It feels like such a flurry. Feelings that I had just about forgotten, right down to the gently lifting of a bleach blonde arm hair, preparing for the goose-bump. I should've written last night and I didn't. I forced myself to read and fully enjoy my novel, since it's due date back to the library is quickly approaching. All I wanted was to talk to him a little longer. Feel his fingers on my tattoo one more time. Tell him stories that I can't bring myself to admit to. But my opportunity has passed. Perhaps I never really had one, everything is always so cloudy. Why does he still hypnotize me? Why does his voice move deep and slow like molasses and hands haunt me? I had told him I didn't love him anymore. Perhaps I lied. I actually have to admit that I'm not entirely sure how to write about what it is that I am not entirely sure I'm feeling at this moment. I feel like I'm still in love, that I was always in love, that there was never a moment of doubt and all those other beautiful things that happy white-picket-fenced-in couples spew at the alter on their most holiest of days. But I don't particularly care to feel this way. I expected more from myself. More strength and endurance, more emotional freedom and capability. But I have fooled myself once again. The overwhelming sense of need has taken over my morning cup of coffee and drab excel reports.
I smoke my last cigarette this year, I hope, and stub out the remains in the left over snow that the plow didn't manage to pick up. I feel a subtle wave of self doubt, as though I am perfectly in control here and have sabotaged myself to settle here. Right here. In the half empty parking lot at Midnight on a monday after having worked for 14 hours; lying, laughing, squirming in my seat. What a masochist he is. To simply watch, as though he has no idea, but he knows. He knows even better than I do. I don't mind so much. I've spent enough time in a tattoo chair, and they don't joke when they say it's an addiction.
We talked about addiction. Something that you feel you can not function without. Does that mean I'm addicted? I can function, I just don't like it. Look at me, wallowing as though I were some star crossed lover with a gun to my temple, trembling and weeping to a melancholy man. How is he the only one that brings this out of me. This flood, this monsoon, this tidal wave, if you will.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
I am standing in line at the pharmacy counter in the hospital. This is my fourth visit to the doctors office in 3 weeks, the smell of the elderly seeping like smoke under my overworn fleece. Do we live our lives too much? or not enough? To find ourselves broken down and wearied all of a sudden, in the bleek and budgeted hospitals. I'm watching at some couples quietly argue, perhaps about money or nothing at all, just out of stress, or anxiety and worry. I slight turn of the head and beside them is a loving couple. The husband holding her hand and adjusting her pillow so that she is at her most comfortable. He whispers sweet nothings in her ear as though they were 17 again and she slowly nods her head in thanks. What makes the difference I wonder. Where has one gone wrong, where the others went right? Did one have money and the other stuggle just to make ends meet? or vice versa. Perhaps, ones Mother and Father raised them to appreciate and love, keep an open mind and communicate. What works? if anything?
Last night, after going outside for a positively frigid cigarette break, I took a moment for myself in the bathroom before resuming work on about 4 batches of gingerbread cookies. It seems as through, from the bottom of my overworn sneakers up to my blonde roots, that I had no idea what the hell I was doing. The image of his face kept reappearing behind my eye lids and I just couldn't seem to shake it as much as I tried. I kept questioning my motives as well as other things. I brushed my teeth to kill some time and get the horribly dry ashy taste of Marlboro from under my tongue. Looking down at my pants, my right thigh has several white flour hand prints and I'm reminded of a similar tattoo I want. Autumn leaves, scattered behind a vine tattoo I already have.
1 hour left to the day, and I'm flipping mindlessly through the pictures. Mindy Smith's smooth voice breezes through my dark hair. There is so much I miss and can not get back. Banjo's and antiquated Casio keyboards. Santa Claus laughter and warm smiles. Homework in bed, Phish documentaries, and 90's pop music. Late night chicken fingers, practice rooms, and paint by numbers. Not entirely sure how I found myself here, at this cluttered desk, updating spreadsheets and coughing gently into the crook of my elbow so as not to distub those around me. I triple check the weekend, highlighted and whited out more than once. Not a moments rest until Christmas Eve. Three, fourteen hour days, right in a row. When do I finally get to play? When do I get to be carefree and reckless with my moments and my mind? All these minutes pass and I can barely make out how important they are. Stamp this sheet, paid, and move through the next one. Mark it, stamp it, code it, process it. Saying I feel like a robot is giving this action too much credit. At least the robot, without having any feelings at all, never faulters, never performs less than the best. As my mind wanders, I scribble a bit on the notepad. Fill in the corners with blue ink and meander about mindless thoughts. I'm waiting for my phone to vibrate maybe? or just for an IM to pop up and distract me effortlessly from this ignorant war path I've set myself on. I slow and painless numbing down of the nerves and all extraneous by - products.
