks like a good time. I've always wondered what it would take for me to be happy. I had it like I had to have all my ducks in order, everything perfect and then I could be happy. It never occurred to me that it had nothing to do with what I had or didn't have, or if all was right with the world, or if my immediate safety wasn't threatened.

I don't like feeling miserable all the time. Being happy is an effort for me. Being unhappy is like breathing. Thankfully, I'm not much of a complainer (probably because I work out a lot of my grievances here), and I'm pretty diplomatic, so spending time with me isn't so awful, but I'll admit it, if you're looking for cheery, delighted-by-life company, you won't find it here.

A lot of things bring me joy, a lot of circumstances illicit gladness, and the friends I spend time with are good ones, people who stoke conversations and model the ability to find happiness in a fucked up world. Externally, if the things I deem as pleasurable surround me, only then can I be content.

What I've come to understand is that part of the reason I'm not happy is because I'm not happy with myself. All of the things I thought I'd be by this time in my life haven't happened. I got stuck somewhere along the way and now I feel like I am constantly excavating myself and retracing my steps, and searching for that fork in road where I got lost. In doing so, I've regained some semblance of normalcy and recovered some confidence in myself that brings me some happiness.

The work of being happy involves many ducks: ace-ing the GRE, editing my manuscript, applying to grad schools, getting my apartment in order, maintaining my physical appearance (a grueling chore) and having a job I don't hate doing. I realize that this approach is almost like the guy pushing the rock up the hill. I can't disagree. I do these things because I know that they are external things that bring me some sense of relief, some sense of duty, some sense that I am trying to do something with my life. This is the blueprint of happy I was given and it is all I know, and I know that this approach seems to work some of the time.

And then, there are some moments when I let go, when my smile comes freely and I am happy, when being happy is just something I slip on, like a pair of sunglasses with a pink tint and the world appears not so harsh and blinding.

rooftop

burns

black bean soup, cafe con leche, swirled espresso, the egg pan, sunshine, no umbrella, new suede shoes in the rain, them so happy together, his absence, his endless parade of plans with others, fuck, fuck, fuck me.

,

the cuban restuarant we ambled into was perfect. free of hustle and bustle, we ate european style. the minutes stretched into hours and there was no where we had to be, which I love, and we enjoyed everything. my friend smelled the cigar smoke from the back, and we thought that was perfect. the flan was cold and smooth and it relieved some of the flash burning that my tongue endured from the cafe con leche.

;

I have hated for so long. I wonder what it will take for me to love again. I don't trust them, the men. They can tell. I look like a frightened animal in a stand-off, stuck between running and wondering if I don't move long enough they'll go away. He doesn't mean to hurt me, but he's too selfish not to, so we tousle and in the end, it will be a devastation that I gave myself away one more time. I wish that it could be different, but he's not different, neither am I.

[the cat]

I enter through the back door, that I know will be open, so I don't have to ring the bell at the front door, so I won't scare him under the bed and into fervent unapproachable hiding. He sleeps during the day, so I expect I might rouse him from the couch cushions, but before I can find him, he wanders into the kitchen from somewhere at the sound of my voice.

I wonder, can it be, does he recognize my voice, does he know me? he leaps onto the table to get a closer view and smell my purse, and he seems to be watching me, his ears seem to be straining to listen to my voice, and I love him. Seeing him again reminded me how very much I loved him. Sometimes when there was no one I could relate to, he was there for me and I would pet him, he would purr and there was love between us.

it was like no time had passed, and we two were in our own world of enjoyment and pleasure, me from his timid exploration of my feet and him for the scratching along his spine which I know he loves. Every time I see him I wonder if I will ever see him again. Yet, I have no right to ask to see him more.

[the man I love]

ditto.

"

if only it was as simple as with the cat. if only I could be so understanding when it came to him.