oh boy kira...

2012-01-11T21:09:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I read blogs. Not very often, and not very consistently. But I do. And I think, 'Holy Hell, I could do this better... oh wait. I do have a blog! I just don't write in it! Because that would take follow through, dedication, a lack of a yammering inner critic who won't shut her damn pie hole. I digress.

If you are still reading, thank you. If you are still reading and hoping that I will write regularly, seriously THANK YOU. Light a candle for me, say a prayer that I will follow through this time.

xo

k

2010-11-07T12:13:00.000-08:00

Am debating about changing the location of this blog (from blogger to wordpress for example).

Am pretty sure that said change would have a steep learning curve and would be time consuming.

Think I should write rather than design.

Feel free to weigh in with advice and opinions.

2010-08-26T19:48:00.000-07:00

Hello! I haven't written on here in quite awhile. I also haven't painted, taken a photo, twisted metal into jewelry, or sown more than a button. It's hard to write. It's hard to be creative. There's so many other things that vie for my attention. Dishes to wash, stores to shop, sites to surf, tv to watch. Who wants to cocoon themselves away with the frustrating solitaire of creativity?

Well, I do. Sort of. Sometimes. I want to tell stories and produce things. I wish there were a way to turn of the critic inside my head. The one who is so hard to outrun. She is on my back and it's rare that the speed of my thinking drowns out her cackling.

Do you know what I think every writer should do? Read. An artist cannot go through the world blindfolded, how can an author not read? I don't understand that. Maybe I can justify this lack of produce as a time of fallow. A time to let crops grow. A time to gather material. Ah, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

Press publish. Shut self up. Produce produced.

2009-08-16T13:55:00.000-07:00

her complexion is pale with malnutrition,
cheeks and skin painted back to health with a deft hand

perfectly sooted lashes frame deadened eyes

and she pays good money, to ink up the flesh
she just sold to you

Think less, write more...

2009-07-30T23:26:00.000-07:00

Think less, write more. I'm gonna go with that...

Have you ever run into the brick wall of your self definition? Come to realize that your idea of you is holding you back? That you may well be so much more than you think you are?

--Negative self assessment coming, no need to be alarmed.--

I am late. I am scattered. I am messy and disorganized and likely to poop out before I succeed.

No matter what my actions, no matter how I have improved in these areas, I still hold these truths to be self evident.

Yesterday I realized... I don't have to believe I'm different to act differently. My actions don't need to be guided by my feelings, they don't need to follow my self definition. I can be Kira (thescrewupmess) but not procrastinate for right now.

I can act differently, just for the sake of acting differently. I can divorce my feelings from my actions. Act differently than the person I think I am, and maybe become the person I was meant to be.

P.S. I've attached the following which was written by Marianne Williamson in her book A Return To Love: Reflections on the Principles of A Course in Miracles. (FYI It is often incorrectly credited to Nelson Mandela.)

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.
We are all meant to shine, as children do.
We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

Commercial Lust...

2009-07-29T12:45:00.000-07:00

Me want the pretty pretties...

http://ifitshipitshere.blogspot.com/2009/07/artist-decorated-brain-buckets-raise.html

I use my bike as my primary mode of transportation. Problem is, I HATE wearing a helmet. I do it. I do it the way that I quit smoking, despite not wanting to. With a helmet like these I may change my tune.

barefoot

2009-06-05T05:04:00.001-07:00

In my fancy shoes I tower over his modest height, bringing me from above average to amazon.

"You are not the kind of girl who needs to wear heels"

I slip one off and sink down 4 inches.

"Better?"

"Yep"

"Now all I need is to be pregnant and in the kitchen"

He raises his eyebrows

"You know that saying right?"

"Yeah, I do, I'm just not hungry right now"

hope

2009-06-01T19:48:00.000-07:00

will you be..
..the leaf caught
...eyelash blown
....penny tossed
will you be the wish that comes true?

Things I love about New York

2009-05-19T22:44:00.000-07:00

An ongoing list...

