If it's wrong for me to want these boots, I don't wanna be right. Black leather thigh-high boots, Chanel, $2,920; www.chanel.com or at select Chanel boutiques, 800-550-0005.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
shoes
If it's wrong for me to want these boots, I don't wanna be right. Black leather thigh-high boots, Chanel, $2,920; www.chanel.com or at select Chanel boutiques, 800-550-0005.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
You'd better watch out, you'd better not cry
She sings as she packs her backpack. Right before she gets to the line "He sees you when you're sleeping" she looks up at me with saucer eyes
"Oh my God, Santa is a stalker!"
"Oh my God, Santa is a stalker!"
Sunday, December 2, 2007
required reading
My job has many perks, one is that I get paid to read. Doing so I've found dozens of childrens' books that make me think "Everyone should read this!!" Next time you are hanging out in a bookstore you should mozy on over to the kids section, grab a few of the following, hunker down for a delightful stretch of picture book pleasure.
The Dot, Peter H. Reynolds
Ish, Peter H. Reynolds
Just like Heaven, Patrick McDonnell
The Gift of Nothing, Patrick McDonnell
Lost and Found, Oliver Jeffers
Today I will fly!, Mo Willems
My Friend is Sad, Mo Willems
Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, Judith Viorst
This list will be ongoing, feel free to contact me with your suggestions.
The Dot, Peter H. Reynolds
Ish, Peter H. Reynolds
Just like Heaven, Patrick McDonnell
The Gift of Nothing, Patrick McDonnell
Lost and Found, Oliver Jeffers
Today I will fly!, Mo Willems
My Friend is Sad, Mo Willems
Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, Judith Viorst
This list will be ongoing, feel free to contact me with your suggestions.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
The Difference Between Pepsi and Coke (David Lehman)
Can't swim; uses credit cards and pills to combat
intolerable feelings of inadequacy;
Won't admit his dread of boredom, chief impulse behind
numerous marital infidelities;
Looks fat in jeans, mouths cliches with confidence,
breaks mother's plates in fights;
Buys when the market is too high, and panics during
the inevitable descent;
Still, Pop can always tell the subtle difference
between Pepsi and Coke,
Has defined the darkness of red at dawn, memorized
the splash of poppies along
Deserted railway tracks, and opposed the war in Vietnam
months before the students,
Years before the politicians and press; give him
a minute with a road map
And he will solve the mystery of bloodshot eyes;
transport him to mountaintop
And watch him calculate the heaviness and height
of the local heavens;
Needs no prompting to give money to his kids; speaks
French fluently, and tourist German;
Sings Schubert in the shower; plays pinball in Paris;
knows the new maid steals, and forgives her.
intolerable feelings of inadequacy;
Won't admit his dread of boredom, chief impulse behind
numerous marital infidelities;
Looks fat in jeans, mouths cliches with confidence,
breaks mother's plates in fights;
Buys when the market is too high, and panics during
the inevitable descent;
Still, Pop can always tell the subtle difference
between Pepsi and Coke,
Has defined the darkness of red at dawn, memorized
the splash of poppies along
Deserted railway tracks, and opposed the war in Vietnam
months before the students,
Years before the politicians and press; give him
a minute with a road map
And he will solve the mystery of bloodshot eyes;
transport him to mountaintop
And watch him calculate the heaviness and height
of the local heavens;
Needs no prompting to give money to his kids; speaks
French fluently, and tourist German;
Sings Schubert in the shower; plays pinball in Paris;
knows the new maid steals, and forgives her.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
cool places to spend/waste time
http://www.thisnext.com/
v. good for holiday shopping
http://www.etsy.com/
careful, this one is addictive
http://freerice.com/
v. good for holiday shopping
http://www.etsy.com/
careful, this one is addictive
http://freerice.com/
25
I'm sorry to have not written as much. (I don't know exactly to whom I'm apologizing. Whether it's to myself or you reader.) My perfectionism and my reticence to blog about my everyday bullshit keep this place rarely updated. I figure I'll just start typing and see what comes out.
I visited my mom. I have a gnarly cough and a pair of earrings for my efforts. She has a cat. I'm allergic to cats. The more time I spend in her house the shallower my breaths become. It did provide a convenient reason for why I had to leave. The earrings are a family heirloom, brought by my great-grandmother on the boat from Russia. When I was there I put them on, "Wow they're pretty" I said. "Well, you can have them when you're 25" she replied. Pause. "Mom, I am 25" She laughs, "Really?" I think back to my roommate commenting on her forgetting my birthday. "You think because it involved her she would remember"
I am craving fried chicken, sweet plantains, red beans, and yellow rice from the restaurant up the street. So good.
I recently heard a man say that you owe it to yourself to build the best life for yourself possible. I've been rambling on and on in my own life about going back to school. One fear about it is that I wouldn't be a good student. Today I was going through college notes and was shocked to realize that I was a good student.
Okay, I'm gonna go get me some chicken.
I visited my mom. I have a gnarly cough and a pair of earrings for my efforts. She has a cat. I'm allergic to cats. The more time I spend in her house the shallower my breaths become. It did provide a convenient reason for why I had to leave. The earrings are a family heirloom, brought by my great-grandmother on the boat from Russia. When I was there I put them on, "Wow they're pretty" I said. "Well, you can have them when you're 25" she replied. Pause. "Mom, I am 25" She laughs, "Really?" I think back to my roommate commenting on her forgetting my birthday. "You think because it involved her she would remember"
I am craving fried chicken, sweet plantains, red beans, and yellow rice from the restaurant up the street. So good.
