Tales to tell…

I have never finished a water color painting but I can recall the thin colors growing deep in puddles that puckered thin white construction paper. I remember how even the pencil outlines were broken, smudged or lost in the slow land-locked battle. A continent of homogenous black-brown and dirty grey- but like the stagnant water that pools after a storm, a clear drain will bring movement. All the vibrancy essential in creating such hardened hues spill forth, they flee in sprints like foxes. I see a splash of orange dart behind the knobbed trunk of an ancient oak tree. This is what most days feel like and I suppose that was the story. Standing at the front desk, organizing registration cards- I read a memo about a particular guest and realize in a moment of clarity that all the events I had recalled from earlier today were actually yesterdays memories.

Let the right one slip in...

A birthday and this morning I couldn’t be more pleased. Last night we were able to see Nine Inch Nails at the Rose Gardens, I had long given up hope of making it to this event so that was most unexpected. The tickets were only $20.00 so, we were in the nose bleeds for sure and it was a very different experience to be so removed from the collective frenzy of the pit. The production, as those before it, was breathtaking and complex. Trent is amazing, the closest I have ever come to having a personal savior from age eleven onward. Which also led me to consider that he was 26 when he wrote The Downward Spiral. Not too far gone yet, here- here.

I recently saw Let the Right One In at the Hollywood theatre, one word- breathtaking. Beautiful, surreal, everything I ever wanted and more, and less. I felt immediately enamored with the cast and scenery- perhaps it was the Swedish, all beautiful shortened sentiments sounding like sweet bubbles. I walked out thinking, ‘I wish this were based on a novel, there is so much story yet to be told.’ Luckily for me, it was and should be arriving very soon. There is even an addition that feature a silhouette in red running past trees! Little red strikes again.

Amanda Palmer is coming up, that is going to be amazing. I have more books than time again, dislike that very much, yes. But I hope to get a better handle on things soon. Also, Tender Forever is the only band other than Morrissey that I am listening to right now and I listen to them a lot. Pretty much always. Forever.

What a sick parable it is…

Hours disappear so quickly when you are under the laptops glow, clearly. In the past several hours I have accomplished nothing, really. What do I do when I am not looking at endless nothing on the internet you ask? I work, I read, I clean, I watch movies- more frequently of late. The coming week will welcome a birthday, increased contact with a former friend- perhaps, and what I hope to be a stricter vegan based diet. I have been suffering at the hands of my nutritional indiscretions. The sugar and fat must decrease, as well as caffeine. I hope to implement healthier habits, feel better and look better- naked, mostly. Shallow is the new survival mechanism of choice, thank the g-ds for make-up and firming lotion.

This is a long move for someone with too much to think about…

Packing is always tedious, in fact today I mostly threw things into donation or keep piles. Two station wagon loads later I was feeling satisfied despite the hours of work yet to come. Tonight I will work as late as I can- the same will likely go for tomorrow as well, until this job is done and I find myself in a host worthy dwelling. I have made a few deals to help facilitate my winter of work, quitting one of my many jobs after Christmas is one of them. Finally doing hair is another and farthest away- enrolling in real college once we have David on track. All I want to do now that I have taken this break is read dirty, dirty fanfic. Damn it.

Victory!

I will never forget this moment, this feeling of relief and hope for the rest of my life. Thank you America, and thank you- President Obama.

A long awaited visit from Chan…

I probably wouldn’t have remembered at all, rolling over and drifting back to sleep but Bijou was pawing at the already open blinds. Strange, he doesn’t usually do that. so I took it that perhaps he wanted to see out the living room window. Stumbling, eyes not even open I made it clumsily to the front window but he isn’t there now, he is here, underfoot and staring at me. I was in her apt, not the place I knew but somewhere different- different like she would be now. There was silence, there were those heavy, overflowing moments that sent the air trembling with anxiety. It was harsh at times, it was trying and it was pleasant. I think that is why I am so shaken now, if you were to talk to someone after a long understood absence it would be both awkward and familiar, as my dream was.

People have asked me why I haven’t attempted to contact her since my colossal public overreaction to her exercise of personal choice that made me feel like we were miles apart, which was truly frightening to me- the reason is that I know that if she were to turn down my attempts to reconnect I would not come back from that unbroken. It has taken me so long to get to this point and even now I get overwhelmed, I falter. I haven’t really made new friends in a very long time, not after Lily especially. I am physically removed from the environment that broke my heart almost two years ago and still I am fearful.

