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.

small joys

sitting across from my impending future

another reason to run, run, run far away from clark st:

She is a woman who looks weathered, her freckles have multiplied into large dark brown spots we call mega freckles, and she's got the freckles everywhere, and that is not all.

the wrinkles. the teeth. the hair. the body. the saggy skin under her arms. the pull on her earlobes from her earrrings. all of it is one big disgusting mess. and she thinks she is gorgeous. and if I continue to be a lazy slob, I will most certainly resemble her.

Except for the words coming out of her mouth, you would think she was sixty years old. I have no idea how old she actually is, but the age she purports to be, the age she pretends to be is my age. She is mentally stuck somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, but she is deluded. Seriously, the most delusional person I have ever spoken with.

Sitting there, her and I, in a place neither of us belongs, we looked like tourists, obtuse tourists, who had ambled into a restaurant merely based on the review in our guide book, and what's worse is that no one said what I'm sure was on their minds, that we looked like a mother and daughter out on the town, that we did and did not match at the same moment, that we did not belong there.

I was about as uncomfortable in my own skin as I was in high school, an itch arose in random places, my nose was running, I was anxious, could not sit still,

could not even stay for her offer of free drinks, that's how damn uncomfortable I was.

my hasty exit was awkward, and uncertain, and odd. but better that than sit with her til darkness crept into our eyes and my tongue loosened and said all the the things no one else ever says but that I always seem to.

forgive my absence...

I wish that I could say it was the working or the being busy or the freaky hot weather or some combination, but it's not. Part of it is that I find myself sitting in front of this screen and I literally cannot think of an enticing thing to say. Sometimes I think I'll write about one of my stock issues or a random topic, but then it always feels empty. Sometimes I get tired of writing about the things that I am passionate about because I want them to be understood and when they are misunderstood it is hard to keep writing.

Lately, I've been silent for two different reasons. The first is very superficial. Like a piece of clothing I can change, it wanders into my thoughts and conversations and sets up camp, but it is easily abolished or abandoned, but it is a clingy fucker: guilt. I get asked about my writing and the only "writing" I'm doing is right here in this blog. Some of my best blog writing happened in the last month (at least in my opinion) and it was just that, blog writing. It may as well have been chewed up gum on the sidewalk.

The other thing that traps the words in my head is him. [the love of my lifetime] I want to talk about him, but I can't. I want to delight about him, but I can't. I want to be stark raving lunatic mad and bitch about him, but I won't. But oftentimes, when I find myself home and alone, him enters my mind and won't go away, and all those other trifling thoughts about potential entries fall away and there is that unimpenetrable sadness mixed with hopeful glee and I just won't. I can't spoil him and I can't ruin him anymore. Him is a secret for me and no one else. No one else understands what happens between us anyway and I'm tired of trying to explain him anymore.

just know this: no matter what happens between us: he is mine and I am his.

For a long time I did not believe it, but now I see, that will never change.

pilsen love!

Nature Versus Nurture

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.

"driven and derided by vanity"

I have to dye my hair...yet again.

Every time I look in the mirror, all I see are the gray hairs.

I have to get to sleep so that I can wake up early and dye my hair.

Humans are fucking weird.

Not again...

this weekend:

the apartment: dishes, floors, clothes and sheets, all of it shaken out, brushed off, washed. usually when this happens, it means that I have grown tired and disgusted of the mess I'm in. this time around it was a signal of rising out of the muck. also, a concession to the orderliness my mind prefers.

the mess of a man: I noticed a man in a cab yelling and it was him, the one who always wears a green shirt, the drunken mess I cannot greet. He was angry about some cab related offense; angry enough to spit at the partition. he spat again after slamming the door, his voice both lurid and frightening, and I found myself giddy and lightly running away.

anthony: the only college boy I liked when I was in college, who I discovered to my dismay and relief (as to why he never spoke to me) had a very awkward stuttering problem, stood on Michigan avenue with a clipboard trying to ask shoppers and tourists if they had a minute for something, but he did not ask me. His eyes flicked over my face and he moved on to the people behind me. I had a secret smile. I wondered if he chose the job as a way of getting over his stuttering, which I think is more of a social anxiety than an impediment.