Last night, after going outside for a positively frigid cigarette break, I took a moment for myself in the bathroom before resuming work on about 4 batches of gingerbread cookies. It seems as through, from the bottom of my overworn sneakers up to my blonde roots, that I had no idea what the hell I was doing. The image of his face kept reappearing behind my eye lids and I just couldn't seem to shake it as much as I tried. I kept questioning my motives as well as other things. I brushed my teeth to kill some time and get the horribly dry ashy taste of Marlboro from under my tongue. Looking down at my pants, my right thigh has several white flour hand prints and I'm reminded of a similar tattoo I want. Autumn leaves, scattered behind a vine tattoo I already have.
1 hour left to the day, and I'm flipping mindlessly through the pictures. Mindy Smith's smooth voice breezes through my dark hair. There is so much I miss and can not get back. Banjo's and antiquated Casio keyboards. Santa Claus laughter and warm smiles. Homework in bed, Phish documentaries, and 90's pop music. Late night chicken fingers, practice rooms, and paint by numbers. Not entirely sure how I found myself here, at this cluttered desk, updating spreadsheets and coughing gently into the crook of my elbow so as not to distub those around me. I triple check the weekend, highlighted and whited out more than once. Not a moments rest until Christmas Eve. Three, fourteen hour days, right in a row. When do I finally get to play? When do I get to be carefree and reckless with my moments and my mind? All these minutes pass and I can barely make out how important they are. Stamp this sheet, paid, and move through the next one. Mark it, stamp it, code it, process it. Saying I feel like a robot is giving this action too much credit. At least the robot, without having any feelings at all, never faulters, never performs less than the best. As my mind wanders, I scribble a bit on the notepad. Fill in the corners with blue ink and meander about mindless thoughts. I'm waiting for my phone to vibrate maybe? or just for an IM to pop up and distract me effortlessly from this ignorant war path I've set myself on. I slow and painless numbing down of the nerves and all extraneous by - products.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Chapter 4
Could I say it. Could I just say "no" for once in my life. Cut these puppet strings and extinguish such a bright, burning wild fire. I feel pathetic today. Weakened and used like a cheap whore, broken by a lifetime of struggle and cruel words. How is one man capable of making me feel so weak. You go and spend hours, days, and months at the gym working so hard to build yourself into a powerful structure. You withstand gale force winds and torrential downpours. But nothing can prepare you for when he walks through that door. The moment of weakness, like chocolate cake. It gives you one fleeting moment of joy, and for what. The following day, perhaps the guilt outweighs the joy. You can feel it building in your arteries, collecting and weighing down your body. All you can feel is sad because you let it happen, and no one is going to love you if you can't hold up that girlish figure and be strong. Be strong. But you allowed yourself to be vulnerable and someone felt they could take advantage. I was weak, and when I woke up I didn't really seem to mind. I reassured myself that there is only one life that I am given. And every night when I lay my spinning head on tired pillows I make pretend that this is what I wanted, as the clock ticks. I made my choice. Is this how trust issues arise? Is this what people mean when they say they can't let themselves "open up", or let others in? Is this why grown ups can sometimes act like children and treat each other like the innocent crush on the playground, hitting each other with the tether ball and tying their laces together so they trip and fall. The other standing idly by, waiting, and when the moment strikes they relish in the opportunity to point and laugh, and to make someone else feel smaller than their childhood mary-janes.
I sat casually in the middle of the mall, sipping my second coffee of the day and munching on an overpriced salad. I tried to watch discreetly the passersby and their facial expressions, trying to determine what their problem was. Do they even have a problem at all? I'm judging, and I'm enjoying myself so who's going to tell me to stop. I am annoying myself wondering where he is or what he's doing when I really don't want to care about it at all. The more I wonder, the less attention I pay to the passersby, and they are specifically why I took this seat. I feel like this day should feel more important to me, but I am melancholy, making sure to get every last drop of my coffee hiding between the ice cubes. An elderly man takes a sit near me, and I become a little anxious. I don't want him in my space, watching me as I watch others, breathing in my recycled, poisoned air. He pays me no attention, but I feel as though he is creating a detailed outline of me simply by gazing over my tattoos and my pitch black, badly cut hair. What does he think? perhaps he has an old sailor tattoo himself and misses the old days, or perhaps he already hates me, and thinks I'm ruining the country.