Finding a solution to the friend situation is still slow coming, even my last therapist dumped me over this broken record of fear and longing. Yeah, it is really that bad. Sometimes I even hide from the friends I still have for days, weeks, even months depending on proximity. I know that I should take chances, be bold and then just try my best but now when the going gets tough I get awkward. I need to understand that the old friends aren’t coming back and the new friends aren’t going to ever meet the girl who stays home all the time with her nose in a book.

As for the dream, I was taking refuge in her home for some reason that I can no longer recall and we were together in ultra aware silence looking at each other expectantly. Her eyes filled with thought, until finally she spoke but to me it sounded like laughter as she smiled wide. We spoke of nothing in particular, those loaded sentiments that grew heavy on the ends until we disagreed about what kind of underwear cut was more comfortable and/or flattering as she removed the tags from her recently purchased items. It was building, this confrontation, waiting to be born until finally it came- leaving just as hurriedly. We continued this way for quite sometime until the animosity retreated, the air thinned and I felt this worry roll away from me like a tide. I was taken, unexpectedly- though as naturally as anything in this world.

Note: Bijou, is just exhibiting symptoms of feline behavior apparently, finding none of my attempts to please him even remotely satisfying. What a dick.

Half-Blood Prince...

Social uprising…

Last night we spent a little over four hours at Raishawn’s playing the Great Dalmuti, it was pretty awesome. It is strange how differently people react to situations, for instance, Raishawn had a bad time because she did not play well and subsequently tried to make everyone else have a bad time. David and I were of course unaffected by these attempts as we are of a more antagonistic breed. We laughed, taunting, pleading- it was a little thrilling to be honest, a little like topping from the bottom. Eventually David and I were just threatening to make out with people of the same sex. Oh, David is totally the best partner in crime ever- Makeout Chicken! Then I said horrible things about smoking being a compulsion akin to childhood fisting, then everyone was like, “wow” and left the room.


The next day I felt dried out from all the secondhand smoke and tired from the late night. Work wasn’t as bad as it could have been, for which I am thankful. It also seems a third interview is in order for the hotel position I had applied for, exciting. Which reminds me, Robin and I saw Battle in Seattle at the pub theatre near my house and it was surprisingly valid. I had been outraged, skeptical at best- but I cried through most of the film and felt as though many of the dilemmas that had incited the protest were represented. I recommend this film, like a lot.

Apathy does not become me…

It is getting closer, the music pumping through amplifiers from way off nowhere has the volume up and the lights have dimmed. Glow in the dark ink is still running down my right wrist, from the oversaturated stamp for 21+. In the heat of this place I know I should have left my coat in the car, that the sweater dress I wore because it was already dirty- is too much. Once the opener is out, I lean against crowded seats for a better look. Small figure with swift fingers and oversized instruments. I wish I would have checked out the other bands, I find it hard to get into something so publicly. It waxes sentimental, all sleepy and sweet. I want to say no, I want to let go of all things heartfelt and ethereal. The longer this set lasts the less willing to hug I will be. I suppose that this is where I am now- angry, itching for isolation and hungry for junk food. I find connecting difficult, I find breathing labored, I spent a month in my tiny apartment trying to find my humanity only to emerge feeling no different. Making friends is hard but keeping them is sometimes worse.

When this endless, oozing set finally ends I am on the main floor- past everyone but for the first two rows. I am excited to see things clearly, the small figure looks fantastic in tight jeans and doesn’t wear make-up. The people surrounding me now are silent, chins raised upward and too hip to wear deodorant. Their reeking pits saturate the air, I am driving to the Gorge behind an overdue onion truck in the heat of summer. I wish it weren’t so humid because then this smell wouldn’t coat my tongue. The band I came for finally arrives on stage, I wish David were beside me- I enjoy everything more if I can see the expressions of those I love around me. I am suddenly five years old and just want my best friend to hold my hand and swear allegiance to only me. They play a few songs I really like, I drift, people watching. I see things that make me sad, make me want to diet and be nicer. I see things that shouldn’t be seen, things that burst hearts with loneliness. It is a good time, but I am tired. They are great but not my favorite band, I could have wanted more.