I recently heard a man say that you owe it to yourself to build the best life for yourself possible. I've been rambling on and on in my own life about going back to school. One fear about it is that I wouldn't be a good student. Today I was going through college notes and was shocked to realize that I was a good student.
Okay, I'm gonna go get me some chicken.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
loss
I miss my dad today. I've been going through boxes of my parents' stuff, and reading an article on a camp for kids who lost their parents on 9/11.
My dad and I were close. He was the sane one. Flawed, but infinitely better than my mom. She was supposed to die, she was thisclose to tripping off this mortal coil. Somehow she clawed her way back, and in the interim of hospitals after hospital Dad and I became close.
We ate at the Chinese restaurant near Bellevue, he'd get the cashew chicken while I preferred the crispy orange. Even though I was too old for it, I'd sit on his lap and he'd tell me about his time in the war. Every story being one of high jinks, not tragedy. He gently told me that I needed to work harder in school, or else I'd lose my scholarship. He woke us up everyone morning with a hot breakfast, giving me a couple dollars for a snack after school. Money I always spent on my walk to the bus.
There's something unfixable when you crash into mortality at an age too early. When you're family dies in a heart attack, and you're left to call the relatives. When you're 25 and just want to be able to ask your daddy what to do... but he's not there.
My dad and I were close. He was the sane one. Flawed, but infinitely better than my mom. She was supposed to die, she was thisclose to tripping off this mortal coil. Somehow she clawed her way back, and in the interim of hospitals after hospital Dad and I became close.
We ate at the Chinese restaurant near Bellevue, he'd get the cashew chicken while I preferred the crispy orange. Even though I was too old for it, I'd sit on his lap and he'd tell me about his time in the war. Every story being one of high jinks, not tragedy. He gently told me that I needed to work harder in school, or else I'd lose my scholarship. He woke us up everyone morning with a hot breakfast, giving me a couple dollars for a snack after school. Money I always spent on my walk to the bus.
There's something unfixable when you crash into mortality at an age too early. When you're family dies in a heart attack, and you're left to call the relatives. When you're 25 and just want to be able to ask your daddy what to do... but he's not there.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
12/2006
Her skin is soft, petal thin, folded from years in the sun, receding to showcase her cornflower blue eyes and jutting cheekbones. She was my mother, for awhile. My brother's sister. She tells me I was the best thing to happen to him. And argues when I take the can from her warped hands to open it smoothly.
I’ve just realized that she loves me not because she has to, but because of who I am. This petite spitfire dressed in pastels and khaki, zooming about on her motorized scooter, shocking me with her humor, love, and acceptance.
She is always cold, and I am always warm. I wish I could cup my hand, scoop out some of my heat and leave it with her. I wish I could stay and keep walking her dog, and helping her fold sheets. I wish I could fall into the fields and the wide sky and leave the city behind. Just move the arm of the phonograph but keep the record spinning, no music just the whoosh-whoosh of time passing.
I left. I cried when the dog sulked by the door at the sight of suitcases. I went into airports I'd travelled through so many times before. I carried bags too heavy and breathed air over used. Now I am home wanting to be held and feeling all alone, stroking a wound freshly healed.
I’ve just realized that she loves me not because she has to, but because of who I am. This petite spitfire dressed in pastels and khaki, zooming about on her motorized scooter, shocking me with her humor, love, and acceptance.
She is always cold, and I am always warm. I wish I could cup my hand, scoop out some of my heat and leave it with her. I wish I could stay and keep walking her dog, and helping her fold sheets. I wish I could fall into the fields and the wide sky and leave the city behind. Just move the arm of the phonograph but keep the record spinning, no music just the whoosh-whoosh of time passing.
I left. I cried when the dog sulked by the door at the sight of suitcases. I went into airports I'd travelled through so many times before. I carried bags too heavy and breathed air over used. Now I am home wanting to be held and feeling all alone, stroking a wound freshly healed.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
poor, unfortunate, souls
I'm sorry to have not published* anything in awhile. I've been working on things, but most of the time I leave the house before 9 and don't come back till 12 hours later. This leaves little time to unravel the web of my thinking and weave into something presentable.
It is no help that I've become increasingly critical of my writing as of late.** I consider mining old journals for material, but am scared of what I would find there. Some of those pages are from such painful times that I'm reticent to relieve them in the reading. I think of a friend's post regarding the emotional state of so-called "creative people". In it he relates in interaction with a woman who asks whether creative people are just tortured souls.
Well, I think some pain and anguish in one’s life provides for a heftier mouthful to chew on. Sustenance for the creative machine. Each genuine experience can provide energy and material for creative expression. Maybe the sad thing is that genuine experience is so often cloaked in the guise of pain.
*Blogger's term, not mine.
**I say increasingly, though truth be told I am always critical.
It is no help that I've become increasingly critical of my writing as of late.** I consider mining old journals for material, but am scared of what I would find there. Some of those pages are from such painful times that I'm reticent to relieve them in the reading. I think of a friend's post regarding the emotional state of so-called "creative people". In it he relates in interaction with a woman who asks whether creative people are just tortured souls.
Well, I think some pain and anguish in one’s life provides for a heftier mouthful to chew on. Sustenance for the creative machine. Each genuine experience can provide energy and material for creative expression. Maybe the sad thing is that genuine experience is so often cloaked in the guise of pain.