As I am stumbling through the corner convenience, peering through sale priced notebooks and cheap back-to-school accessories. I recall in the back of my brain a friends note, which rang so true to myself, about the power of blank notebooks. The sheer pristine nature of the crisp, clean brand new pages. I feel a tornado of words and scribbles ready and waiting to command these pages and tear them to shreds. The monsoon erupts within me and I'm forced to leave in a rage. I immediately head for the nearest book store for it's calming, soothing properties. I believe there is one across the street. Just as I reach for the shifter, my phone lets out a quiet ring from inside my clutch and I rush to release the button and bring my phone out to see the sunlight.
As the phone vibrates in my hand, I shake my head in wonder. Is this for real? And am I willing to deal with this right now? What if it's a good phone call and not the confrontation that I'm expecting. I don't want to answer the questions and make up the stories and be ready to appease with the best shit-eating grin I can muster. But against my better judgement, I answer.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Hey hey, not much how have you been?", his voice sounds deeper than before. Is he faking it to sound deeper? or have I just forgotten all together what his voice sounded like the last time we spoke.
"Not too much, just finishing up my lunch break" I muster, with a shaky voice.
"Oh well, is this a bad time? Do you want to call me back later"
No I don't want to call you back, I want to smash this phone on the ground in hopes that the shock and shrapnel will somehow transfer through to your body and mind. I don't want to call you back, ever.
"Oh no, it's fine, I have a few minutes. What's up?"
He goes on to ask me a few questions about my day, but he's not interested, I can tell by the sound of his voice. He continues on about something hypothetical and meaningless. I am about ready to shout at him to just get to the point of this horribly inflicting phone call.
"So, are you busy tonight?"
Horribly busy. Busy enough with writing and cross stitching that I know in the deepest corners of my heart that there is absolutely nothing in this world that could make saying "No" right now worth the time.
"No, I don't think so. I was just going to hang in, I have some writing I'm working on and perhaps some laundry."
And the trap was set, and I was caught. I lay, wounded and struggling, staring at myself in the rear view mirror knowing that these dark circles under my eyes are all my fault. How am I really that different? Thousands of women make mistakes like this everyday, I have nothing to complain about, it's all old news.
"Would you maybe, want to get dinner or something?"
OR something? what would this something be? I tear myself apart searching for any bit of the tiniest amount of strength I can muster to say 'No, I'm sorry, I can't'. I'm imagining myself the next morning, crying and screaming only at myself because I am the only one to blame.
"Sure, I guess" I can't believe that I am doing this.
There comes a moment in a day at some random time in your life, when you know from the colored roots of your hair to your sore and swollen soles of your feet that you have to stop. This moment can sometimes be disguised as an epiphany, or a moment of realization, but it is much more than that. It is the moment when you witness a change in your life, in your perspective, and sense of motivation. This is a moment which presents you with a grand opportunity to sink or swim, the fight or flight response. This is a moment for you to decide. But how do you know if your ready to decide? Are you prepared? Have you done all the research and created a solid hypothesis and outline to your argument? There are two paths before you, but you don't recall ever intending to stumble into the woods, thus getting yourself lost like this.
This morning, I seem to almost feel nearly nothing. And we've all had these days, but I (more importantly) hate these days. I hate feeling melancholy about my choices and my performance as a human being and part of this world. And I hate that I'm hating this day and everything that happens to be a by-product of this day. What have I done to make myself so unimpressed with myself these recent days? And I pretend as if I haven't a clue, but truthfully I know, all too well. There is a quote from a novel I'm reading which strikes me exceptionally hard, taken from "Seven Types of Ambiguity" by Eliot Perlman.
"Most people are alone. To not be alone somebody has to connect with you, and you have to connect with them. I mean really connect. I mean that somebody has to make the emotional and intellectual effort to come with you as you ride the relentless waves of fear and hope, of pain and pleasure, of doubt and certainty, that inhabit the sea of human experience... And you have to return the compliment. You have to project yourself into someone else's pain and, by absorbing, lessen it."
This quote spoke to me, as it was said from the view of someone whom suffered from a deep and severe depression to another whom lacked the security and understanding of the relationship you make with yourself. And it struck me because... I didn't want to make that effort. I had no idea that commitments such as this could be expected of others, that someone could ask this of another and that someone would just simply oblige. The conundrum has rattled around in my brain for many a moon, and still I can not understand the premise. I once wrote that I felt marriage was created as a lame excuse so that people wouldn't have to ever feel alone. That the law and God himself bonded you together and no matter where you roamed, the knowledge was always there that you had someone to break your fall. But then my sister told me I was seemingly more bitter. I thought it was a bit more realistic, although moderately morbid.