And then the threats began…

These troubled economic times have only increased the pressure that was unknowingly building during my three year absence. My manager informed me today of exactly how expendable I may become if my sales average does not increase. She then added that my film is great and my customer report is excellent, this is not personal. I could understand the pressure if only we received any amount of compensation for our efforts other than to be blessed with 15 miserable hours per week. Even if you do a substandard job you can usually get in 10 hours. I find myself asking exactly what my sense of self decency is worth, the fraud and manipulation I deal with everyday is more than I could have ever imagined at another studio. The community is disgusted, customers are furious, and I am embarrassed. To keep my job I must maintain an average of over $150 per order. It is time to leave this horrifying experience behind. Well, after I take advantage of the discounts, that is.

The end of good times are upon us…

Someone should check behind the couch because I have just realized two days are gone. I have looked in the pockets of all my jeans, beneath the papers piled high on the desk- I even searched all my favorite blogs, but no matter where I looked there only seemed to be more missing! Ah, that was not terribly cleaver or even remotely amusing but it did make me feel better. As did the few tasks I accomplished during my liaison in the time vacuum; ten dollars worth of laundry put neatly away, one showing of City of Ember thoroughly enjoyed {despite the overweight couple who got in free ‘cause their daughter worked there and laughed so hard they farted during Disney family film trailers. Oh, and did I mention they sat directly behind us in the empty theater and spent most of the film looking for treasure in their popcorn buckets, well- when they weren’t farting of course. I suppose that is a testament to the films quality because even after all that, I thought the film, not the experience, was wonderful}, caught up on all my favorite shows {True Blood is still the most incredible thing currently on television}, compiled a new reading list for next week! In between all these sweat breaking tasks I also managed to talk with a few friends, even hang out a bit. There are several people who have seemed to dropped from the loop when I was talking a few days to myself to, um, er- grieve the death of good times. I may be taking a very brief trip soon, probably not during the weekend and not with any hope of spending time with my friends.

Oh, Edward...

Twilight HD Exclusive Trailer


Revamped, and looking like something we may even enjoy now!

I think I have hit my limit…

Two years, three or more failed friendships, countless tragedies, three quarters of an index finger, and 13,000 dollars in student loans. I try to fain the composure this situation demands, to crawl from this pit. I am having a very difficult time. I know that I am on the cusp of a collapse because I cannot make plans, keep plans, enjoy plans and so on. I know what needs to be done, but all I find myself thinking is r-u-n! A recent encounter with a stranger under the influence has made me more afraid than ever of men, of being alone in the dark, of substances that leave me to deal with the unguarded intentions of others. I am tired of the habits I see around me, the drinking, the smoking… I want to feel safe. I want to feel independent and strong but mostly I want to feel loved. These are common desires, common thoughts and I wonder if they seem as far fetched to others. I think I need to go away. I want to go back to my friends, I need familiarity. I wish we never would have come here, I wish the last three years were no more than a very bad dream.

A letter written while away from home during a crisis...

Dearest David,

This dreadful set of circumstances has only increased in intensity in the last several hours. Beginning my journey with what appeared to be a pleasant train ride, that then turned postal- sexually aggressive and creepy. Chance, is clearly for gamblers more skilled and less attractive than I. Whether the source of my maladies is that I seem to have loose morals or am as scrumptious as a moist morsel to these male creatures- who could truly know. Blast my gorgeous being and accelerated ability to banter! Rawr. That was mere jest, my love. Do not believe sir, that I am so conceded.

My younger brother, Jacob, has clearly lost his mind. Reporting a claim that he had seen the Dark hooded Angel of Death above my Grandmother’s hospital bed! But do not fret friend, he exclaimed to the creature- “to go away! She is not ready!” All the while I sat unsuspecting by her bedside her hand cradled by my own. This is obviously a problem, a delusional brother makes claims of supernatural activity with oblivious witnesses, oh my! I am filled with rage at the source of such lies, my grandmother had been pouring ants into his ears as he slept. She had glued furniture to ceilings and made shadow puppets in the night. The loose ramblings of her troubled mind, she tossed and turned in her sleep- nightmares of her own invention. I am unable to feel sympathy, this started too long ago and remains too close. To suck the reason from someone already so detached- a crime. She has bolted shut the doors through which it would have came, set them with the cloaked guard of angels and demons. Catholicism strikes again, no wonder she was so afraid.