1) I am 3 blocks away from the best chocolate chip cookies in the world.
2) Bookstores are open till midnight.
3) I can buy a meal (of varying healthfulness) for less than $5.00
4) The huge range of people, allowing for the most horrid and the most beautiful.
5) My students, because they have no idea that they are living in New York City.
6) I am a five-minute walk from a sex store.
7) I can buy the best of anything. Most importantly I can find the best fresh eggs, the best organic frozen food, the best lemon meringue pie, and a wide variety of killer cupcakes.
8) This is where most of my friends live.
9) Riverside park. A statue of Eleanor Roosevelt greets you as you walk in. There is the river if you bear West and swing sets if you know where to look.
10) Central park, each gate is named something different (the children's gate, the engineer's gate, and my favorite the stranger's gate). If you choose the less-beaten path you can convince yourself you're in the woods somewhere far away from all things urban.
11) I don't have to drive to work. In fact, I really don't have to drive anywhere.
12) All the beautiful people in their beautiful clothes.
13) Seeing young aspiring actors perform Shakespeare on a subway train, and break dancers narrowly avoid poles as they somersault down that same train car.
14) One word... non-smoking.
15) My bike has turned this big city into a small town.
16) Locking eyes with a stranger and sharing some moment, enabled by the sheer density of people and the lack of cars.
17) The memories of my father woven through my neighborhood.
18) Novelty is so close. It's just outside my comfort zone, just a subway stop further away than I'm planning to go.
19) This city is made for walking.

good things come to those who wait

2009-04-26T21:23:00.000-07:00

She is at about rib height, 5 years old, and bouncing next to me as I stand at my desk.

She points to my chest, and asks.

"What are those?"

"The flowers on my dress, or" -I gesture towards my chest- "these?"

"Those!"

"Um, they are part of my body"

"What are they? Why don't I have those? Why are they so big?

"They are breasts, and you'll have them when you grow up"

"Why don't I have them now? It's not fair!"

Final Destination

2009-03-17T20:11:00.001-07:00

"I was at the bar with my friends and he came by. He stays 15 minutes and leaves. I was a stop-by... I thought I was the final destination"

My roommate continues to tell me about her night. I can't stop thinking about how awesome the phrase she just came up with is.

"We'd texted about this, talked about it earlier today, he said he was finally so excited to hang out. And then he just... leaves!"

She was a stop-by, not the final destination. Just what we need, another way to be blown off.

Health Class

2009-03-11T19:25:00.000-07:00

I'm climbing up the stairs at work when some fifth graders pass me on their way down moaning a chorus of complaints.

"Eww!"
"Gross!"
"Ugh, I feel sick"

It doesn't sound serious, but still I feel the need to ask..

"Girls, what's wrong?"

They answer me all at once

"UGH! We just had Health class"
"From the book"
"It was awful"

They keep going downstairs, whining and clutching their stomachs. I stop laughing to call them back. At the bottom of the stairs, they turn to me

"And the worst of it is,"

I pause and lower my voice to an ominous whisper

"It's gonna happen to you"

statistics

2009-01-26T17:15:00.000-08:00

I am talking to this guy, we've yet to meet in person but the emails have been a fun distraction. He disappears for a few days, then reappears with this email.

"I'm used to dating women in the top 10%. Do you think you fall into that category?"

My jaw hits my chest, I sputter out a shocked laugh, and wonder whether he deserves a response. I type...

"I have no idea how to respond to that. "

Some part of me hopes that he will find a way to justify what he has said. "God, I realize how crazy and egotistical that sounds, I've just had some bad experiences..." or "Whoops, sorry about that I was smoking crack".

He responds with...

a picture of his ex-girlfriend.

riding

2009-01-25T16:41:00.000-08:00

I thread through traffic. Weaving past cars stalled by red lights, I keep the periphery of my vision open to pedestrians. Forever calculating the distance between myself and them. I hold my breath as little unguarded me slides through the colossal, bone-crunching, semi-trucks. Breathing with relief that my clenched fists weren't crushed between the bike's wide handlebars and their doors. Ah traffic. One of the partners in this dance. Is it a dance? A race? An all out war? It has the fluidity of a dance, the feeling of a race, and the body count of a war.

I could say I ride because it's convenient. Or because it's cheap. Some guess that I ride for the exercise, for stony calves and taught thighs. But really, I do it for this. For that rush of power and control I get when navigating my way from here to there. The giddy high of escaping the perils of New York streets in one piece. The purity of riding cleanses me. There is only so much room for my bull shit on a one-speed. Problems inside my head can't take the concentration I need for the road.