*Blogger's term, not mine.
**I say increasingly, though truth be told I am always critical.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
writing
Sometimes, I write things I can't quite grasp. I think, "One day I'll see what others see in this". I reassure myself it is not intellectual defect, or emotional blindness that makes them see brilliance in my self-perceived mediocrity.
Rather it is timing, my timing. Maybe the writing comes before the understanding, as the action comes before the memory, and the memory sparks the memoir. I may hate what I write today, and cherish it tomorrow.
Rather it is timing, my timing. Maybe the writing comes before the understanding, as the action comes before the memory, and the memory sparks the memoir. I may hate what I write today, and cherish it tomorrow.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
stormy weather
Do you ever have a wish you could eject yourself from society for a spell?
This past week hurricane Kira ripped through my life. Things are spinning back to normal and I'm left to deal with the wreckage of my own poor behavior. The wind blows some torn paper from the resumes I've re-written, sign in sheets from the 5, 10, 20 minute late mornings. I pencil in apologies between return black dress, and get shoes fixed. And hope to have the energy to right what is askew.
This past week hurricane Kira ripped through my life. Things are spinning back to normal and I'm left to deal with the wreckage of my own poor behavior. The wind blows some torn paper from the resumes I've re-written, sign in sheets from the 5, 10, 20 minute late mornings. I pencil in apologies between return black dress, and get shoes fixed. And hope to have the energy to right what is askew.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Two Truths and a Lie
Ever heard of this game? It's one of those rinky dink icebreakers. Despite the air of forced socialization, I adore this game. Fact is, I love information. I guess it comes from feeling I never got the full story as a kid. I learned to peek in drawers and ask inappropriate questions. I'd do anything to feel like I had a better grip on the situation. I had no borders or boundaries, no respect for your privacy. I was blessed (?) with roaring curiosity and an innate ability to put things back where I found them.
Today I still the hand that reaches to invade the space of another, but the voracious appetite for dirt remains. Catch my interest and I will collect the bits of yourself that you drop like bread crumbs. Saving it all up for the day I might be hungry. Folding all the facts into the folds of my mind for safekeeping.
So is it any surprise that I like this game? I like that participants must make the facts interesting so to disguise the lie. I like combing my background for bits of funky, sea glass, memory that might distract you from my falsehood. I like knowing more.
Here are the two truths and a lie that I gave today. Please forgive me as they were thought up on the fly. Can you tell which is veritas and mendacium?
I modeled when I was a baby.
I learned to ride a bike when I was 7.
My kindergarten life plan was to become a prima ballerina, marry and have kids, then become a nun after my husband passed away.
Today I still the hand that reaches to invade the space of another, but the voracious appetite for dirt remains. Catch my interest and I will collect the bits of yourself that you drop like bread crumbs. Saving it all up for the day I might be hungry. Folding all the facts into the folds of my mind for safekeeping.
So is it any surprise that I like this game? I like that participants must make the facts interesting so to disguise the lie. I like combing my background for bits of funky, sea glass, memory that might distract you from my falsehood. I like knowing more.
Here are the two truths and a lie that I gave today. Please forgive me as they were thought up on the fly. Can you tell which is veritas and mendacium?
I modeled when I was a baby.
I learned to ride a bike when I was 7.
My kindergarten life plan was to become a prima ballerina, marry and have kids, then become a nun after my husband passed away.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Wiggle it, just a little bit...
Thank GOD that they've figured this out.
(Just for the record I'd have to lose 2 inches off my waist to have perfect wiggle.)
(Just for the record I'd have to lose 2 inches off my waist to have perfect wiggle.)
Saturday, September 1, 2007
walking
I have heard:
First you get out of the hole.
Then when walking down the block with the hole, you try and not fall in.
After awhile you choose another block.
I hate realizing that I haven't chosen another block. I find myself at the bottom of the same hole. Only it's a little shallower this time. I've sustained a few less bruises. My cries for help are quickly answered. No one looks at me and says "You did it, again?". They help me brush the dirt off, and wrap an ace bandage around my ankle. Someone brought neosporin, another has a cartoon bandaid in her purse. I am cared for and fixed up, then a new block is pointed out to me.
First you get out of the hole.
Then when walking down the block with the hole, you try and not fall in.
After awhile you choose another block.
I hate realizing that I haven't chosen another block. I find myself at the bottom of the same hole. Only it's a little shallower this time. I've sustained a few less bruises. My cries for help are quickly answered. No one looks at me and says "You did it, again?". They help me brush the dirt off, and wrap an ace bandage around my ankle. Someone brought neosporin, another has a cartoon bandaid in her purse. I am cared for and fixed up, then a new block is pointed out to me.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
brunch
Diners are where I get my sustenance, both physical and otherwise. Eros is one of my favorites. The vinyl seats squeal as you slide in, as if to welcome you. At night the place glows with an amber light no longer approved by decorators. Everything is brown, or gold, except for the walls which are mosaiced with murals out of Greek history books. The menu is a dozen pages long, but the service is what makes it exceptional. They have a spice and delicacy that their food does not.
They care for the stooped, grayed woman curving over a bowl of soup at the counter. They remember when babies have grown, and chide me for my absence. They let me wait on a Saturday morning, accepting my refusal to sit in the back, on rickety tables pushed too closely together for comfort. They give me permission to stand in repose as families bustle around me. Waiting for a window booth that provides some of the best people watching in the city.