my first sox game of the season: came with no warning, I had plans and then suddenly, I had the delicious opportunity to watch a game on a beautiful night. It was soured by the fact that my phone died and I couldn't invite more people to join us. It was a perfect experience except the Sox lost.

walter: and I have been spending a lot of time together and it makes me wonder if that same comraderie exists between the love of my lifetime and the girls he spends time with, if it is that same enjoyment without the necessity of sexual advances. I have never really had a close male friend before.

the city: wanted to meet and talk about the absence of our friendship, but I just couldn't.

currently reading: The Dubliners by James Joyce. If I had known that it was notated, I might not have bought it. Every other line has some corresponding footnote to decipher the meaning or relay the cultural (and usually dated) reference. The footnotes are all in the back of the book. Rather than flip back and forth, I just try to sort out the meaning through context and if I'm really confused, I'll check the reference. Also, I sometimes read the list of notations all at once at the end and find that I tend to deduce fairly well, with the exception of one or two things that I was off the mark about. I don't understand how someone can read a book and then check out something they don't understand, as in whip out a dictionary or a scholarly reference. I never see anyone stopping a movie to look up a word or check something on the internet. But maybe I just have a weird relationship to reading. Anyhow, I've been enjoying the brief short stories. They are dialogue heavy, which I like.

the love of my lifetime: I have longed for him all weekend to no avail. it is no wonder I cannot trust him. he is never there when I want him to be. I receive the morsels of his attentions while others get his whole wondrous being. he will arrive soon so we can do what we do best together: sleep.

siena: saturday marked the beginning of a fourteen day stretch of work. I can't imagine how frazzled I'll be in the end.

the smoking: is still not an issue, despite visits to bars, being just as stressed at work, dealing with awkwardnesses. on tuesday it'll be five weeks of non-smoking.

there is no sense to make of this

he stands before me, two parts nostalgia, one part reality

the reality isn't pretty and is represented by three earrings in one ear. silver, gleaming, not a match for the rest of him, they stand out--which is exactly what he wants, I suppose, so that just when you think you've figured him out, he is not what you expected. but they are not surprising in a good way. they are just silly. and weird. and kinda obnoxious.

in a small bowl mix wet ingredients: tears, beers, sweat, and lake water. Mix well.

I am crying, I am drinking, I am hot, we are at the beach by my apartment and it is perfect, and it almost drowns the tears.

add sand to taste.

my bed is full of sand, I woke up with it gritting between my teeth, a fine layer has settled on my hardwood floors and my feet are smoother after a barefoot walk, just like my life is smoother with him back in it. [until it isn't.]

is it possible to change our receipe? that the things we were are not the same, that the lives we were constantly in motion against are gone, that it can just be him and me, is it possible to have what we could not? we sometimes got it right and it was good. but mostly we got it wrong.

forlorned by his departure, I wondered if it was really over. I never imagined it could begin again so easily and I would be so glad.

seduced by his smells, I find them trapped in my bedsheets and want more of him.

after hours beaching

this is why I will always love him.

unnecessary roughness

it's now or never

like the next phrase of a well known song, like the next step in someone's walk, like the pinched face of a child prior to its screams of pain,

the anticipation of his call was there, like that, and that it did not come for so long was appalling, I kept trying to figure out what I'd done wrong, but there was nothing, I had simply stuck up for myself in an already crumbling situation, and his foundation was too shaky to stand on and he wouldn't stop shaking, so I stood there, waiting for something to fall, but nothing happened for almost nearly a month...

of course, by now, I had given up, I had begun to subtract myself from him, to lessen the sting of his absence.

: deleted his number. didn't cry every time I passed the cemetery. no one asked about him and I spoke not of him. and more importantly, I made no move to infringe, no effort to bring forth the rest of the song, the step, the cries, the chunks of ceiling.

I let him go. I said my peace/piece and let him go.

that we loved each other for so long and so terribly, it made no difference. he owes me nothing. and I owe him nothing. I will honor him as a human being in the world, but other than that, our past makes no difference to me. so if it was space he needed--and clearly it was--I let him have it, but not without that constant ache, that throb of wondering, that absence bearing some sort of calamity in my life, because what else would I be without calamity...