Sometimes I succumb to my desire for passive transportation. I am lured away from the pitted, crowded road by the promise of a few minutes to read, and the chance to let myself be taken instead of powering through. The truth of public transportation is always better than the fantasy. In real life there is rarely a cute guy on the subway (without a wedding ring). I'll give in to an ipod instead of using the time to read, and those five blocks between work and the bus stop feel ten times harder than any bike ride. Given the alternative is it any wonder that I choose the freedom of riding?

I never thought to own a bike before. I bought it because it was on sale and it's pink. It's not the most practical choice but it makes me laugh. I am amused by it's cartoon proportions and color, by it's complete and total disregard for what a bike is supposed to look like. I've become numb to the comments, both positive and negative. It's pink and garish, and sometimes I wonder if that's what saves me as I brave traffic.

I can depend on my bike. It waits outside the school doors, bearing the indignities of stillness. It's wrestled into a small elevator at least twice a day, twisting in ways that rival any contortionist. My bike carries my bags without complaint, no word of their heft or number. It accepts the scratches and lost screws of city life, bounces over potholes and skids through gravel. And through it all, all it asks is that I ride.

New York I Love You, But You're Bringing Me Down

2008-11-06T15:48:00.000-08:00

LCD Soundsystem
Sound of Silver

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

Like a rat in a cage
Pulling minimum wage

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

New York, you're safer
And you're wasting my time

Our records all show
You are filthy but fine

But they shuttered your stores
When you opened the doors
To the cops who were bored
Once they'd run out of crime

New York, you're perfect
Don't please don't change a thing

Your mild billionaire mayor's
Now convinced he's a king

So the boring collect
I mean all disrespect

In the neighborhood bars
I'd once dreamt I would drink

New York, I Love You
But you're freaking me out

There's a ton of the twist
But we're fresh out of shout

Like a death in the hall
That you hear through your wall

New York, I Love You
But you're freaking me out

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

Like a death of the heart
Jesus, where do I start?

But you're still the one pool
Where I'd happily drown

And oh.. Take me off your mailing list
For kids that think it still exists
Yes, for those who think it still exists

Maybe I'm wrong
And maybe you're right
Maybe I'm wrong
And maybe you're right

Maybe you're right
Maybe I'm wrong
And just maybe you're right

And Oh..
Maybe Mother told you true
And they're always be something there for you
And you'll never be alone

But maybe she's wrong
And maybe I'm right
And just maybe she's wrong

Maybe she's wrong
And maybe I'm right
And if so, is there?

virtue

2008-08-02T22:23:00.000-07:00

I invite him to my place. I let him carry my bike into the building, admiring his biceps as he does so. We talk about books, and him being angry at a friend. We end up on my love seat with an arty film playing. All the lights are off. And he's not touching me. I flirt, crack suggestive jokes, he plays dumb. If I were someone who ground her teeth, now would be the time to be racking up the dentist bills.

I watch the screen,
(yawn,
rub my eyes,
calculate the time it's been since I've been kissed,)
as I will myself not to make a move.

Patience,
is not
my virtue.

I think I'm wrong about him. As he says goodbye, I see a spark in his eyes that says "Really? You like me?" and it lights in me an ember of hope.

Feist makes me happy!

2008-07-18T22:16:00.000-07:00

dysfunctional?

2008-07-12T07:19:00.001-07:00

Is it disturbing that this ad reminds me of my father? I think it's funny.

Jacob I have loved, but Esau...

2008-05-25T10:23:00.000-07:00

He lists all the reasons he's angry at me.

Valid reasons, that make sense and lend themselves to solid argument. Reasons like bits of leather making up the self flagellating whip I try not to pick up.

I can't tell if we argued, it seems too logical to have been a fight. Though I do know I yelled, yelled his name in gradually louder tones. Like a rising To stop him. To stop him so I could say goodbye. Because I couldn't continue our interaction civilly. I wanted to take off the gloves and get rid of the ref. It's a time to build, but I want to burn. I want to tell him all the reasons I'm angry, I want to destroy him with my fury. But I don't, because I know he can't hear them. It's so unjust, that all the work I've done has brought me to the place where I can take his anger, and know well enough to keep my own.

Sexy Librarian

2008-05-04T10:49:00.000-07:00

A photo (from the Michael Kors Fall '08 show) that I just love.