Sometimes I feel like the days only go in and out as if it were the gentle rhythmic flow of a New England sea coast. Although these days don't seem quite as comforting and soothing such as the locked and bottled ocean sounds. Even as I wither away at my cluttered and neglected desk, I can feel the breeze against the back of ear and under the hair, tickling at the nape of my neck. I daydream about life on the ocean, life by the water, or even in the forest locked away from the world. I count the minutes, hours, and days down to when these precise moments will begin to look good on paper. And when I feel as though I should begin to open my own doors, as opposed to the ones others have opened for me. It's a shame that I must wait. It's a shame that living for your own sense of self is not recognized as full occupation on crisp, clean resume paper. That writing each night before bed is not considered "blogging" or that watching as the decrepit mingling of dust around your speakers is not considered a "fine attention to detail".
Lately I have dreamt of living as a writer. Starving for dinner and love, while drowning in booze and sorrow. How simplistic.
I sat casually in the middle of the mall, sipping my second coffee of the day and munching on an overpriced salad. I tried to watch discreetly the passersby and their facial expressions, trying to determine what their problem was. Do they even have a problem at all? I'm judging, and I'm enjoying myself so who's going to tell me to stop. I am annoying myself wondering where he is or what he's doing when I really don't want to care about it at all. The more I wonder, the less attention I pay to the passersby, and they are specifically why I took this seat. I feel like this day should feel more important to me, but I am melancholy, making sure to get every last drop of my coffee hiding between the ice cubes. An elderly man takes a sit near me, and I become a little anxious. I don't want him in my space, watching me as I watch others, breathing in my recycled, poisoned air. He pays me no attention, but I feel as though he is creating a detailed outline of me simply by gazing over my tattoos and my pitch black, badly cut hair. What does he think? perhaps he has an old sailor tattoo himself and misses the old days, or perhaps he already hates me, and thinks I'm ruining the country.
As I am stumbling through the corner convenience, peering through sale priced notebooks and cheap back-to-school accessories. I recall in the back of my brain a friends note, which rang so true to myself, about the power of blank notebooks. The sheer pristine nature of the crisp, clean brand new pages. I feel a tornado of words and scribbles ready and waiting to command these pages and tear them to shreds. The monsoon erupts within me and I'm forced to leave in a rage. I immediately head for the nearest book store for it's calming, soothing properties. I believe there is one across the street. Just as I reach for the shifter, my phone lets out a quiet ring from inside my clutch and I rush to release the button and bring my phone out to see the sunlight.
As the phone vibrates in my hand, I shake my head in wonder. Is this for real? And am I willing to deal with this right now? What if it's a good phone call and not the confrontation that I'm expecting. I don't want to answer the questions and make up the stories and be ready to appease with the best shit-eating grin I can muster. But against my better judgement, I answer.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Hey hey, not much how have you been?", his voice sounds deeper than before. Is he faking it to sound deeper? or have I just forgotten all together what his voice sounded like the last time we spoke.
"Not too much, just finishing up my lunch break" I muster, with a shaky voice.
"Oh well, is this a bad time? Do you want to call me back later"
No I don't want to call you back, I want to smash this phone on the ground in hopes that the shock and shrapnel will somehow transfer through to your body and mind. I don't want to call you back, ever.
"Oh no, it's fine, I have a few minutes. What's up?"
He goes on to ask me a few questions about my day, but he's not interested, I can tell by the sound of his voice. He continues on about something hypothetical and meaningless. I am about ready to shout at him to just get to the point of this horribly inflicting phone call.
"So, are you busy tonight?"
Horribly busy. Busy enough with writing and cross stitching that I know in the deepest corners of my heart that there is absolutely nothing in this world that could make saying "No" right now worth the time.
"No, I don't think so. I was just going to hang in, I have some writing I'm working on and perhaps some laundry."
And the trap was set, and I was caught. I lay, wounded and struggling, staring at myself in the rear view mirror knowing that these dark circles under my eyes are all my fault. How am I really that different? Thousands of women make mistakes like this everyday, I have nothing to complain about, it's all old news.
"Would you maybe, want to get dinner or something?"
OR something? what would this something be? I tear myself apart searching for any bit of the tiniest amount of strength I can muster to say 'No, I'm sorry, I can't'. I'm imagining myself the next morning, crying and screaming only at myself because I am the only one to blame.
"Sure, I guess" I can't believe that I am doing this.
There comes a moment in a day at some random time in your life, when you know from the colored roots of your hair to your sore and swollen soles of your feet that you have to stop. This moment can sometimes be disguised as an epiphany, or a moment of realization, but it is much more than that. It is the moment when you witness a change in your life, in your perspective, and sense of motivation. This is a moment which presents you with a grand opportunity to sink or swim, the fight or flight response. This is a moment for you to decide. But how do you know if your ready to decide? Are you prepared? Have you done all the research and created a solid hypothesis and outline to your argument? There are two paths before you, but you don't recall ever intending to stumble into the woods, thus getting yourself lost like this.