[of course, the timing of this could not have been worse, with the quitting smoking and the mood swings and the rest of life happening, but there is probably never a "good" time to quit smoking...]

and yet, I did not spend each night lingering over his memories or trying to sort out the differences between us, I found rest where I could, love and happiness in my friends and family, and poured myself in my work.

but still, I could not erase the sting of his absence, the loss of him, and that is what makes me wonder, that is what makes me wish that he could be all the things I wish for and need, but I know it, I need no convincing that he's not the guy for me.

even so, I feel a sense of gladness I have not felt in these past four weeks, a sense of completion, a sense of restoration.

smiled about:

the opening theme song for firefly heard through the ceiling.

a text conversation with a fifteen year old girl who texts random numbers when bored.

product love.

finished reading a novel in a twenty four hour period.

hearing the extra guitar line meant for discerning ears.

the city got in to singapore.

we are two of the same.

the shock of physical unbalance

I spent the morning delighted that once again, despite all the circumstances evidently against me, I managed to wake up and maintain a fairly good demeanor. Since I quit smoking, this has been difficult, but finally I felt like I was not only back to the superficially optimistic happy go lucky state I enjoy, I was actually happy to be alert and functional.

Even customers made note of the improvement in my mood, and my least favorite customer's early arrival could not even bring me down.

around eleven however, a tingle began, up where the teeth meet the jaw, and it quickly escalated into a throbbing that felt like each of my teeth were being tugged out of their sockets. At first I assumed my rush to leave the apartment without brushing was the culprit, but then the ache expanded outward to my cheekbones and along the bridge of my nose and out around my eye sockets.

for about ten minutes, the pain was so unbearable I couldn't speak, tears came into my eyes, and I let them stream down my face.

It's been a while since I had a migraine. The last one was not too long ago, and I remember that my vision was riddled with psychedellic spots--which did not appear today--but it also completely turned my day upside down; it commands your every move, usually a desperate: you must sleep now.

so I went home and took a nap and now the migraine has become a headache, but the toothy pain is still there, and I will try to remember that sometimes my body and my mind don't get along.

floor

Six dollars will buy you happiness.

God bless jumbo margarita night.

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...

almost every girl is sweetie.

but in his hands I melted,

my hair pushed away by his fingers,

and I could feel his hesitation when he reached my earlobes,

the sacred space that is so very intimate

he compensated by travelling down my back

while I pushed myself against the bar

when his hands left me there was no more pain or tightness

just the imprints of his fingertips

and an appreciation for a man I had never wondered about previously.

[oh David!]

funny how one thing can turn you,

and funnier what that one thing wil be.

[a backrub?]

I lingered there in hopes of enticing him to me once more

and I got what I wanted, which made me glad.

the end.

: you think too much, Christine.

: [absence of words]

: How could you?

: shut up! stop it...

: I gotta go to the note man.

: if you're looking for a boyfriend, I'm not the guy for you.

: you have my cell phone, right?

: are you scared or something?

: it's either that, or you're covering up a lot of pain.

: why don't you just take your turn as the sexy alpha girl?

solution/cause

reporter's log:

frozen, cold, bitter, she remains, a cold, a wall, a boiled down version of what the fakery and lies have always hid, you can plainly see she is just an igloo.

the man of the year has emerged with a proposition that was largely ignored. perhaps it is for the best that the bitterness soaked through the sponge to the cracks in her and froze there, so that his message seemed unnecessary and a waste of time. game over man of the year, you can't come back now, not now, not ever. who do you think you are? what sort of tomfoolery of the mind are you up to? and when will she ever be able to hold you comfortably? we know the answer is never, but does he know that? you want to make her dinner and play scrabble, who are you and where were you half a year ago?!

pete has lost his job, which was swallowing him whole, so it was no coincidence that he was present and accounted for at the season finale of 24. what was a surprise was his relentless effort in having her in attendance. there were others, but he wanted her there. and when there is want, there is the desire to have that, even if it is friendly, even if it doesn't mean anything, so she cancelled her plans to sit elbow to elbow with the man that she has always admired, one of her oldest friends, a man she has done anything for, a man she will continue to do anything for.