Speaking in bright tones of lighter things, Victor appears well. He has acquired many a tales of thievery and scandal in his new occupation. Irritating him most are those window shoppers, all empty pockets and longing glances. “How they ask to see object after object and never buy a thing,” he says- utterly wasting his time. The nerve! “Welcome to retail,” I sing in between bites of crisp tofu. His eyes have looked so tired since the surgery, it clenches my throat and tightens my stomach to think about it. Never unto now has he ever smelled so much like an aging man, I silently sigh. We jest, mocking each others hobbies and eating habits. The former tightness is but a flutter now as my heart rests to the beat of home. If this meeting were a poem it would be entitled, Father on a Day.

To be continued…

One night of debauchery is far too many…

… if only my shift had not been changed, then I would have went straight home from the theatre. Rather I went to the Montage, drank too much {which I never, ever do}, played drunk deviant bingo and learned a little too much through a very foggy haze. Highlights not to be mentioned, I did see Harold and Maude for the first time. Hard to believe I had not already seen the film, instantly I fell in love! ‘Trouble’ for instance, is one of my all time favorite songs- ever. How unlikely that I was unaware of its use in this film. I have already queued it on Netflix so that David can also see it. Speaking of, we are planning art collaborations for the future and I am very excited to see where these projects lead us. Well, now for rest after a dreadful day of work + hangover.

Google phrases for the swelling of hearts…

… the book and the girl, le livre et la fille. Stories, too many to completely grasp. Too many to understand in whole. That is what I do this for, as something so small can be so beautiful and so fleeting. What do you do to spark the imagination? I like assigning fictional characteristics that are outlandish and false to everyday things, simple for an exaggerator such as myself. I like watching people too closely, visibly seeing mannerisms before obvious physical attributes. Cataloging the sound of a strangers voice and making them repeat phrases in my mind. This is why I prefer leering to interaction {probably}. This is why I prefer books to people {unfortunately}. Well, as sex with an actual person is costly- fanaticizing is free and rarely disappointing, oui?


Speaking of fantasizing, saw the Whomping Willows and the Remus Lupins this last week! It was fantastic, although I did prefer the adult venue to the local library lawn if for nothing more than the set lists. Matt was brilliant as always, I think that he is slowly climbing my top ten for wizard rockers. This was my first Alex Carpenter performance- he is kind of dreamy. We hit two shows at two separate libraries at opposite ends of Portland. It was so thrilling to embrace my inner nerd that thoroughly in one day, I want to do that more often. A mere sample of the joy to come once LeakyCon is finally upon us- glee!


I am happy to report that the urgent desire to finish of the Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter Series like some loathed rim job has finally receded. Three-quarters of the way through Incubus Dreams and I was finally able to throw in the towel. Guilty Pleasures, Blue Moon, and perhaps one more may keep residence in my permanent collection but the rest are on their way to Powell’s in a hurry. I am currently returning my attentions to the Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson, a novel that is both bizarre and highly recommended by Neil Gaiman {just the way I like them}. After a great deal of pestering from David, my next read will be Rant by Chuck Palahniuk, followed no doubt by some teenage vampire smut. I try to keep it to a minimum but beyond that, I really couldn’t deprive myself of such sweet, fleeting literary candy {yum}.

If I could dream, it would be about you...

I have waited ever so patiently for this moment to arrive… nearly there, almost here! Breaking Dawn, the last installment of the Twilight Series by Stephenie Meyer, is only 6 days away! I have reread the three previous novels in anticipation, pondering endlessly the possible conclusions. Yet, be unfooled by these statements- my blatant bias for Edward is the guiding beacon by which my assumptions are made. If for some reason Meyer uses Bella as a means to reflect her own personal choices, {family for example} and were to pair her into the mundane human/werewolf coil- I think my heart may shatter. For me, it was always Edward.

Twelve days...

… feels more like a life time. Not that I miss the life I had been living, the in and outs of fourteen months, or nearly five years for that matter. The things I have learned, unlearned- purposely lost, tragically maimed. I packed my survivors, trapped tight in their brown corrugated tombs till the re-nesting can begin. Now is filled with waiting. I will soon have my little evil, the unmentionable, unrelated task of the eight hour day. I'll take what consolation is offered, pay the bills and buy Japanese stationary. I feel stalled with these long pent desires; I want to bake, to read, to visit for hours without regret. I want to hear music, view films, smell grass. I need to linger on thoughts, feed on physical contact, savor the moments. Everything new, everything wide- still miles from what I was expecting. In the next month I expect visitors, movie nights, board games, bike rides. For August- new books, birthdays, road trips, weddings… I hope I remember all the things before this, however unseemly, unlikely, unlike me. Again.

one day, every day...