Each time I pass they wave, filling my belly with a joy warm as their crappy coffee. Today I'm here listening to the cacophonic symphony of Saturday brunch. The clatter of china against china, and slide of plate on counter. I taste coffee, bitter and milky-sweet, before we are even seated.
I resist the impulse to stare at Dave and let my eyes glaze over in fantasy. Maybe it's the shirt he's wearing, but I'm betting it's the free floating lust that has followed me like Eeyore's little black rain cloud.
I met Steven a few weeks ago. Immediately he treated me as if we'd grown up braiding each other's hair and talking about boys. His warmth and affection was like a blanket, one that I couldn't quite trust wasn't infected with smallpox. Mind you, that is my fear talking, not any menace on his part.
When we are (quickly) seated I'm next to Meg, who is all sharp angles and beauty. Meg, who I knew would be my friend when I heard her talk about putting on a full face of makeup and looking in the mirror asking herself what she was doing.
We order, cups of tea for Dave and Meg, and a combined bounty of pancakes, turkey bacon, and eggs over easy for Steven and me. Dave is talking about the path of dating that's let up to his current girlfriend,
"The only thing my bad relationships had in common was me"
See, I've heard that clever remark before. In my case its wisdom falls on deaf ears. I mention that today is my last day of match.com membership.
"Oh yeah, I didn't get anything out of online dating" says Dave
"I met my boyfriend online," replies Stephen "I thought you'd broken up"
"Still met him online" he counters
We go from choosing partners, to first date etiquette, to the place where all conversations go if they go long enough: sex.
"How many dates are you supposed to wait before you sleep with someone?"
"I think it's three," I say "sounds like a good number."
"I've noticed a lot of gay men I know don't really wait to have sex"
I'm not sure if he is asking a question or expressing an opinion but either way Dave is doing so cautiously. Simon replies,
"Generally"
"I know a lot of women who don't wait either," I point out
"Well" Stephen's voice has an undercurrent of amusement "I think you have a little gay man in you"
I raise my eyebrows and deadpan
"Is he paying rent?"
They care for the stooped, grayed woman curving over a bowl of soup at the counter. They remember when babies have grown, and chide me for my absence. They let me wait on a Saturday morning, accepting my refusal to sit in the back, on rickety tables pushed too closely together for comfort. They give me permission to stand in repose as families bustle around me. Waiting for a window booth that provides some of the best people watching in the city.
Each time I pass they wave, filling my belly with a joy warm as their crappy coffee. Today I'm here listening to the cacophonic symphony of Saturday brunch. The clatter of china against china, and slide of plate on counter. I taste coffee, bitter and milky-sweet, before we are even seated.
I resist the impulse to stare at Dave and let my eyes glaze over in fantasy. Maybe it's the shirt he's wearing, but I'm betting it's the free floating lust that has followed me like Eeyore's little black rain cloud.
I met Steven a few weeks ago. Immediately he treated me as if we'd grown up braiding each other's hair and talking about boys. His warmth and affection was like a blanket, one that I couldn't quite trust wasn't infected with smallpox. Mind you, that is my fear talking, not any menace on his part.
When we are (quickly) seated I'm next to Meg, who is all sharp angles and beauty. Meg, who I knew would be my friend when I heard her talk about putting on a full face of makeup and looking in the mirror asking herself what she was doing.
We order, cups of tea for Dave and Meg, and a combined bounty of pancakes, turkey bacon, and eggs over easy for Steven and me. Dave is talking about the path of dating that's let up to his current girlfriend,
"The only thing my bad relationships had in common was me"
See, I've heard that clever remark before. In my case its wisdom falls on deaf ears. I mention that today is my last day of match.com membership.
"Oh yeah, I didn't get anything out of online dating" says Dave
"I met my boyfriend online," replies Stephen "I thought you'd broken up"
"Still met him online" he counters
We go from choosing partners, to first date etiquette, to the place where all conversations go if they go long enough: sex.
"How many dates are you supposed to wait before you sleep with someone?"
"I think it's three," I say "sounds like a good number."
"I've noticed a lot of gay men I know don't really wait to have sex"
I'm not sure if he is asking a question or expressing an opinion but either way Dave is doing so cautiously. Simon replies,
"Generally"
"I know a lot of women who don't wait either," I point out
"Well" Stephen's voice has an undercurrent of amusement "I think you have a little gay man in you"
I raise my eyebrows and deadpan
"Is he paying rent?"
Monday, August 20, 2007
When (Ralph Marston)
I heard this tonight and just adored it. Do you ever feel like the universe picked up the phone and whispered-shouted-coaxed a very clear message into your ear? That is how I felt when I heard this.
When
When your reasons to move forward outweigh your excuses for staying put, you will move forward.
When your thirst for success is more powerful than the desire to stay within your comfort zone, you will succeed.
When the reward is meaningful enough, you will act.
When you connect your deepest purpose with the goals you set, those goals will be achieved.
When you understand that there is a real and accessible pathway to the most magnificent dreams you can dream, you'll get yourself on that path.
When you know without a doubt that every action has a consequence, you'll focus all your actions in a positive and valuable direction.
When you love what you do, you'll do it with grace and ease and excellence.
When you do what you love, you'll provide a steady stream of unique and extraordinary gifts to life.
When you are completely clear about why, you'll be able to figure out how.
When you let go of the need to need, you'll fall into a massive sea of beautiful abundance.
When you are ready, life is here to fully live. Choose it, and now is when.
~Ralph Marston~
When
When your reasons to move forward outweigh your excuses for staying put, you will move forward.