This morning, I seem to almost feel nearly nothing. And we've all had these days, but I (more importantly) hate these days. I hate feeling melancholy about my choices and my performance as a human being and part of this world. And I hate that I'm hating this day and everything that happens to be a by-product of this day. What have I done to make myself so unimpressed with myself these recent days? And I pretend as if I haven't a clue, but truthfully I know, all too well. There is a quote from a novel I'm reading which strikes me exceptionally hard, taken from "Seven Types of Ambiguity" by Eliot Perlman.
"Most people are alone. To not be alone somebody has to connect with you, and you have to connect with them. I mean really connect. I mean that somebody has to make the emotional and intellectual effort to come with you as you ride the relentless waves of fear and hope, of pain and pleasure, of doubt and certainty, that inhabit the sea of human experience... And you have to return the compliment. You have to project yourself into someone else's pain and, by absorbing, lessen it."
This quote spoke to me, as it was said from the view of someone whom suffered from a deep and severe depression to another whom lacked the security and understanding of the relationship you make with yourself. And it struck me because... I didn't want to make that effort. I had no idea that commitments such as this could be expected of others, that someone could ask this of another and that someone would just simply oblige. The conundrum has rattled around in my brain for many a moon, and still I can not understand the premise. I once wrote that I felt marriage was created as a lame excuse so that people wouldn't have to ever feel alone. That the law and God himself bonded you together and no matter where you roamed, the knowledge was always there that you had someone to break your fall. But then my sister told me I was seemingly more bitter. I thought it was a bit more realistic, although moderately morbid.
Sometimes I feel like the days only go in and out as if it were the gentle rhythmic flow of a New England sea coast. Although these days don't seem quite as comforting and soothing such as the locked and bottled ocean sounds. Even as I wither away at my cluttered and neglected desk, I can feel the breeze against the back of ear and under the hair, tickling at the nape of my neck. I daydream about life on the ocean, life by the water, or even in the forest locked away from the world. I count the minutes, hours, and days down to when these precise moments will begin to look good on paper. And when I feel as though I should begin to open my own doors, as opposed to the ones others have opened for me. It's a shame that I must wait. It's a shame that living for your own sense of self is not recognized as full occupation on crisp, clean resume paper. That writing each night before bed is not considered "blogging" or that watching as the decrepit mingling of dust around your speakers is not considered a "fine attention to detail".
Lately I have dreamt of living as a writer. Starving for dinner and love, while drowning in booze and sorrow. How simplistic.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Chapter 3 (The Chase)
"What have I done to myself" I quietly whisper as my left foot slides onto the escalator, quickly followed by the rest of my lumbering body. Was is it about the smell of a book store that stirs something within me. And on this particularly warm day I am practically inhaling the transparent yellow glue holding all those screaming pages together in one simple, contained box, only to be heard as the next patron flips through. I imagine quietly, arms and legs reaching with all their might through the paper, loud screams and calming seductive whispers.
Brown eyes. Which ones? I don't even remember who I'm looking at anymore, except that it's not myself. Brown eyes. So full of shit, or sweet smooth dark chocolate. A passerby makes a comment about my tattoo and I nod a gentle Thank you and smile, but my mind is not in this book store. My mind does not even know where it would want to be if it had the choice to be anywhere but this book store. Perhaps thousands upon thousands of miles away in a cement jungle or just a few towns over, hiding behind thick glasses and piles of philosophy books. I quickly find that which I need, scoot back to the escalator, down to the register to pay and put myself back in my car, just to finish out the day as if it were any other. The sun is hot, but I force myself back into the overzealous air conditioning, back down in front of the blistering and bright screen, continuing on with my copy and paste routine.
It was as soft as the first kiss you give your new born child. As painful as hearing its first shrill cry and as heart breaking as watching it grow and leave your side. All the questions that I could have asked and willingly refused my lips to move so as not to let them casually slip out. Just refrain, don't speak, don't laugh or yawn. At any moment the Why's could spring upon you and you'll have no control, no defense. Protect yourself with the pen, keep writing and don't let your lips part even for that of Santa and his elves. But if I could've spoke, what would I have said? The questions, I can barely even put on this page, simply out of fear for the reader. Could they have turned brown eyes black, and my own green to blue. Turned your perfect Friday night outfit from strategically placed and pinned to piled and crumpled on the bedroom floor. Or turn the brighest of upturned faces dark and full of subtle shadow. You ask to be "filled in" but you're really just waiting for the juicy parts, that's all you really want to know. All the mindless banter filters through your system and you pay as close attention as your poor weary mind will allow. Try to ignore the motion of your hand or the rapid rate of breathing. If you ignore it, it will go away right.... Focus.