The chill spreads, heavy, unseen, surfacing to the touch. Reaching, the faintest contact, lingering there. Here. Soft light settled on newly native grasses. Mid June plagued be morning frost. A shift of leaves, to better view the coming sun. We are all dying for warmth, hungry for affections. How they loose themselves in the faintest breeze in hopes of being heard, of being found, of being sought after in the dark. Their sorrow song for comfort, a whisper in foreign tongue, dawn approaches.


She walks, left shoulder heavy, down the steps of the stoop. She fumbles through her red bag, overturning items to obtain a less obscured view. A wallet, she searches for a planner size billfold. In the distance a blue and green bus is slowing. In an chorus of grinding metal it stops, deflating noisily, doors opening- the driver steps out. In his black jacket, embroidered to match the exterior of the bus, no fumbling- reaches into his pocket and he lights a cigarette. Wallet retrieved, small card in hand she adjusts the weight of her shoulder bag and walks swiftly, knees tight with tension, chin high, her face slightly turned. She is looking for something, from her expression it can be seen that although what she searches for is not in sight, the faintest traces are passing, vaguely, inside her mind.

the breath that carried us into being...

The window is streaming blue light, the slates of the blinds peeking in slight gaps when fully closed. Old windows with clumsy paint smear, have loose fittings for the eager breeze. It exhales in a ruffle of sheer crimson, embroidered by machine in vertical waves. They crest on the edge of something unshakable and fall back in tow. Iron for heat, painted white like the petals of a fragile flower and hard as something so beautiful must eventually become to survive. I watch from the bed, this dance, in the cool light, how silent we may seem. As now I am only eyes, I gaze to them from one side of my nose. Sapphire, cornflower, darkest blue, like something frozen, like something new. One brow lifts at the indecency of their exchange, it feels like laughter. The shadowed cast peers upon the page. Oh, this generic font. Coffee stain, tea tinted and well loved- old even when barely used. Too much sun will increase serotonin at the expense of your best suit. Telephone ringing, bad news calls around. If all my greatest fears weren’t so willing to abandon fiction, we might have made it through this all right. Give up on grammar, let go of precedence- the things we say last will out last the breath that carried them into being. This is true like so many other things.

Turning on the shower…

There are the feelings we have always felt, carried within, hurried without. Then there are the moments, choices- change that amplifies these ever-present pieces of ourselves. I think about editorials, I dream about conflict and sexual appreciation- but mostly I miss that which for now, I cannot have. Graduation steadily approaches, along with it stressful exams I cannot pretend to be prepared for- it all happened so slowly in all its quickness. I struggle to concentrate, enter word or phrase or paragraph here = translation, I miss him. I miss him. I want him. I am haunted by this phantom scent of him, these ghostly expressions, the gold in his terribly blue eyes. The sharp of a tooth that no longer matches its counter, the triangular outline of his thumbs. It feels like I am bleeding again…

Peace will arise and tear us apart...

This restless slumber had taken more than my wits from me. Heat at the rise of my chest, aching as it narrowed upward at my throat- I, strangled by ashes. My voice dry, “where do secrets go when they die?” “Where things you left behind wait to meet you again.” I sink into the drained cup beside me, no one seems to hear my words on the first try. "If I repeat," holding the cup- empty but for the moist tea bag and its seepings. I can wait one more day until the weeks have gone.

Amortentia...

I am exhausted by this tethering emotion. I think of him incessantly, my physical self desperate for this connection. I reach out in the darkness, I am alone. I knew that this feeling would stir inside me, I have been waiting… wanting. Nothing can tear my love from you. I am yours and yours alone.

La neige veuillez partir...

Cold weather returning, I think it prudent to speak of commonplace things. I hate snow. All its beauty is lost on me the moment I step into it. The chill claiming my toes, then face, then… lame-o. My car is in need of desperate repair, it is until further notice completely inoperable. I am as thrilled as I am put out. When the snow clears I will look forward to walking, that is for sure. I want the sun to warm me, I want to ride my bike, I want to leave this place. Merci.