When your thirst for success is more powerful than the desire to stay within your comfort zone, you will succeed.
When the reward is meaningful enough, you will act.
When you connect your deepest purpose with the goals you set, those goals will be achieved.
When you understand that there is a real and accessible pathway to the most magnificent dreams you can dream, you'll get yourself on that path.
When you know without a doubt that every action has a consequence, you'll focus all your actions in a positive and valuable direction.
When you love what you do, you'll do it with grace and ease and excellence.
When you do what you love, you'll provide a steady stream of unique and extraordinary gifts to life.
When you are completely clear about why, you'll be able to figure out how.
When you let go of the need to need, you'll fall into a massive sea of beautiful abundance.
When you are ready, life is here to fully live. Choose it, and now is when.
~Ralph Marston~
Sunday, August 19, 2007
These shoes rule
These shoes make me wish I had a rich husband willing and able to indulge my shopping habits.
This video makes me laugh uproariously.
Friday, August 17, 2007
cultured
I went to the museum today with Dave and Jenny. The impressionists made me cry (they always do). Not sad crying, just wow-I-can't-believe-something-so-transcendentally-beautiful-exists kind of crying.
Next was the Whitney (much more modern stuff). The flourescent colors, flashing lights, and swirling concert posters made me wonder "Is this art?". I see the beauty in it, I can see how it is artistic. But to me, art is defined in part by its ability to last. This show was more a documentary of an era. Or maybe I just don't get modern art. The whole museum leaves me feeling very "meh" about its contents.
The last time I'd been to the museum with Dave we took scores of photos. Him posing arms akimbo next to Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. Me rubbing my tummy and smiling in anticipation of Cezanne's juicy apples. Another where with my furrowed brow, raised eyebrows, and extended pinky, I criticized Rodin for not endowing his naked man with a bit more naked man.
Today, we were behaved.
Today, we were behaved.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
heart
My theory was that all the pieces, heart, body, mind, are split for the safety of the general public. Snicked into brushed steel boxes, tight in black foam, unstable parts of an explosive whole. A woman would be too powerful as one cohesive unit, bubbling with such chemical reactions. I didn't think you could take all of me at once.
That was my theory anyway. I thought it worked so well. That I was broken into bits so that i could hide away what I wanted to protect. Leave my heart tucked away as I ran riot. Like a pair of shoes saved for just the right occasion. The shine of their fabric and the sharp of their heel saved for the right dance. I imagined the disconnect would keep it away from harm. I didn't trust myself with its fist sized, fleshy passion stuck in a cage of blood and body.
Where were you heart? Were you hiding away like a child hearing her parents fight? Or knocking at the door like a persistent Jehovah's Witness trying to show me a new way of life. Was the thud-thud not my pulse, but you wanting to be let in.
I couldn't do it. I just couldn't keep you out of the equation. I couldn't fuck without feelings. But I won't feign regret; I don't wish to cauterize the wounds left by twisted sheets and limbs. I
don't want to forget the time I spent with him, my last experiment.
But this time I promise to be a better caretaker, oh heart of mine.
That was my theory anyway. I thought it worked so well. That I was broken into bits so that i could hide away what I wanted to protect. Leave my heart tucked away as I ran riot. Like a pair of shoes saved for just the right occasion. The shine of their fabric and the sharp of their heel saved for the right dance. I imagined the disconnect would keep it away from harm. I didn't trust myself with its fist sized, fleshy passion stuck in a cage of blood and body.
Where were you heart? Were you hiding away like a child hearing her parents fight? Or knocking at the door like a persistent Jehovah's Witness trying to show me a new way of life. Was the thud-thud not my pulse, but you wanting to be let in.
I couldn't do it. I just couldn't keep you out of the equation. I couldn't fuck without feelings. But I won't feign regret; I don't wish to cauterize the wounds left by twisted sheets and limbs. I
don't want to forget the time I spent with him, my last experiment.
But this time I promise to be a better caretaker, oh heart of mine.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
cupcake
Lulled by the bath-water warm air my head dips down and for the space of a few heartbeats I rest. My body shivers itself awake with a twitch. Again, leaden eyelids fight a losing battle to stay open and my chin sinks down to my breastbone. This jerky dance of not quite awake leaves my brain cottony and my mouth empty. I walk to the door, shaking my head in attempt to clear it.
I walk briskly, trying to find a breeze or create my own. My golden heels click on the small concrete paths. Sidewalks never widened to accept the girth of the new American. Walkways that remind me what New York looks like in movies. These streets were never gilded or paved
with yellow brick. Rather they are grey with flecks of glass and sand making them sparkle in the sun. And abrade young knees like a cheese grater.
The streets are dark and leafy. Colors muted to shades of brown and black bearing only a shadow of their original brilliance. There are no streetlamps here.
I feel like I'm walking in a kaleidoscope. The leaves act as bits of glass, blocking what meager light remains. The gleam makes the environment more liquid than gaseous. I'm not sure whether I swam or walked, but my head was no clearer. I was in a fever dream of Manhattan, lost in a forest of brick brownstones and fluid light.
Stairways lead up to each impermeable brownstone. Everywhere are dark corners in which to hide and kiss. I remember walking here with Lucia; both of us all dolled up more for the world than for each other. I remember how we posed on stairways and kissed, and all I could think was what a good photo it would have been. What a pretty postcard we were.
The streets of the village braid in and around each other. They have no respect for the sensible grid of midtown. They loop and disappear, claiming pretty names and scant real estate.
