a bitter taste lingers

[Forgive me for turning this blog into a once-a-month-update page. I am also disgusted.]

Six weeks later, the physical wounds from England have healed; a splinter from the parqay floors finally exited the toughened skin on the bottom of my foot and gone are the blisters I accumulated while walking excessively. Slowly the rest of it is healing too, until one day maybe I'll forget that I ever loved someone else's children as if they were my own. There is no tidiness in this breach, it overlaps other friendships, put things into jeopardy, caused me to wonder if I shouldn't be friends with anyone that knew them.

I realize that when I am hurt or wronged or mad at someone I pull out the guillotine and let it fall without thinking. Leafing through a photo album of my previous birthdays revealed the faces of those long dead ghosts, who keep haunting me. I hear of them, people think I want to know things and I languish in that knowledge. It's not that I don't care what they're up to, it's that I care too much.

Today it was Marilyn, who is getting married. Last week it was Laura, who confronted me in person and I ducked away. Recently I learned that Deanna is back in town and done with school.

I don't regret the loss of these friends. I imagine every day is a cleaner, fresher, more stable day because they aren't in it. I know that I am a happier person for their absence. I am absolutely complete with how things ended with each of them and I can't say there's anything to repair or fix or say or apologize for.

And yet, somehow hearing of their lives, both successes and failures, I feel an urge to rekindle what good parts I have allowed to remain in the muck of my memory. I feel like congratulating them, supporting them, but there's something about the decision I made in not being friends with them that is so strong it holds me back from even bothering. It's been over a year since I talked to two of them in person and I only feel this way when I hear about them.

There is something special in having someone around you that knows you for who you really are, somehow who cares for you no matter what you do, it's just too bad that it was not always there from me or them.

As I've survived the emotional fallout from those situations, I find that I am less likely to readily accept the offer of friendship. I used to gobble up any attention anyone gave me. No more. I'm friendly, but not open for business. I have hibernated this winter and come out leaner and feeling better than I have in a long time. Those that I want to know and be on good terms with I've tried to be in touch with to let them know I'm still interested. I've rarely chosen my friends and I'm still revelling in the greatness of it.

I worry that I keep cutting off my older friends and that it's a bad sign if someone doesn't have any friends from childhood or school, but I'm fairly sure if I met Val or Walter ten years ago we'd be close today.

Apparently Laura announced to everyone at the coffee shop that she was disappointed in me because she thought we were "friends for life." I guess all break-ups are hard, even if you treated the person like shit. And what a better life I get to have now!

the fucking center of attention

I hear her words race through my brain and on the one hand they sound crazy, but on the other hand she has found me out, she has seen past my fakery and found the truth but she's warped it into what worked for her to drive me away. And there is nothing but an empty space for them and a wellspring of fresh hate for her.

I couldn't deny that I didn't like her. I never did. That it took so long for her to figure it out and to reveal me in such an uncivilized way was more to dislike.

At some point, I mourned for the man I'd never hold, the man he was for her, the life I would never have. I remember it. A dirty train, a subway, a strange city, and them reflected in the darkness, smiling at one another with their children between them, I realized then that all my crazy thoughts and half hearted wishes had some deep longing that would never be fulfilled. And I actually right then and there began to cry. In the meantime she was trying to get my attention and I wouldn't give it to her.

That was the day I stopped caring enough to hide my disdain for her, yet another woman in the way of what I wanted, another undeserving wretch who didn't measure up to me. I thought I could hide under the brim of my hat, in the shadows of the days, in the din of family, but she watched me, she scoured me, she made sure before she let loose the words that would break us and send me back into another bout of uncertainty. And I relied on all the other people I'd fooled in the past, all the other poor souls who sensed my disgust and carried on as if nothing was wrong.

I hate who I am sometimes more than I can love myself. I know the difference and it is whether or not I can maintain a semblance of normalcy, a pretense of organization, and a sense of control. Just when I thought everything was fine, she pulled my hat off, she shone the light on me, she listened for me in the fray and she left me exposed and vulnerable to everything.

I was manic and she was my depressive.

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.

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.