the sad realization that they have explored each other, spots, moles and marks inventoried, limbs and trunks aligned on his futon, why does it hurt her, the truth is logically, it all makes sense and it is for the best, she was never convinced, but there was a part of her that loved him, that brain of his, that talk of his, that feeling he stoked in her was addictive and she wanted it all the time, all to herself. his recent odd appearances have held that same sheen of joy, but it is tinged now with their mutual exploration, and it is over, it is hard to get it that it is over and it was never gonna happen anyway, no matter how much fun it was to know him and be known. the half hour in which he interloped at the bar was filled with her calamaties and a clumsiness that she'd assumed grew out of her long limbs, but it returned in full force with a jolt from beer and hormones. it's over and it never was.

there is a mutual dislike from the lover she didn't have to love, and it has been boiling for sometime, the realization that you have shared yourself with someone less than worthy and the frustration of being shuffled aside despite how great you are. so he ignored her. and she ignored him. and the bitterness sighed a deep shuffling wheeze and wished that she would just say that she is done with him, but the truth is he shows his worthiness now and again, except he oscillates expertly between jerk and goofball and if only he could rest on the latter for good, but he is on a tear to have something filled that can never be filled...it's true.

and "are you the love of my lifetime?" is still absent from her life. that this new anger is fueled by some old unresolved drama is baffling, but precludes him from being the love of her lifetime and gives him the tagline, "because there's been times I've had my doubts" to know him to is doubt him, for there is nothing he can provide that is stability, at least not for her. his missing presence should be enough to keep him out of mind, but there are too many things that evoke memories of them, him, and sometimes she even wonders if this is it, if this is over, and if it is, then why doesn't it feel like a good thing. why does it hurt so much?

despite all the reasons to resume the stress managing habit that brought her a quick relief, a small joy, a momentary lapse in judgment, she prevailed. two weeks have passed. soon it will be two months. two years. daily there is some new trauma to dissect and dispose of properly (instead of shoving it into a tight space where the bones of long ago pains reside) and the worst of these have been the small infractions of their friendship, between her and her, the supposed bestest of best friends, which was discussed more than felt, because time steeps these things, not words, but words left welts on them, and it is possible there is no going back from this high climb into hysteria. if only she could understand the drunk girl she sees is not her friend and if only her friend could cut her a little slack for being a newly converted nonsmoker with no way to manage the small stresses of life.

the time was spent trying to make sense of all this and more, and in the end she is no better for it, just full of experiences and moments, more than would have been felt from home, more than she has experienced in a while, but it is intense and overwhelming to the senses.

you'll be missed. [eff that]

the most exciting thing that happened to me this weekend is I went to the parker garage sale and found toujour provence by peter mayle, which is the sequel to a year in provence, which I finally read after many years of it collecting dust on my shelves.

I finished the first one a few weeks ago, when I was zealously reading books again. I imagined I would search out its sequel at some point in time, whether at Powell's or John's or even a thrift store. little did I know I would randomly purchase a hardcover for a couple bucks.

I also bought dubliners by james joyce, i know why the caged bird sings by maya angelou, and a short story collection by philip roth.

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.

I'm always on this side of the fence.

\

fancy that

today in the semi-circle of the sky, after a brief downpour, the rain clouds lifted and the sun crept back and out of the corner of my eye I noticed movements which caused me to look up and see hundreds of birds swooping in the air, sailing in all directions, recklessly, heedlessly, black shadows against murky blue sky striped with puffy white clouds.

immediately I was transported back to a moment in time when I was standing in front of a building in Rome, whose name I can no longer remember, where hundreds of birds soared in this same frenetic fashion,

apparently, it was a common scene at dusk, the birds looking for a place to rest til dawn.

I have never seen it happen here,

was it the disturbance of the rain that unsettled them?

or just that I have never noticed it in my own city before?

boredom is an ugly burden

I assault them with the only thing that currently brings me joy, special lines of king, queen, knave: select, sleek, compact sentences that have captured my attention and yet, upon the next reading may thrill me no more than some other line of perfection that appeals to that future me, enlivened by the turn of phrase that seems so succint.

it occurs to me that this will be my world for a while, a series of indulgences that live as attempts at fending off my mind's rampant need to be satisfied and excited about someone. For now, there is no someone, a complete lack of horses on the racetrack, I sit in empty stands with the tickets of thrilled gamblers at my feet and wonder why it is that I'm still around when so many other pressing errands of life are waiting to fill my time.