Hey Jude

2008-04-21T20:10:00.001-07:00

right-hand man

2008-04-09T18:51:00.000-07:00

He keeps his left hand jammed in his pants pocket the whole time we talk. As if my eyes were not quick enough to catch the flash of monogamy before he hid it from my view. As if my adoration of his puppy would somehow rub off on it's owner. He is banally handsome. In that clean, GAP, blue button up, nothing to note, way. But if the ring on his finger (the one he hides so faithfully) is any indication, he's married.

My boss once said, "Marriage takes work, it takes willpower. I will stay faithful, I will stay married". I wonder, is anything that hard worth keeping? Is the temptation to leave a sign that is time to do so? I'm suspicious of anything powered by my own will alone. I'm so used to my desires leading me astray that I can't imagine using that power of self to control my relationship status. I can't fathom that the tenacity that allows me to hold on to the wrong, powering me to hold on to the right.

I don't know what it takes to make coupledom successful. I haven't given monogamy enough of a shot to say whether I think long-term relationships can work. But the thought that they don't makes me sad. The idea that marriage is only forever until something better comes along, that love only lasts for the time in which the happy is more than the sad, that just like my life each and every relationship will come to an end with varying degrees of pain. The possibility that love and devotion are never constant and always fleeting depresses me. Am I the only one?

Eco-blogger

2008-04-05T07:26:00.000-07:00

Very cool eco-article.

http://www.goodcleantech.com/2008/04/everyday_ecotech_wasteful_tech.php

Every time...

2008-03-27T21:42:00.000-07:00

Every time I see someone list A Million Little Pieces as a favorite book, I want to scream. The fact that James Frey peddled his fictionalized experience makes me livid. I am agog that after his deceptions were uncovered people would respect him enough as an author (or even a human being) to claim his book as a favorite.

Are you freaking kidding me?

How much of it was fictitious you ask? Please read The Smoking Gun's article to find out.

Friendship

2008-03-27T09:55:00.000-07:00

Sex and the City doesn't always get it right. They do a nice job of doing what they do, presenting the lives of four city-dwelling friends, but I do not think they wrote the book on today's single woman. (Or married, or divorced, or dating woman for that matter.) As I imprint my ass-size groove on my couch, watching re-runs when I should be doing something more useful, I am touched by one scene which was pitch perfect.

Charlotte finds she's just as infertile as she feared, teary eyed she decides to walk home from the doctor. On her way she bumps into Miranda. The two are in a fight because in the midst of Charlotte's baby-less trials, Miranda is dealing with an unexpected pregnancy. Miranda confronts Charlotte's silent treatment and avoidance tactics with characteristic bluntness, only to be told of Charlotte's findings at the doctor. Tearfully Charlotte says she just wants to be alone. Miranda agrees, saying she'll just walk behind her in case she changes her mind.

That's true friendship, being there... Even if it doesn't feel good, and walking in heels that hurt your feet, neglecting work, thanklessly showing up for a friend. Being present when you are needed, that is friendship.

Take back the beaver!

2008-03-18T18:48:00.000-07:00

Oh those crazy Australians. Found via my new favorite blog, feministing.

Genius

2008-03-16T09:03:00.000-07:00

You know you've been on the online dating scene too long when...

2008-03-09T11:01:00.000-07:00

You know you've been on the online dating scene too long when a guy you dated (albeit very, very, briefly) electronically winks at you.

Whee!

Barbie Genius

2008-02-24T07:47:00.000-08:00

I've have a serious fascination with Barbie. I hold no ill will towards her. I do not damn her for her wasp waist, eternally pointed toes, or hard plastic smile. Barbie enraptures and amuses me, which is one reason I love this.

I -heart- Craig's List

2008-02-22T19:38:00.000-08:00

You knew I was a monkey, why are you asking me to be a cat? - w4m

SCENE I.

ME: Come look at me in my sexy monkey costume! Isn’t it awesome?

YOU: Damn, girl, you’re a great monkey! I really like the tail!

ME: I know! Check out the ears, and the paws! I love my monkey suit!

YOU: Do you ever wear anything else?

ME (Shakes ass to better show off the tail): I’m a monkey, I’m a sexy monkey! EEEEEKKK!

YOU: How about this (pulls out a cat outfit)?

ME: Um. That’s nice.

YOU: Because I’m really into cats.

ME: Why don’t you go talk to one of those cats over there, by the scratching posts? They look friendly. You’re hanging out here, by the bananas, where we monkeys like to congregate. EEEEEKKK!

YOU: Because I think you’d look hot as a cat. And we seem to have so much in common: both are mammals. Here, let’s just switch these ears. MEE-OOW, that’s hot!