The smell of glue revists me in my sleep. I am standing among some of my most favorite novels and trying to decide which one to purchase, even though I know full well that I already own them all. I begin to pull the books from the shelf, shredding the pages one by one, mad and frustrated that I can not just chose one novel to take home with me. My small hands create so much damage that just in this one aisle it seems as though I have been working on shredding these books for decades, but then those catcher's mits. Brown eyes. I am halted by the inkling feeling that he's here, but who. I can hear his footsteps in the nearby stairwell, the pounding is rhythmic and numbing and for a moment I forget the necessary chase. My legs move underneath me, but my mind stays stoic and rigid. I awake to my feet throwing me down the stairs, the pounding as loud as ever. Tonight I am determined not to let this escape me, but my legs have become motionless, broken by the violence of my dream. I remain, still and motionless in my bed, hearing the slow pounding in my mind and trying to determine from which direction it emanates. It must be a neighbor, a little overexcited with his new flat screen television or his collection of Calypso. My mind becomes Rashmonian, seeking in each corner of this one way street from as many angles as my mind can stretch itself in to just from my window. These stars, brown eyes. And again my mind spins, the pounding becomes a distant memory.
I have found myself buried in college ruled lines. The black pen I have confiscated from work the week before is slightly chewed on the end and my fingers anxiously pull upon and replace the cap from the butt in a slow rhythm. I have reread this one single line about twenty times and yet still I can not find what it was that I meant to write. "Why come back". Oh! the Why's and all the many reasons why they are specifically instructed not to escape my mouth. But my pen, I can not stop. I have created pages and pages of questions and queries, inquiries and interrogations. One basically written upon another as I begin the next before I can even finish the last. The black ink has found itself smeared on my palms, thus on the pillow and blankets. I try to rub it away only to make it worse, but I suppose that's why someone somewhere gave us the washing machine. My face feels wet, but I can not quite comprehend what could be causing it to be so. I haven't cried in months, and at this precise moment, there is nothing to provoke me to do so. I bring myself to the mirror and my eyes have become a crystal clear blue, and the black has dragged itself, as that of fingernails trying to save a life in peril, down my overly pink cheeks. I don't even own a box of tisses, why would I. Brown eyes.
I stumble to kitchen, but am almost too positive that I have cleaned myself out of red wine. Three bottles are lined up on the counter, broken and punctured corks still remain in the mouths, but each one is bone dry. I hang my head, mostly in shame, but also in frustration and worry that I may not get back to sleep tonight. Not a single cigarette lingers anywhere in my home, only ample packs of spearmint gum. No big deal, I don't need the red wine to sleep, just read for a while and eventually your head will fall to the side.
I lift up my head, back in the stairwell and the sound of my breath echoes off every inch of metal from bottom to top. I hear his footsteps scurrying like a New York rat, but I can't tell if he's moved North or South. I look up trying to peer between the minimal space separating the floor from the staircase, but I see nothing to provide me with any evidence. The longer I linger in this spot, the farther he gets from me. My mind has a moment of melancholy and tries to decide if I care so much that he is far away, debating whether or not to simply go back to the shelves of book and continue on with the shredding of pages. But I move to find him, he probably went down, if we went up would he only be trapping himself on the roof? That is, if there even is a roof to this building.
I run, my hair moving in thick black waves behind me, my heels and toes pounding against the thick cement. Each step echoes immensly, but I can still here his oversized sneakers slamming the concrete slabs on the off beat. I try and judge if I'm getting closer or farther away, but at moments I seem to slip into vertigo and I am lost in a flurry of anxiety. My legs continue on, simply dragging my body along with them. I reach the bottom floor, just as the large door under the glowing exit sign slams shut. I stop and stand still for a moment to take in the lingering aroma he has left behind him. A collage of images runs brightly behind my eyelids and I'm gently reminded to continue on the chase. As I heave open the heavy door with all my might, I am greeted by a barren, vacant, one way street, dimly lit by one dull yellow street light under which a frenzied group of moths gather. Around the corner I see the shadow of a step and as I shift my body to follow, I feel the warmth of the sun on my back and I'm awake once again.