the truth is I have been gambling so long and hard and with such long shots that I find I must retrain my body and brain to behave differently. I have stumbled upon this sad truth before, but now that so much time has passed, I see that it is only going to keep passing and I will keep sitting here making up imaginary races to lend some semblance of familarity to my days, when in fact, this jarring emptiness is what I should respect.

trying to figure out where it went wrong, replaying the race in my mind, fending off hindsight: these keep me awake at night.

queer

the best parts of my day were all fragments, tiny slivers of time that don't mean anything on their own to anyone but me:

drew saying he bet I didn't think he'd call.

kevin's hudsucker proxy quote.

michael calling me sexy.

annie's eyebrows communicating so much.

walter's eyes shrinking.

pretty much everything about dustin, but specifically, dustin's turquoise polo with dark blue sweater vest.

putnam's anonymous yelling of my name; our random encounter.

that I didn't smoke again.

my gracious texts.

the surprise of natalia's words.

val's realization that I was joking.

the return of my "normal."

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.

duh:

he wouldn't even read my writing

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.

the lightness of truth

there's so many people who heard my truths today that it almost hurt, but I do feel lighter and more heady than I have in weeks and weeks, because there's no one I feel obligated to and nothing I feel bad about being.

in the end, nothing worked out the way I wanted it to, but the lesson of being an adult is that I've learned to appreciate that things won't always go the way I like and it's okay. Things ending and being clarified means that there's room for something else to happen...

after all, nothing really matters and everything is significant.

the clove.

a nap time dream

[I hardly ever dream. I suppose it might have something to do with how active my imagination is; I must use up all my good material during my waking hours. Or, it might have something to do with my strange sleeping habits: four to five hours most days, followed by a day of twelve hours to catch up. While taking a nap this afternoon, I had a very interesting dream that I was actually unaware was a dream while I was in it, whereas most of my dreams seem to feel like I am watching myself as a character from overhead and actively aware of the dream as it happens.]

I am in a house that is mine, I live there, it is different than anywhere I have lived previously. It is a well lived in arrrangement, a sense of dinginess prevails, a feeling of being lived-in is evident, the walls are full of murals. I am searching the house for something, but when I come across a man sitting on a low plush object--a beanbag, maybe?--he jumps up to greet me. He has on glasses that are extremely reflective and for a while it is hard to see his eyes. He is tall, handsome and strong. He picks me up. I know him. He is mine. I am his.

He carries me from room to room and I wrap my legs around his hips and we are very happy. He has light brown hair that might have been blond when he was a child. He is wearing a t-shirt. He greets other people in rooms, they know him. He is ecstatic to see me. He is not only smiling, he is laughing and giggling. I stare into his eyes--past the lenses of his glasses--which are milky with blindness. I wonder if he has been blind since birth or because of an accident. He hears something in a faraway room and tells me so, and I resist the urge to compliment him on his excellent sense of hearing, because I think it's just a reminder of his eyes being gone, and it seems obvious his hearing would be vastly better than mine. He nuzzles my neck as he carries me, and I shriek with joy. I am amazed that he can carry me around so easily.

Finally I land on something, a table of some sort, and he begins exploring me with his hands. His hands are gentle and kind, and I am watching his face, which is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. His lips are full and soft and they tremble. I know he is going to kiss me and I imagine what it will feel like when he does. I am expectant, waiting, ready.

[I wake up.]

it looks like your dog died.

the impact of knowing, really knowing and understanding the things we only suspect, when you hear yourself speaking the truth as you knew it and knowing you didn't even believe it then but now you know it's true, but being unable to stop the collision course you're on because the tracks are bound to your feet and the car is closed and the doors don't open til it's the next stop and when they open you collapse on the platform and just want to breathe some fresh air, but the fresh air falls in love with your lungs even though you're polluted, ruined, fucked.

the city you see when you climb the stairs welcomes you with its concreteness, its curves, its lines, its noises, its smells, its grandiosity, but it's impartial, it's indifferent, it treats you the way it treats everyone and you are no more special to it than anyone else who crosses its streets and wonders at how remarkable it is, except it does every once in a while shine its eyes at someone special and that someone is not you.