ME: I feel awkward.

YOU: You look great. Purr for me, baby.

ME: Purr.

YOU: Say, “Meow.”

ME: They don’t go with my paws.

YOU: Try these paws.

ME: I would--I would rather have my own paws. Can I have my ears back?

YOU: Why are you being so difficult? I feel like we aren’t connecting.

ME: Because you’ve just met me and you’re not into what I like about me.

YOU: I am, I just think you should be a little flexible.

ME: I didn’t realize I was wishy-washy. I should have stood my ground a little firmer. Lesson learned. Here are your ears back, sir.

SCENE II.

ME: Come look at me--I’m a mongoose! Chillin’ by this bowl of rubber snakes! Waiting for another mongoose. Or a ferret. Or a marmot. Or another weird carnivore. Not putting on a bunny suit. Or a squirrel outfit. Rather be alone than change for anyone else. I’ll change for me, but not for you.

Puppy vs. Robot!

2008-02-17T12:23:00.000-08:00

Love this.

sick

2008-02-11T19:43:00.000-08:00

I'm sick. My eyelids hurt, my throat is raw and sore, my head aches, and my nose runs. I hate, hate, hate being sick. I think it's because I suppress my want to be taken care of on a daily basis, but when I'm sick it starts to feel like a reasonable request. Boo.

tactical error

2008-02-05T11:04:00.001-08:00

I don't know how I managed to be in charge of clean up but there I was. Stewing with resentment as I stared down at an untended spill. I wonder whether it would be rude to put up a sign "Your mom doesn't live here, clean up after yourself" when Frank came in to keep me company. He was looking good, having come over to the hipster side with a short haircut, jeans, black hoodie, and black and brown bowling style shoes.

I can't gush to him about how good he looks, about how much the short hair ups his cuteness. I don't want him to mistake my flattery for flirting, so I give nothing more than lukewarm praise over the makeover. Maybe it was dissapointment in my reaction that caused his vindictive teasing.

"I saw Sam here, oooh he's tall and sexy ooh" he mocks, dodging in and out of my personal space like a boxer, rolling on the balls of his feet as he busied his hands drying a dish.

Sam is tall, sexy, and all the things that Frank whines at me. I can't tell you why he wants to point these things out to me, why he is pulling my ponytail with his taunts. I've never dated Sam, or fucked him, or done anything more than flirt. I used to flirt with Frank, till he asked me on a date. Then asked again. After a few more tries he asked why. Foolishly I answered that he wasn't as tall as the men I found attractive. (Cue me shaking my head at dumb self.) Frank has never let go of the fact that I won't give him a chance romantically. His passive aggressive response to this makes a future friendship less and less likely.

His face warps from boyish to demonic as he continues to tease.

"You like him huh? I can tell. Yeah you do, yeah you do, don't deny it"

I don't respond, hoping he will run out of steam, knowing any protest will keep him going. I frown and furrow my brow at him, wishing he would just stop it. Only when I think Sam will hear him do I try and shut him up.

"You really want me to stop? Is it really bothering you?"
A glimmer of hope lights in me,
"Yes, please stop it"
his face splits into an ugly, gleeful grin
"No way, just kidding. You totally like him, you're like so into him"

I don't spare him a glance as I walk out the door. Later Sam gives me his number and a smile. I don't bother saying goodbye to Frank as I leave.

number 138

2008-02-03T19:40:00.000-08:00

tears fall
like petals
off a dead flower

just one more mess
to clean
up

quote of the day

2008-01-23T18:43:00.000-08:00

One student to another "My mommy has a taser!"

Resolution

2008-01-01T22:27:00.000-08:00

New Year's brings an end to my holiday season. Traditionally it's the last night of gluttony before the penance of resolution. Well, I think New Year's is a dumb holiday. Too much expectation met with inevitable disappointment. What do you get for the whole of it? A mascara smeared pillow case and a wretched hangover. The spit of a stranger on your mouth because you were too scared to be alone. Bills will still exist, infidelities will be remembered, and grudges will hold strong on January 1st. You do not get a fresh start on the midnight of New Year's eve anymore than you do on any other midnight.