Everything seems to come back to nesting…

After Chan- I was nestless, not completely but in the way an avian traveler would be seasonally displaced. Only I had materials, all the doubts- then built and growing. I harbored them in another, but what can one expect with a cradle of sour thistles? Like the therapist that dumped me, I was in a cycle. This sad home, with regrets for my nutrition and distraction for my conditioning. I never moved on here, although I learned little things about myself. I made additions, I renovated but the sad parts lingered like spoiled spots. I decided when you posted the blog, {intentionally titled, callous and telling of everything you thought of me I already knew} it was time to renest. Everything different that you thought in bad interest, everything similar you couldn’t see for yourself, eventually I knew why I planted so many bitter seeds. I can only pray that you have the decency and strength of character to keep all the ramblings of my weakest year to date, to yourself. That my privacy may remain intact, if it does not than I will be forced to believe that my guardedness and pessimism are warranted, by all means true.

Actions speak louder than words- but words are also helpful for deciphering intention…

I know enough to know that your own hypocrisy escapes you. I hope that you are not here. I hope that I won’t have to change my blog host, or however else one can say in eighteen words that they want something out. Perhaps this new arrangement will better suit a person prone to taking small pieces to make out of scale pictures. Mercy, it teaches me to hope that we can be easier on each other and ourselves. If I have learned nothing than to remember not all doors are meant to be opened then I have learned nothing from this.

I am so in love with everything about you.

It wasn’t until you had rounded the corner that you realized you had seen me. It was a little after 12 on a weekday. I had slept in and was going to class for the last few hours. Sleep still steadily clinging to my consciousness, I thought- coffee. The bus ports next to a little place called blues bros, I usually call in the morning time for my 12oz double soy latte with a single sugar in the raw. I remember the swinging glass plate of the door opening with ease and my senses formally at their leisure, coming to rigid attention. Time froze, every aesthetic detail flowed through the portals of my perception. Then sound, then scent. You in your tan blazer on your blue phone with your backpack, my heart stops- swelling and stalling like a car in rushed traffic, so terribly inconvenient. I look into your glasses, I imagine the shock overtaking my face through your eyes. I feel helpless, I feel you slipping farther away. This is how every story ends for me now, I live in dread of what you have taught me, what I in return have imposed upon myself. This is why my therapist dumped me, I still can’t find cause for solution. The sound filling the absence my heart beat, heavy like water is Postal Service, I burned her this cd. The first time she heard this was through me, I wish that this was something I could experience- ever again. I feel my eyebrows downturn, I feel my face take on disappointment, you use the same soap- you pass by me. It has been no less than 10 seconds, no more than 20. But you didn’t realize it was me until you were around the corner, thinking, “she dyed her hair red.”

Sunday afternoon turns to Monday morning...

I spend the bulk of my time attending to mindful creations, playing out story lines for the patrons of my mind. Although it appears I am reading a paragraph terribly slowly, in actuality I have taken a break from that particular passage to engage with the character personally. This afternoon I traverse over two hundred years to consol Mr. Darcy on the green meadows of Netherfield, after coming upon Miss. Elizabeth Bennett, her sisters and that dreadful Wickham fellow. I try desperately to hold true to the standards of the time but feel myself closing the space between us. A flash of shock violently coats his eyes, I don’t want words now. The intimacy of his jaw in the hallow of my hand. The way a mans face is never as soft as my own, never troubled to even their skin tones, how their faces are as free as their bodies- I quake with envy.

Then thinking of new homes, the soft whimpers of my sexual revelry under doorways and through keyholes. The first month literally defined by cardboard and restlessness. The apartment we had several years ago with screaming pipes, our current residence with the irritatingly inquisitive neighbor and inconsistent water temperature. So many places I have lived within, if they had consciousness would they miss me as I miss them? I recall these places by their architecture, the nooks and crannies that I acquainted with the pads of fingers on initial viewing. The smiling realtors, aged men, students, all the same expression. Gentle prayers loft upward on the strange breeze of my apprehensions to the patron saints of ‘moving without misfortune‘, ahem- amen.

Revealing or reveling…

What ever could be more damaging than opening my heart to an idea, an entity that would soon leave me. If I fell in love with a person, a feeling or a bond- what then could be saved of my heart. An organ beating fierce like a fist, seizing with passion at the mere sight of such a thing. Too large, with pressing urgency- take a breath. Even the discomfort of its sting has all the sweet, unencumbered resonance of a kiss to me.