The destination is my favorite bookstore. The shelves are jammed with original picks; the lighting is bright yet flattering, prices are excellent, and the folding tables outside hold unknown treasures. Doesn't hurt that it is across the street from Magnolia Bakery.
There is a line outside the famed confectionery. I ask the baker/bouncer who stands guard at the door whether they are closing. "Yes, we're closed. Good night" he tells me with a flash of white teeth in the dark night. "Oh, okay" I say, turning to cross the street.
"I was joking! Please, come in!" he yells an apology after me. I see that the bookstore is closing and wave a hand to him, "No, that's okay" I yell back.
My visit to the bookstore is brief. I don't want to keep them open late, so I leave quickly. As I exit the baker/bouncer is waiting for me. He calls out another apology, approaching this time. He wraps an arm around my shoulders,
"Please, I'm so sorry. Come in, I will give you a cupcake"
"Oh no, that's okay"
I get a whiff of the frosting on the humid summer air; the smell of sugar, butter, and fresh baking impossible to resist. I can feel vanilla butter cream melting on my tongue with a sandy crumble of dry cupcake.
"I don't have to wait in line?" I ask
"No, no of course not" He insists
"Well, okay"
I walk briskly, trying to find a breeze or create my own. My golden heels click on the small concrete paths. Sidewalks never widened to accept the girth of the new American. Walkways that remind me what New York looks like in movies. These streets were never gilded or paved
with yellow brick. Rather they are grey with flecks of glass and sand making them sparkle in the sun. And abrade young knees like a cheese grater.
The streets are dark and leafy. Colors muted to shades of brown and black bearing only a shadow of their original brilliance. There are no streetlamps here.
I feel like I'm walking in a kaleidoscope. The leaves act as bits of glass, blocking what meager light remains. The gleam makes the environment more liquid than gaseous. I'm not sure whether I swam or walked, but my head was no clearer. I was in a fever dream of Manhattan, lost in a forest of brick brownstones and fluid light.
Stairways lead up to each impermeable brownstone. Everywhere are dark corners in which to hide and kiss. I remember walking here with Lucia; both of us all dolled up more for the world than for each other. I remember how we posed on stairways and kissed, and all I could think was what a good photo it would have been. What a pretty postcard we were.
The streets of the village braid in and around each other. They have no respect for the sensible grid of midtown. They loop and disappear, claiming pretty names and scant real estate.
The destination is my favorite bookstore. The shelves are jammed with original picks; the lighting is bright yet flattering, prices are excellent, and the folding tables outside hold unknown treasures. Doesn't hurt that it is across the street from Magnolia Bakery.
There is a line outside the famed confectionery. I ask the baker/bouncer who stands guard at the door whether they are closing. "Yes, we're closed. Good night" he tells me with a flash of white teeth in the dark night. "Oh, okay" I say, turning to cross the street.
"I was joking! Please, come in!" he yells an apology after me. I see that the bookstore is closing and wave a hand to him, "No, that's okay" I yell back.
My visit to the bookstore is brief. I don't want to keep them open late, so I leave quickly. As I exit the baker/bouncer is waiting for me. He calls out another apology, approaching this time. He wraps an arm around my shoulders,
"Please, I'm so sorry. Come in, I will give you a cupcake"
"Oh no, that's okay"
I get a whiff of the frosting on the humid summer air; the smell of sugar, butter, and fresh baking impossible to resist. I can feel vanilla butter cream melting on my tongue with a sandy crumble of dry cupcake.
"I don't have to wait in line?" I ask
"No, no of course not" He insists
"Well, okay"
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
books
KIRA, KATE, JENNY, and KEVIN sit in the tech office passing time till the lunch delivery gets here. JENNY has given her seat to KIRA in hopes that the latter will spill less food than usual. Jenny is now sitting on an upturned milk crate. KEVIN types on the computer not paying attention to the proceedings.
KATE
Oh my god, I'm so excited for this class now that I've read Atonement
KIRA
Yeah I loved that book
JENNY
I couldn't get past the first part
KIRA
See you just need to get past those first 80 pages, the rest of it is great. I'm really into Tender is the Night but it's a bit of a slog
KATE
Who's wrote that?
KIRA
Fitzgerald. Have you read The Great Gatsby yet?
Both respond at the same time, Kate with exuberance Jenny with ennui.
KATE
Oh my god, I loved it
JENNY
-meh- I didn't like it
KIRA and KATE in unison, in voices that sound more like gasps of horror
KIRA/KATE
What??
JENNY
Well, I thought the plot was boring and predictable, and I didn't like the characters
KIRA
Well, you suck
Jenny makes a noise of annoyance, Kate gives a surprised giggle
KEVIN
That's the best you could come up with? "You suck"?
KIRA
I thought you weren't listening because we were talking about books
modern-day progress
Progress is... reading a year-old e-mail and realizing what a dick he was. Realizing he wasn't worth your time, your body, or your thoughts. Progress is not looking at his window when you pass his building, or not even looking at the building. Maybe you'll delete the e-mails soon, but for now progress is deleting him from your myspace page.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
I Go Back to May 1937 (by Sharon Olds)
I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges,
I see my father strolling out
under the ochre sandstone arch, the
red tiles glinting like bent
plates of blood behind his head, I
see my mother with a few light books at her hip
standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks,
the wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its
sword-tips aglow in the May air,
they are about to graduate, they are about to get married,
they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they are
innocent, they would never hurt anybody.