Beginning each year we gorge on hope. New Year's day we voice our plan to make our shoulds into wills. Well I don't believe in resolutions. They are candles with only so much wax to burn, doomed to sputter out. They are a looking glass version of self flagellation. (You will be better because you were not good enough. You will be kinder because you were cruel. And on, and on.) If you have changes you want to make, then desire alone should be enough to spur you to action. Why wait for champagne, ticker tape, and a dropping ball to make your life anew. Any day above ground is a day you can change.

America is the land of the makeover, do over, and try again. We have scores of TV shows devoted to our favorite past time-- improvement. Whether it's your house, your ass, or your face. We can improve upon it, and it's downright lazy of you not to. This constant striving breeds discontent. We can never be happy with what we have. Using scalpels, hammers, and money we beat the now into a shinier happier future. We do not stop for gratitude. We barrel ahead, thinking not of where we are but where we'll be.

This year I hope to buck the trend. Not to be something that I'm not. But rather to be. In the moment, where I am, as I am. To inhabit the present in mind, body, and spirit. And not bemoan that it is not something else. To try to practice presence and gratitude, and put down whatever failure I would use to hurt myself. Sound like a resolution? Probably, but it's one I've been making everyday for years. Each new day of this new year is what each day was the year before: one more shiny, battered, chance.

shoes

2007-12-26T12:30:00.000-08:00

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.

You'd better watch out, you'd better not cry

2007-12-12T19:11:00.000-08:00

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!"

required reading

2007-12-02T11:34:00.000-08:00

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 Difference Between Pepsi and Coke (David Lehman)

2007-11-25T09:36:00.000-08:00

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.

cool places to spend/waste time

2007-11-24T17:05:00.000-08:00

http://www.thisnext.com/

v. good for holiday shopping
http://www.etsy.com/

careful, this one is addictive
http://freerice.com/

25

2007-11-24T16:48:00.000-08:00

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.

loss

2007-11-11T09:33:00.000-08:00

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.

12/2006

2007-10-10T19:07:00.000-07:00

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.

Gotta have the funk...

2007-10-02T20:44:00.001-07:00

How I feel about my friends...

poor, unfortunate, souls

2007-10-02T16:18:00.001-07:00

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.

writing

2007-09-26T20:27:00.000-07:00

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.

stormy weather

2007-09-15T20:56:00.000-07:00

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.

Can you give me a sec? I'm on the phone here..

2007-09-09T17:46:00.000-07:00

Two Truths and a Lie

2007-09-05T19:15:00.000-07:00

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.

Wiggle it, just a little bit...

2007-09-04T15:57:00.000-07:00

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.)

walking

2007-09-01T10:40:00.000-07:00

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.

brunch

2007-08-25T20:22:00.000-07:00

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?"

When (Ralph Marston)

2007-08-20T20:05:00.000-07:00

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~

Lola Bean

2007-08-20T05:14:00.000-07:00

She finally slowed down enough for me to get a proper portrait. Here's my baby girl :)

These shoes rule

2007-08-19T13:33:00.000-07:00

These shoes make me wish I had a rich husband willing and able to indulge my shopping habits.

This video makes me laugh uproariously.

cultured

2007-08-17T21:54:00.000-07:00

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.

heart

2007-08-15T09:50:00.000-07:00

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.

I'm embarrassed to say this...

2007-08-12T21:59:00.000-07:00

..but I like the song Lean Like a Cholo.

-hangs head in shame-

cupcake

2007-08-10T13:36:00.000-07:00

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"

books

2007-08-07T16:07:00.001-07:00

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

2007-08-07T16:07:00.000-07:00

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.

my favorite picture ever....

2007-08-05T18:28:00.000-07:00

I Go Back to May 1937 (by Sharon Olds)

2007-07-31T17:00:00.000-07:00

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.

blindsided

2007-07-30T07:36:00.000-07:00

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.

making room

2007-07-28T12:30:00.000-07:00

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.

7/26/07

2007-07-26T20:24:00.000-07:00

the smell of his leather
the crinkle of deli flowers
my eyes meet mine in the motorcycle mirror
and I feel at ease

contract

2007-07-26T14:14:00.000-07:00

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.

Quote of (Yester)day

2007-07-26T12:41:00.000-07:00

"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.

O Tell Me The Truth About Love (W. H. Auden)

2007-07-26T08:33:00.000-07:00

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

We Who Are Your Closest Friends (Phillip Lopate)

2007-07-26T08:26:00.000-07:00

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.

Patrick

2007-07-26T08:01:00.000-07:00

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."