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.

after all this time

why is it that in the folds and creases of my heart I find a piece of grit so small and unimportant yet it rubs at me incessantly and has spoiled one of my most tender and heartfelt nicknames for the love of my lifetime?

that bitch. that fucking fun sponge. that fucking haplessly eager bitch.

a postcard: addressed to him.

and yet, why not his full name? why the endearment that I so often spoke?

funny thing is, it seems so harmless, so casually appropriate, so just fine. it's only under my lens that it becomes distorted and vile. it is his name after all, just a variation, a nothing. I bet he didn't even notice. If I had done it, he would have smiled at the thing I always said, the way I lingered over the syllables, teasing out the "r's" and he would have known I had done it on purpose with the intent of making him smile.

entertaining the possibility that I may have said it so often that it became ingrained in the minds of those around us seems too banal. I want to hate her. And so I will. Give me fresh hate and I will seethe.

slippery slopes

the hour before his arrival, I jokingly wondered where he was and when he was going to come to siena. that he actually arrived was both pleasing and surprising. his second appearance to the shop was marked by his enormous appetite (three lunch items and a smoothie) and a few references to his last visit. then, the first song he played was a song that I loved previously, and I wondered if he played it for me. and yet, he has been girlfriended for some three years now to a sullen frigid thing who is wonderful in lots of other ways, but doesn't make him happy.

\

his visits to the coffeeshop are a disruption. I stop being myself and switch to something else. I shift gears in front of him and he knows it. he knows why. he wants to think it is the one thing, but really, he knows that it can only be that other thing, that thing that is so always a part of our communication, so stifling and restrictive, so painful and swollen that there is no ignoring that they have explored each other and what we had was nothing but a flat surface. so awful is it to see him that I find ways to avoid serving him if I can, which means the person who makes the worst lattes becomes his barista, and today was no different except he didn't want a latte, he wanted to drop off a dvd I loaned him and then give me the first season of Lost to consume. and yet, what we had was nothing. when I saw them together, I felt nothing, an absence of emotion, but I could not muster enthusiasm, so I ignored them.

\

two hours to kill. two drinks in two hours. two jobs already worked and one still remained. and yet, I was going to be around children later. but I wanted nothing more than to be at raven's, one more night.

\

his sunken eyes search mine and I look for a spark of recognition or desire, but instead I see nothing but eyes. he seems out of it, drunk, crazy even, and there's something about him that makes me want to try and wrap my arms around his mess. today was the first day I admitted some attraction, and yet, I already know that he's not worth the trouble or mental exhaustion. I resisted the urge to smile at him, to ask about him, to introduce myself to him, but just barely.

\

another night of little to no sleep, and what will tomorrow bring, what horror will I inflict on some well meaning soul, what will the lack of sleep do to infect my actions [a spilled cup of coffee, perhaps] and now there is a blackout--people are opening their doors and windows to confirm that the electricity is indeed out, as though the blink of everything on to off wasn't enough of an indicator--and my eyes are burning from the tired, but I know myself, there is nothing I can do when this happens other than honor that momentum. but I know what's best and five hours is cutting it close. and yet, what does sleep give me other than vacant time and lack of dreams?

\

rent is due soon. and yet, no amount of working seems to be enough.

newly accquired pet peeves

the phrase "large vanilla skim latte" [I think I may have reached the one millionth served mark.]

psychological pat-downs by unqualified persons. [who do you think you are anyway?]

said persons. [they know who they are.]

parents who insist their child doesn't want the thing they are asking for because they don't want to follow through with the request. [can't you just say no?]

people who speak slowly. [seriously, I can't help it, but I will finish your sentences. And I won't be that sorry. Unless you were born this way.]

the term "my myspace." [I say it to be cheeky. When you say it it's redundant, unless you smile with the knowledge that you sound absurd.]

text messages that simply say, "ok." [why even bother?]

feel free to add your own...

hog on ice

in trying to figure where or why the phrase "three sheets to the wind" came about, I consulted the book hog on ice as a reference.

though it may be in there somewhere, google proved to be much faster, though I trust the information less.

when will the two worlds meet?

worst case scenarios imminent.