To hold a child or is it holding me. I am at first set with panic, only through detachment do I concede to this. To personalize would be most damaging. I think, half present- alternative histories yet to unfold. As any of us could be so many things, feel so varied a motion- I stand, carried in the current of my own detachments. The subtleties of their admission, the delicate threads weaving- they join. Entanglements hold me. My ornate desires an art, a craft once used to cheer sorrows hold the tale of a wanton spirit. Acceptance with fond intention is but a prelude to so many things.

Just like heaven...

I am enjoying the silence, wild nights of abandon taking their leave while I reflect more closely on my current circumstances. It has been lonely, temporary breaks from my solitude are welcome distractions benefiting all parties. I find that more often I am driving, here to there with the music loud. It reminds me terribly of high school in some strange way. As though I am allowed to choose my actions without fear of offending or inconveniencing anyone. I read a book when I care to and rarely eat a real meal. I sleep for an hour here, an hour there- I cannot recall the last time I felt so free. I know that this is but an interlude, how ever will I adjust to compromise again? A trip in the near future may provide better insight I believe.

It appears the breeze has taken yet another acquaintance from my past beyond the realms of mortality, to one’s chosen resting place. It is ever so unsettling; young and dangerous- they die. Hard to fathom that we are still within suicides reach post adolescence, when the most confusing of our journey is over. Perhaps a decade of surging hormones and my own suicide attempts have made me a little presumptuous. I still recall the disbelief that harbored in my 21st year. I cried, it had never occurred to me that I would come this far. But I have.

I finished The Time Travelers Wife some time ago, it embodies the only fear that remains once one’s true mate has been found. Every moment true to human nature, I adored it. I drank it in, everything and nothing at all.

Affirmations often come in fitful downpours…

This is why I feel that good days warrant caution, when every pore exudes only “yes” I become sure that the answer is “no”. How quickly soft expressions slip from candid faces, all day I had heard my tiny self saying, “no matter what, today is the good day.” It took a physical assault of the senses to finally assure me otherwise. Details such as time, make the sobbing all the more caustic- making quick work at the foundations of others until you too, can taste its faining sweat.

Newest legion of arctic explorers trail the Northwest Americas…

Headlines for our unimproved weather conditions -or- hey, the snow is awful high. Pedestrian suffering continues, climbing slippery ice mounds where sidewalks once were. I am terribly irritated, what is to be done for the less mobile populous? Brought to tears at the sight of wheelchair bound citizens and woot-ing for the elderly who take great bounds from possible curbs to bus doors. The season of wet pant bottoms and fluctuating fevers, has taken more convictions in its wake today. Snow day as it is properly called, kept me home without a fight, though it appears to have been a premature decision. The puddles grow quick, blinding sun rays shamelessly peering. I long for rain boots and frothed soymilk in large porcelain tea cups. Until next year with my luck, at least I have Belle & Sebastian. xoxo for Tigermilk.

What if I had a confession to make?

What if I told you that our chance meetings and awkward conversations were near painful to me? And if I told you this, what would it mean? I hear your voice, grazing the paragraph before me, waiting. Your voice is a ghost, you are that far from my emotional grasp. I feel the faint whispers of black hair, I smell the sweet dampness of your interiors and I realize that we are not best friends. I can’t say these things, everything comes out tangled, released in palpitations rather than breaths. All I know is that something is missing and I can’t seem to find it. But then, as curious as you are- nothing remains a secret for long.

The evasive nature of complaining about the weather…

Not that I mind, the complaining that is. I often discuss matters that I have no intention of settling with immediate solutions. Rather that one is better suited in the future for making such decisions when one has verbally riddled that something out. A week with visitations is indeed a better one; Paige was in town momentarily. Counting constellations from her tan speckled cheeks, I envy her openness. She exists where I do not, doing things I long to do. She never ceases to impress with her kindness and fault hoods. We saw the golden compass at the trashy three dollar cinema {families of seven and cheap popcorn, oh my!}, leaning back in the seats, unwillingly. She isn’t afraid of interaction with David, which I appreciate. Often it feels as though many of my contemporaries are less than enthused with his presence, it is heartbreaking for me. I am less than whole without him and know that the next few months will be harder than ever. That got serious real fast… I will begin the time travelers wife tonight, and am most excited!