I slam my dainty digits against the snooze button for the last time. Slide my hand over my face to gently wake myself up and slowly check the time. I contemplate a quick journal entry, but think better of it as to not be too late to work. A quick brush of the hair and teeth. Dressed, and out the door. With each turn and swerve I take throughout my commute, I continue pressing myself for more. I need to remember every bit of sound and sight that I can capture from this night. I need to scurry to my desk, nervous and worried for the day, and with all the subtle stealth I can muster jot down my adventures through a library stairwell. It was a staircase I remember fondly, perhaps from college, one that holds faint memories of charming moments. My skin crawls with ghosts that linger there in that staircase. I push on, noting the collection of books, the color of the carpet, the warmth of the red exit sign.
But who am I kidding, there is no escape.
Brown eyes. Which ones? I don't even remember who I'm looking at anymore, except that it's not myself. Brown eyes. So full of shit, or sweet smooth dark chocolate. A passerby makes a comment about my tattoo and I nod a gentle Thank you and smile, but my mind is not in this book store. My mind does not even know where it would want to be if it had the choice to be anywhere but this book store. Perhaps thousands upon thousands of miles away in a cement jungle or just a few towns over, hiding behind thick glasses and piles of philosophy books. I quickly find that which I need, scoot back to the escalator, down to the register to pay and put myself back in my car, just to finish out the day as if it were any other. The sun is hot, but I force myself back into the overzealous air conditioning, back down in front of the blistering and bright screen, continuing on with my copy and paste routine.
It was as soft as the first kiss you give your new born child. As painful as hearing its first shrill cry and as heart breaking as watching it grow and leave your side. All the questions that I could have asked and willingly refused my lips to move so as not to let them casually slip out. Just refrain, don't speak, don't laugh or yawn. At any moment the Why's could spring upon you and you'll have no control, no defense. Protect yourself with the pen, keep writing and don't let your lips part even for that of Santa and his elves. But if I could've spoke, what would I have said? The questions, I can barely even put on this page, simply out of fear for the reader. Could they have turned brown eyes black, and my own green to blue. Turned your perfect Friday night outfit from strategically placed and pinned to piled and crumpled on the bedroom floor. Or turn the brighest of upturned faces dark and full of subtle shadow. You ask to be "filled in" but you're really just waiting for the juicy parts, that's all you really want to know. All the mindless banter filters through your system and you pay as close attention as your poor weary mind will allow. Try to ignore the motion of your hand or the rapid rate of breathing. If you ignore it, it will go away right.... Focus.
The smell of glue revists me in my sleep. I am standing among some of my most favorite novels and trying to decide which one to purchase, even though I know full well that I already own them all. I begin to pull the books from the shelf, shredding the pages one by one, mad and frustrated that I can not just chose one novel to take home with me. My small hands create so much damage that just in this one aisle it seems as though I have been working on shredding these books for decades, but then those catcher's mits. Brown eyes. I am halted by the inkling feeling that he's here, but who. I can hear his footsteps in the nearby stairwell, the pounding is rhythmic and numbing and for a moment I forget the necessary chase. My legs move underneath me, but my mind stays stoic and rigid. I awake to my feet throwing me down the stairs, the pounding as loud as ever. Tonight I am determined not to let this escape me, but my legs have become motionless, broken by the violence of my dream. I remain, still and motionless in my bed, hearing the slow pounding in my mind and trying to determine from which direction it emanates. It must be a neighbor, a little overexcited with his new flat screen television or his collection of Calypso. My mind becomes Rashmonian, seeking in each corner of this one way street from as many angles as my mind can stretch itself in to just from my window. These stars, brown eyes. And again my mind spins, the pounding becomes a distant memory.
I have found myself buried in college ruled lines. The black pen I have confiscated from work the week before is slightly chewed on the end and my fingers anxiously pull upon and replace the cap from the butt in a slow rhythm. I have reread this one single line about twenty times and yet still I can not find what it was that I meant to write. "Why come back". Oh! the Why's and all the many reasons why they are specifically instructed not to escape my mouth. But my pen, I can not stop. I have created pages and pages of questions and queries, inquiries and interrogations. One basically written upon another as I begin the next before I can even finish the last. The black ink has found itself smeared on my palms, thus on the pillow and blankets. I try to rub it away only to make it worse, but I suppose that's why someone somewhere gave us the washing machine. My face feels wet, but I can not quite comprehend what could be causing it to be so. I haven't cried in months, and at this precise moment, there is nothing to provoke me to do so. I bring myself to the mirror and my eyes have become a crystal clear blue, and the black has dragged itself, as that of fingernails trying to save a life in peril, down my overly pink cheeks. I don't even own a box of tisses, why would I. Brown eyes.