[sometimes I get these intense attacks of presentiment where I am convinced something is going to happen that usually doesn't and in my imaging these events, I tend to map them out in an effort to see where I can diffuse the hysteria and convince myself that I will be unmovable in my determination not to cry--which is what usually happens.]

lately I have been feeling like the sky is falling.

damn chicken little, shut the fuck up.

you lived the last week without me

sigh.

no smoking: day five.

A week ago and a day ago I learned the truth about the city. A week and a day ago I incurred the wrath of the old home. A week tomorrow is when I exhaled the fresh air from my lungs.

slept eighteen hours and spent eighteen hours awake,

read another book

reconnected with an ex, disconnected with an ex

want to smoke so bad it hurts

my lungs are still damaged from monday

saw old friends and felt joy, saw new friends and felt oppressed

if ever there was a yin and a yang, it was this week, this life.

gastronomical distress

[this might be why I don't trust myself to buy groceries and/or eat at home]:

peeled baby carrots and the best ranch dressing ever [naturally yours lite, which I found today at treasure island after a year of searching other grocery stores fruitlessly!]

a ripe avocado

the good corn chips, the ones in the bag with the green stripes across it

black bean dip

double cream cheese [like brie, but not quite brie]

a demi-baguette

a pbr

two handfuls of walnuts

all combined have left me with one very upset stomach.

day two:

grrrr

grrrroogy.

feel like crrap.

my fucking r button is shit.

everrything has annoyed me today.

unsurrrprrisingly.

death to debauchery

I'm not sure how I'm gonna swing it, but I gotta take a huge step back from these innocent nights of drinking that turn into ridiculous marathon drink fests that leave me ruined for the next day. as fun as they are--and they are fun--they are costly, damaging, and altogether too frequent for my tastes.

Thing is, it's not like I've been overdoing it for very long...it's been about five months of serious and consistent drinking, but I do know you could compile all the other times I've gotten drunk before this period and it would hardly be a list worth bothering over. I was never much of a drinker; then I met Eric. He stoked some appreciation for alcohol in me, and truth be told, it wasn't hard for me to say yes. Addictive personality always reigns. Yet, I was in school full time for the duration of our relationship and I made my fair share of passes on life's social outlets. I tried to honor the ever important birthdays and other such would-be offenses had I skipped out, but I felt like I was saying no a lot more than I was saying yes.

There's no reason to pass on a good time other than the getting up early for work reason, so I've been going along with a lot of drinking nights. Sometimes two or three a week. Usually at least six hours a night. Drinking as much as we can. Smoking as much as we can. Trying to forget. Trying to pass the time. The other day Barb told me to enjoy myself and not make myself feel bad about it. Easier said than done. She also managed to point out: that my life is pretty responsibility free right now and this is the perfect time for this kind of stuff. I'm single, childless, largely debtless (except of course, for the student loans), and I have a dumb job I can sleepwalk through.

The cloves signified to me that I've reached some kind of calamitous summit that has breached the idea that this whole venture was ever considered "fun." Whenever the urge to smoke cloves hits me, I know I am in some serious self-infliction pattern and I am reaching my capacity. Usually what happens is I take the hint and pick up the pieces.

I haven't smoked all day today. And my resolve to quit cigarettes seems as strong as it ought to be to try it cold turkey again. The other part will be a lot harder. I love my friends, my new boozy friends, but I just can't go out the night before I have to work in the morning.

I was a mess today. I literally--not exaggerating--could barely function. I could hardly form words. I didn't drink that much, but I only slept about three hours. And when the alarm went off I groaned--that felt like no time at all. I then proceeded to trudge through a six hour shift at the coffeeshop and seven hours with the world's cutest but hyper conversational two year old. And it wasn't til I got home and took a shower that some semblance of normality returned to me.