Love After Love

The time will comewhen, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror,

and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

-Derek Walcott

This escape feels more like a really long detour…

“Sometimes our lives are less than extraordinary,” with cramped hands I manually dictate fragments of text into a workbook with my failing blue pen. “Sometimes our lives aren’t the greatest sources of inspiration,” I could cut the skin from the inner side of my ring finger and I wouldn’t feel it due to the obscene callous formed there. For the record nothing about beauty school is glamorous, try hideous and shameful for accuracy, indeed. If the sudden interest in seeing our completed workbooks were not on the agenda for tomorrow morning, today would have been a very good day. It happens, even now with the shards of my social life splintered and half protruding, uncomfortably from my ever tender skin. “Sometimes no amount of life resuscitating measures can prevent loss,” the myspace server is grinding to a halt but I can still see you have moved me down your friends list again, I am as shocked as I am not. Vibrating devices alert me that my mother has called, she offers advice, she offers unconditional love- I offer a no thank you. “Sometimes the ones we love are eager to help everyone but themselves,” the piece of paper crinkled in my hand is a statement saying that I have missed two months worth of class days, I have begun to bite at my lips again.

Pajama clad and unkempt

Another weekend gone by, time has escaped me frequently this last year. As Valentine’s day approaches, so does a terrific event and a dreaded anniversary of sorts. The event which I speak of is an annual sci-fi convention my partner and I attend out of tradition more than anything. A weekend of badly dressed people, drinking heavily and fondling one another while a crowd of individuals {either too young or already involved} watch {and also participate in gaming tournaments}- it is a fantastic spectacle! It is a modern day freak show and we have the best time. On the other hand, Valentine’s day itself will mark exactly one year without a best friend, as I have taken to calling it {if each day, week, month, were characterized by what is missing from it}. But life went on, the tears eventually ran out and I found new friendships to treasure. I am becoming notorious for my ability to carry emotional burdens long forgotten by average human beings, as I am an abandoned anthology, dusty and shelf worn.

I spent a great deal of time with Chae this weekend, which was very nice since I rarely see her! We saw Clover field {which is excellent by the way, no spoilers here}, enjoyed some conversation over delicious veggie burgers, later on refreshing the color in her hair {from the haute-hair show} and played a little Mario galaxy. All these pleasant distractions were a comfort to me. Sitting on the couch, pajama clad in mismatched pieces, her legs draped over my own- how I fancy the experience of intimacy. Chae and I have become what I consider to be close friends and I am glad of that.

Two new books in my possession; The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides and The Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier. I have intention to finish them this week, more to come on that later.

Squirrels: friends or foes…

Portland was a lot of fun. I have been more than a little down in the spirits department of late and was in much need of experiencing something beautiful, luckily that is just what I did. Walking the halls of the old Kennedy School although benign to many, I am sure, was- uplifting. The architecture, the artwork, the faint signs of disrepair, those physical ghosts that have enchanted me over space and time. I want something that was so important to someone or many who have passed on, I feel like I have always longed for this. I suppose that is why in recent years I have rejected the supernatural, I do hate disappointment.

It rained, I felt steeped from the moisture. I sat in the honors bar with friends and lovers sipping cocoa, the antique fireplace emitting a dangerous amount of heat. Not a detail untouched in this place even the pipes were adorned with portraits of historical figures. It is funny how everything is smaller in person. Later that evening curled up on a red velvet sofa in an auditorium converted into a theatre, we eat veggie pizza, my zebra clad toes wiggling in anticipation as we wait for the show to begin. She tells me that when they officially closed the school all the power was turned off and the clocks froze in time. I look up, "but when they reopened despite cutting power to the clocks themselves it still seeps through slowly churning out minutes over the last several years." I nod and feel a glowing, as I completely relate to that feeling.

I search the map of all the rooms, all different, all given to guests at random. We are in the tea party room, which to those who know the tale as well as my own fascinations is hilarious and nearly fateful {if you dig that sort of thing}. There is no tele and a chalkboard that covers most the wall, I have to tell you this feels most liberating. Not that the tele is quite so tempting but that it makes it much easier to be un-ambitious.

In the car on the way over I read water for elephants, even now I have only a few pages to go. I cry when it is sad, when it is beautiful, I read passages out loud to David as he drives. I look up, take in the scene and make mental notes on the general area as we pass, so quickly. I know when we are close to my family because the land loses color and becomes irritatingly flat. I know we are close to our home when the trees and water join space, the road elevating. I know what bathrooms are cleanest. I know what markets are best stocked, as though I have spent too much time driving and I lament on what it must be like to take the train.