I want to go up to them and say Stop,
don’t do it—she’s the wrong woman,
he’s the wrong man, you are going to do things
you cannot imagine you would ever do,
you are going to do bad things to children,
you are going to suffer in ways you have not heard of,
you are going to want to die. I want to go
up to them there in the late May sunlight and say it,
her hungry pretty face turning to me,
her pitiful beautiful untouched body,
his arrogant handsome face turning to me,
his pitiful beautiful untouched body,
but I don’t do it. I want to live. I
take them up like the male and female
paper dolls and bang them together
at the hips, like chips of flint, as if to
strike sparks from them, I say
Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it.
Sharon Olds, “I Go Back to May 1937” from Strike Sparks: Selected Poems 1980-2002. Copyright ¦copy; 2004 by Sharon Olds.
I see my father strolling out
under the ochre sandstone arch, the
red tiles glinting like bent
plates of blood behind his head, I
see my mother with a few light books at her hip
standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks,
the wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its
sword-tips aglow in the May air,
they are about to graduate, they are about to get married,
they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they are
innocent, they would never hurt anybody.
I want to go up to them and say Stop,
don’t do it—she’s the wrong woman,
he’s the wrong man, you are going to do things
you cannot imagine you would ever do,
you are going to do bad things to children,
you are going to suffer in ways you have not heard of,
you are going to want to die. I want to go
up to them there in the late May sunlight and say it,
her hungry pretty face turning to me,
her pitiful beautiful untouched body,
his arrogant handsome face turning to me,
his pitiful beautiful untouched body,
but I don’t do it. I want to live. I
take them up like the male and female
paper dolls and bang them together
at the hips, like chips of flint, as if to
strike sparks from them, I say
Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it.
Sharon Olds, “I Go Back to May 1937” from Strike Sparks: Selected Poems 1980-2002. Copyright ¦copy; 2004 by Sharon Olds.
Monday, July 30, 2007
blindsided
What do you do when someone reads the cards you thought were so well hidden. When you realize all the work you've done was on your head and there's so much more to do on your heart. I wasn't expecting this in a work day, for someone to notice and make me feel anew the hollowness within me. At least its been identified, this reason I've felt adrift. Validated and recognized by an outsider, next on the agenda in caring for that which is me.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
making room
In my various incarnations as a working girl I worked in an orthodontist's office. It was a fascinating experience on many levels, but mainly on learning the mechanics of the human mouth.
Did you know the human bite is the most germ ridden? Its theorized that the germs and bacteria of the mouth are there to defend against anything that would try to attack the system, to kill that which would try to kill. In working orthodontia what was fascinating to me were the barbaric things we do to our mouths in the name of beauty and symmetry.
For instance there is a contraption used in orthodontia called an expander. An expander is used when the patient doesn't have enough room for all the teeth intended (by their body) for their top palate. The patient in question has to be within a certain body age, or else this won't work. The expander is installed into the soft upper palate, its generally secured by rings of metal which are forced around the back molars. Its the caretaker's (mother or father generally) job to insert a small key into the expander once or twice a day, they then turn the key expanding the expander. Now, this hurts. This really fucking hurts. If you're kid is a whiny prima donna, you may or may not have the guts for this. This is not soft, feely, mwah mwah, kinda parenting. This is not nice, this is probably not approved by therapists, this is hard (but worth it). The patient ends up with more pronounced cheekbones and being able to keep all their teeth.
I also think this is an amazing metaphor/simile/etc/etc/etc. If actions like the expander aren't taken you have to get teeth pulled, yes thats painful, also destructive and unnecesary if you're willing to put up with lesser pain for a longer amount of time. The expander makes room for the new, the inevitable. While keeping space for the old. It painfully forces the patient to make room for what is to come. Just like life. But if I can do the work, put up with the lesser pain than I can keep the old and make room for the new. Which is preferable to the mouthful of blood involved with the alternative.
Did you know the human bite is the most germ ridden? Its theorized that the germs and bacteria of the mouth are there to defend against anything that would try to attack the system, to kill that which would try to kill. In working orthodontia what was fascinating to me were the barbaric things we do to our mouths in the name of beauty and symmetry.
For instance there is a contraption used in orthodontia called an expander. An expander is used when the patient doesn't have enough room for all the teeth intended (by their body) for their top palate. The patient in question has to be within a certain body age, or else this won't work. The expander is installed into the soft upper palate, its generally secured by rings of metal which are forced around the back molars. Its the caretaker's (mother or father generally) job to insert a small key into the expander once or twice a day, they then turn the key expanding the expander. Now, this hurts. This really fucking hurts. If you're kid is a whiny prima donna, you may or may not have the guts for this. This is not soft, feely, mwah mwah, kinda parenting. This is not nice, this is probably not approved by therapists, this is hard (but worth it). The patient ends up with more pronounced cheekbones and being able to keep all their teeth.
I also think this is an amazing metaphor/simile/etc/etc/etc. If actions like the expander aren't taken you have to get teeth pulled, yes thats painful, also destructive and unnecesary if you're willing to put up with lesser pain for a longer amount of time. The expander makes room for the new, the inevitable. While keeping space for the old. It painfully forces the patient to make room for what is to come. Just like life. But if I can do the work, put up with the lesser pain than I can keep the old and make room for the new. Which is preferable to the mouthful of blood involved with the alternative.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
7/26/07
the smell of his leather
the crinkle of deli flowers
my eyes meet mine in the motorcycle mirror
and I feel at ease
the crinkle of deli flowers
my eyes meet mine in the motorcycle mirror
and I feel at ease
contract
I have had a hard time getting work done today. I think I spend most of my time dawdling, looking for something which is integral to my work, or fucking around on the internet.