But the worst thing these last five months is facing the knowing glances and comments from some of the fucking customers at the coffeeshop who mean well but send their judgmental bullshit in my direction. It makes me want to drink more, seeing their tsking-know-it-all stares, because it always seems so futile to fend off other people's opinions.

today was exactly like this...

whispers along my spine

a piece of artwork left for display, left to the public, left for us to consume.

as we wandered past, I pointed it out with glee.

he barely shrugged and continued to speak, pontificate, glorify.

and I was less than enthused,

the art was removed the following day, Monday, the day of getting back to work, the day of business being accomplished, the day of cleaning up the weekend's mess.

and I witnessed it, and created proof of its existence, and it was a moment of solipism. and love for its maker.

everywhere but my own bed

I seem to enjoy existing outside of the space I have, the bed that is mine, the soothing space of colors and sights that I created for myself, and another night passes where I will find unsavory rest in a different bed, spend another day in yesterday's clothes, wonder what it is, why it is, that my bed is fine for naps, my apartment well enough for a shower and its closet, but that is all, that is all I can stand.

for sure, it is the loneliness.

once you get a taste of how it could be, it's very hard to return to that empty bed, that soft spot you've made for yourself, that hole in the wall that is solely yours; at least, I find it very hard.

but possibly it is something else, a something I haven't figured out yet that has crawled into my heart and died there,

[the scream-a-pillar is a good analogy for this.]

that sounds so melodramatic, but that is what it feels like, like there is something rotting inside me and it will be revealed eventually, and everything I thought I knew will turn out to be a lie.

and maybe, I am trying to hold on to anything tangible, anything outside myself that wants me, that desires me, that compells me, that wants to hold me back.

where have I left myself?

"...all I have for the moment is a song to pass the time..."

just let them fall

the cold keeps my eyes open. it keeps my body rigid. the idea of settling into sleep seems impossible. I should be sleeping right now, but all I can do is think, and survive the cold.

the snow falling outside is a billion soft flakes that look like glitter in the light of the streetlamps and the building anticipation of what it will look like in the morning--just a few hours away, when everyone is still asleep and I wrench myself from sleep and my bed--keeps my eyes open.

for the first time in my life, I have read every single word of a book. being a fast reader has turned me into someone who skims past chunks of stuff looking for the interaction between characters, the story, the stakes, the pull between what is right and what is wrong, and I usually find it in the dialogue, but in this book the use of quotation marks was abandoned, which left every word a mystery, and my eyes open.

searching, always searching, there is something to find and my eyes open will find it, I am sure, but I wonder if I really knew what I was looking for, or if it has always been looking for me and I just leap on what falls into my scope, never weighing against what I know about myself.

that snow makes me love Chicago. that book will haunt me for days. that searching will ruin me.

the taming of the hair

my hair has reached my saturation point. it is about as long as I can tolerate it, and as big as I can stand it, and if I can only wait another six months, it'll be amazing [sleek and long, flowing down my back in waves],

but until then I must survive the seemingly endless errant hairs that have escaped and lingered on my coat, on my gloves, hat, scarf, etc; the other day I pulled several hairs from the waistband of my pants. of course, winter's friend static cling is partly to blame,

but also, it is amazing how many hairs depart my scalp each day and shocking that I am not bald by now.

in order to tame it somehow, to keep the strands from taking their lives into someone's coffeecup, I've been doing braided pigtails, which make me look like an old lady trying to look younger than her years, but then again, there is something appealing about braided pigtails. they're so tightly bound. they make me look like someone who's in control, since I managed to wrangle all that hair into those two compact spaces. they distract the eyes away from my big ears, and the brown and black patterns of the highlights in my botched hair dye jobs look amazing.

the funny thing is even though my hair is contained in these braids, there are still hairs all over, floating up around my feet on the floor, draped over dressers and sinks, puddled into corners and I am beginning to wonder how come I never seemed to notice all these hairs before.

the paranoid part of me wants to believe that something is different with me, that maybe it is winter and my scalp is dry, or that I've somehow contracted some horrible disease and the first clue is hair loss.

but the truth is, I hardly ever spent time in my old apartment and I rarely cleaned and the most horrifying hair thing I remember from those days is pulling a foot and a half long rope of my hair from the drain in the shower that was overly blackened with hair dye so that it didn't seem like it really could belong to me and literally looked liked a drowned and deflated pet ferret.

yeah. horrifying. and absurd; I kept pulling and pulled for what seemed like way too long.

perspective whispers that it hasn't gotten that bad.