so you go to the building where you used to live hoping to find something comforting there, inside the darkness that you know so well, but it's slowly been emptied out until there's nothing but old letters stuffed in the mailbox with your name on them, letters you don't even care to open because they don't matter anymore, and your keys no longer turn the locks and your neighbors won't even return your greetings and you realize that's because you don't live there anymore and you can't go back there ever again even though you spent a lot of time there trying to make it a beautiful place to live.

finally, you go to the only place you have, this hotel room where you sleep at night and it's got your stuff there, things that remind you who you are and you hide inside it, waiting for the next day to bring you someone worth knowing, really knowing, someone worth loving, really loving, someone you can be proud of and excited about, and hope that they don't turn out to be the things you've already known will never be the way you wish they could be.

vespa

the wind whipping my hair into strings, separate strands of darkness flowing in a straight line behind me and how is it that I can be at once so very completely comfortable, yet so very very uncomfortable? my pink coat draws stares, it is buttoned up above my chin and it is bright, of course, because it is mine, and it even stands out in the reflections of the well shined glass on sheridan drive and though we've done this before during the day, it is night and the two of us on this thing, this scooter that is a beautiful and amazing thing, it makes me glad and I don't question why, I just resist the urge to yell yee haw when we drive so fast that the wind pulls my hair off my back and my eyes water and my nose gets runny and my hands and exposed skin gets cold and the world is twisting out and away faster and differently than it does when you're in a car, because when you're in a car, there is a barrier between you and the rest of the world and it is a door and often a pane of glass in that door, but on the bike, it is just you and the elements and your interaction with them is so much harder to ignore.

part of being on this kind of bike is that the people like you, the ones on their bikes, want to acknowledge you somehow, like there's a secret handshake, or a special emblem, or a certain pact between us that has us beep, wave or nod to our fellow riders on their scooters, motorbikes, mopeds and even the ubiquitous motorcycles are included in this brotherhood.

it is not very often that something can both thrill me and make me forget the undulating chorus of admonishments in my mind while the smile of my face sutures itself behind my teeth. and yet, beyond the scooting there is a relationship that I haven't been able to accept, but perhaps in time, I can.

steeplechase

getting back on the horse always feels so exhilarating and joyous.

too bad falling off is so fucking painful and annoying, and the daze that follows leaves me wondering for days how I could possibly even approach the idea of getting back on.

it starts with the little things, reading again, what pushed me out of this fog was Dress Your Family in Cordoroy and Denim. A week has passed and I've read two books and working on a third.

the thing that made me glad was finding my internet connection and being able to post a blog from home, from my bed, my studio by the lake, the only place where I am truly alone.

listen negative nancy, here's the siphon hose, take a hit

the work it takes to be someone's friend can sometimes be exhausting. I spent most of my day trudging through the deep mass of my own malaise to pull someone out of their quicksandy muck, because sometimes it hurts to know someone and know that they're drowning in their own thoughts for no good reason at all.

and yet, it was a beautiful day.

there's something to be said for selfless acts and the joy of knowing another person.

everything I notice is appreciated and everything I do gets noticed. it's a weird exchange we have, an odd intimacy that begs for more, yet the idea of actually being intimate [naked and dirty] seems so absurd and unlikely and awkward.

for now, there is the unfolding of his origami shapes and I love to languish in his words.

we travelled to chinatown and I got to be a psuedo tour guide. [it made me miss natalia terribly.] there we were, sitting among a place that was foreign and new and seemed to hold its own set of rules and have its own sense of time and space, where people weren't in a hurry to arrive somewhere and no one was talking on their cell phones and it was perfect. there was nothing we had to do and nowhere to be. I think we both needed that.

a father chased his child on the sidewalk and peals of laughter rose from their lips, a well dressed couple sought out their dinner companions, sculptures presided over a square that seemed built for tai chi practice, and dried food items of the most amazing variety--from sea horses to gnarled ginger roots, to thin ivory dics of abalone to gargantuan mushrooms--all gave off a musty, smoky, heady odor. it was exactly what I prescribed: a change of scenery and an overwhelment of the senses.

he is teaching me a new brand of patience and exploration, the sort I have never been able to grasp.

where there was one, now are two