Here's the thing, I have a good work ethic. I am intelligent, motivated, and hard working... Under the right circumstances. The job I do right now requires little to no brain power, has even less structure, is monotonous and is overall fucking lame. The job I will start again in a few weeks changes all the time, is emotionally rewarding, requires me to be on the ball and to strive to be better each day. It also provides me with a salary vastly less than what I need. Soon I will not be able to depend upon my mother for financial assistance and I've come to a crossroads. Do I stick with the job I love, entry level though it may be. Or do I rejoin the corporate world and make at least 20% more a year.
I don't think I can even make this decision this year. I've promised so many kids I would return. I can't break those kind of promises, I tear up just thinking about it. Even though I panic at the thought of scrambling to make ends meet I can only have faith that I will be taken care of.
Here's the thing, I have a good work ethic. I am intelligent, motivated, and hard working... Under the right circumstances. The job I do right now requires little to no brain power, has even less structure, is monotonous and is overall fucking lame. The job I will start again in a few weeks changes all the time, is emotionally rewarding, requires me to be on the ball and to strive to be better each day. It also provides me with a salary vastly less than what I need. Soon I will not be able to depend upon my mother for financial assistance and I've come to a crossroads. Do I stick with the job I love, entry level though it may be. Or do I rejoin the corporate world and make at least 20% more a year.
I don't think I can even make this decision this year. I've promised so many kids I would return. I can't break those kind of promises, I tear up just thinking about it. Even though I panic at the thought of scrambling to make ends meet I can only have faith that I will be taken care of.
Quote of (Yester)day
"How could you have neglected to tell me that your cats were nursed by a dog?"
From one co-worker to another. Which resulted in the tale of two kittens whose mother had ran away who were then adopted (and nursed) by a dog.
From one co-worker to another. Which resulted in the tale of two kittens whose mother had ran away who were then adopted (and nursed) by a dog.
O Tell Me The Truth About Love (W. H. Auden)
Some say that love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pajamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway-guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
it wasn't ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my shoes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
W.H. Auden
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go round,
And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pajamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway-guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
it wasn't ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my shoes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
W.H. Auden
We Who Are Your Closest Friends (Phillip Lopate)
We who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.
Patrick
I sit on the bed in the beige light of the hospice and turn the pulpy pages of the book. One hand holds the glossy slick cover breaking its spine with my grip, and the other holds his warm dry hand.
The story I read is a dime a dozen love story that fails to distract from the rattle in his chest and the shallow breaths he draws. I refuse to believe he will die, though he hasn't said a word since I came in. As the hero rescues the abused dog and the heroine throws out a witty one liner I start to slide my hand from his. He grips my hand tight, and I stay. I never saw him again.
Most people thought he was Irish because of his first name, Patrick. They didn't realize it was a name given to him by teachers who couldn't pronounce his Italian one, a name I know longer remember. He had a talent for telling the truth no matter who didn't want to hear it. He was an artist who never got discovered, and an alcoholic who never got sober. He thanked his addiction for his son. A son who was the result of an affair with a woman he never stopped loving.
The first time I saw him he was introduced by a pointed finger "That's Patrick, you can say anything to him".
She pointed to a man stooped slightly with age, only when he wasn't pulling himself up with pride, or leaning against a parking meter smoking a cigarette. His hair was white, wispy but still retained the wildness of youth. His eyes were sharp though clouded a blue-brown, his nose large and Italian.
I can't say when he took me under his liver spotted, nicotine tinged wing, but I fit in there perfectly. He pushed for me to be heard, pushed for me to be okay, he loved me like the father I'd lost and that love carried me through one of the harder years of my life. His presence was the one right in a life of insecurity. Now, when I walk past a window that shows my reflection I remember him walking beside me saying "Yeah, we look good kid."
The story I read is a dime a dozen love story that fails to distract from the rattle in his chest and the shallow breaths he draws. I refuse to believe he will die, though he hasn't said a word since I came in. As the hero rescues the abused dog and the heroine throws out a witty one liner I start to slide my hand from his. He grips my hand tight, and I stay. I never saw him again.
Most people thought he was Irish because of his first name, Patrick. They didn't realize it was a name given to him by teachers who couldn't pronounce his Italian one, a name I know longer remember. He had a talent for telling the truth no matter who didn't want to hear it. He was an artist who never got discovered, and an alcoholic who never got sober. He thanked his addiction for his son. A son who was the result of an affair with a woman he never stopped loving.
The first time I saw him he was introduced by a pointed finger "That's Patrick, you can say anything to him".
She pointed to a man stooped slightly with age, only when he wasn't pulling himself up with pride, or leaning against a parking meter smoking a cigarette. His hair was white, wispy but still retained the wildness of youth. His eyes were sharp though clouded a blue-brown, his nose large and Italian.
I can't say when he took me under his liver spotted, nicotine tinged wing, but I fit in there perfectly. He pushed for me to be heard, pushed for me to be okay, he loved me like the father I'd lost and that love carried me through one of the harder years of my life. His presence was the one right in a life of insecurity. Now, when I walk past a window that shows my reflection I remember him walking beside me saying "Yeah, we look good kid."
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