some things to remember

it's time to eat crow. take out the feet that are stuck in my mouth. whatever else they say about apologizing for being an asshole.

Drew came with the sun and cleared the clouds. even in the first winter's snow. his ability to see past my facades is incredible, and just what I needed, a dose of uber-reality, a line of words that have nothing to do with anything but the truth.

what is the truth? it lies in the answer (which is more of a pun than you realize) to this question: Are you living a life you love?

and then when it is a no, all there is to do is to do something.

so here I sit, admitting to the people that there are things to admit to, causing, perpetuating, being responsible for, etc, etc, all the things that sound like they don't really matter, but in the end, what does really matter...

his line floated above all else, and it wasn't like I even wanted to be reminded that it really is this simple. I priggishly thanked him for his unsolicited advice. And then I took it.

anyway, the fog is lifting, the sky is visible, and all there is to do is regain the footing I once held. I always think it is more sure than it really is and it seems like it hardly takes anything to make me topple.

even if it always feels like I am failing, falling, a tremble of all things unfair in the world, there is something in me that is always pressing upwards to some surface to burst into breath and swallow gulpfuls of air. my eyes open and I wonder how I got to where I had been and I try to shake some sense into myself, I say, Self, it doesn't have to be so hard.

and somewhere, my Self smiles, and it is eerie, because I know there is destruction in that smile, there is my enemy, it is inside me, it is my undying need to be right, to be preserved as a righteous soul, a tortured victim, and defiant, hell that smile is all about defiance as it's best,

and I try not to cringe

while sorting out the messes that part of me has made.

I have renewed my quest to write everyday. And part of me longs for this stilted voice that is at once complicated and a mix of fucked up diction and syntax and all kinds of wrongness grammar-wise, so I am going to see how long I can stand writing this way. maybe you can't stand it either. I wish someone would tell me what they really think of my writing. sometimes I know it is not bad, but sometimes I wish someone would just say, you fucking suck, Christine, you ought to do something better with your time.

anyway, let me at least give you an image to fondle:

ennui: open mic night: a cafe crowded with tables and chairs and people sitting alone (unless, of course, you do not count laptops as a significant other--she sleeps in my bed and is the first thing I turn to when I come home), the smell of bread grilling is in the air, the walls are a putrid color of green that probably looked better on the paint card and now just looks like a deep mashed pea green, and I sit with my back to the first person at the open mic night (which is only three weeks old) who has been any good.

He has a harmonica, a guitar and a fucking passion beyond what his simple name conveys--how sad to simply be a Joe--and I feel bad for him, that he has the talent, and the fucking gumption, but he wears glasses and upon first glance, he's a bit of a nerd, and it was a little shocking when that first loud chord crashed out of his hands, and that first time his foot stomped in beat with the music (at times it created a sense of percussion, that stomping), and he was probably the only guy who has ever sweated from the simple aerobics of playing his stuff; the other open mic-ers simply sway and swoon in their mopiness...and I want to love Joe forever simply because he is the best of the worst and because he has surprised me. And because no matter what, Joe will never stop doing this and turn to the mope style even though it is far more popular and that makes me glad.

no one else can actually stand his stuff because it's a little bit loud and a little bit unexpected, and when someone surprises you, it's easier to gawk than express some kind of joy in another person's ability to do something better than you expected them to. Or maybe they simply don't approve of the harmonica, the loud guitar chords, the jubilance; after all, it is a coffeeshop and those mopers who sing of loves lost and glances missed, they know what they are talking about and they say it so sadly and simply. and they have so many more friends than Joe, who has come alone, and these friends are cheering and happy on the sidelines while they wait their turn to sing and and mope before the microphone. And part of me really wishes to go home, but the heat has been broken in my apartment since Friday and it isn't coming back on today.

yes, that is the kind of life I have now.

also; today I spent an hour with a three year old, which can probably be my new cure for the mopes. his little face was delighted to see mine. and we invented a new game, cross country stroller skiing, in which I push his stroller through all the snow and running, twist and turn the stroller while screaming with a false sense of panic and he has the kind of unrelentless laughter that is free from the affectations he's already developed as a three year old. And in classic little kid mania, he developed an unsatiable urge to cross country stroller ski over and over again, which is the only true compliment in life. I mean really. repetition of anything from a young, undiscerning, easily distracted person is how you know you're going in the right direction.