I stumble to kitchen, but am almost too positive that I have cleaned myself out of red wine. Three bottles are lined up on the counter, broken and punctured corks still remain in the mouths, but each one is bone dry. I hang my head, mostly in shame, but also in frustration and worry that I may not get back to sleep tonight. Not a single cigarette lingers anywhere in my home, only ample packs of spearmint gum. No big deal, I don't need the red wine to sleep, just read for a while and eventually your head will fall to the side.
I lift up my head, back in the stairwell and the sound of my breath echoes off every inch of metal from bottom to top. I hear his footsteps scurrying like a New York rat, but I can't tell if he's moved North or South. I look up trying to peer between the minimal space separating the floor from the staircase, but I see nothing to provide me with any evidence. The longer I linger in this spot, the farther he gets from me. My mind has a moment of melancholy and tries to decide if I care so much that he is far away, debating whether or not to simply go back to the shelves of book and continue on with the shredding of pages. But I move to find him, he probably went down, if we went up would he only be trapping himself on the roof? That is, if there even is a roof to this building.
I run, my hair moving in thick black waves behind me, my heels and toes pounding against the thick cement. Each step echoes immensly, but I can still here his oversized sneakers slamming the concrete slabs on the off beat. I try and judge if I'm getting closer or farther away, but at moments I seem to slip into vertigo and I am lost in a flurry of anxiety. My legs continue on, simply dragging my body along with them. I reach the bottom floor, just as the large door under the glowing exit sign slams shut. I stop and stand still for a moment to take in the lingering aroma he has left behind him. A collage of images runs brightly behind my eyelids and I'm gently reminded to continue on the chase. As I heave open the heavy door with all my might, I am greeted by a barren, vacant, one way street, dimly lit by one dull yellow street light under which a frenzied group of moths gather. Around the corner I see the shadow of a step and as I shift my body to follow, I feel the warmth of the sun on my back and I'm awake once again.
I slam my dainty digits against the snooze button for the last time. Slide my hand over my face to gently wake myself up and slowly check the time. I contemplate a quick journal entry, but think better of it as to not be too late to work. A quick brush of the hair and teeth. Dressed, and out the door. With each turn and swerve I take throughout my commute, I continue pressing myself for more. I need to remember every bit of sound and sight that I can capture from this night. I need to scurry to my desk, nervous and worried for the day, and with all the subtle stealth I can muster jot down my adventures through a library stairwell. It was a staircase I remember fondly, perhaps from college, one that holds faint memories of charming moments. My skin crawls with ghosts that linger there in that staircase. I push on, noting the collection of books, the color of the carpet, the warmth of the red exit sign.
But who am I kidding, there is no escape.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Chapter 2 (this could take all day)
I stood in the back corner of the Harvard book store, moving my eyes quite languidly over the multi-colored spines and lettering. There is nothing in particular I am looking for, simply, enjoying the view. In my right arm, two books loosely sit. Given that I find another more intriguing, either one could be replaced, but I have to set myself to minimum, and also a maximum, of two books. Too many and I limit my chances of coming back to this beautiful book store sooner rather than later, but just one is not enough. I can practically feel the french roast from next door electrifying my weak veins, as my eyes keep focus on a pale blue moderately sized paperback. I reach up, pull down on the top of the spine and shimmy it out of it's cozy little home on the book shelf. Judging a book by it's cover, they say it's bad, but I continue day in and day out. Something on this cover doesn't jump out at me. Is it the font? the overused computer generated portrait of an allegedly calming landscape? Perhaps just the title, or something lacking in the story line. Where is the emotional turmoil and interpersonal connection with the characters? I laugh silently to myself and repeat under my breath "too picky", and return it to the aged oak shelf. I have begun to feel content with my two choices, but still meander through the other aisles, contemplating the other genre choices and reminding myself that it's time to start studying once again. I move out of the way for other shoppers, while simultaneously positioning myself in the route of another. I apologize profusely and slide my feet over once more, closer to the empty cash register adorned with overpriced candies and bookmarks. Smile, nod, say thank you. Good-bye.
It is hot today and I am in a long sleeved shirt. White, 3/4 length sleeves and jeans with the same flip flops I wear everyday. I tuck the new, crisp beautiful books into my tote and continue back toward my car, parked down past the Harvest. I pass by the door way to the MoTu office that my sister once worked in, and remember the oversized Apple computers they used to design the software. I had fantasized about being in that chair one day, but I guess somewhere along the way, it began to look uncomfortable. Harvard looks especially bright today, and I contemplated a stroll through the campus, but it seemed to be bustling with new arrivals, and unfortunately I had to get going to my second job for the remainder of the day. I felt good. I imagined that someone I knew would happen to be walking around Harvard Square at that same moment, see me and think 'My, she looks happy'. When I returned to my car, the smile seemed to melt right down my left arm as I picked the daunting parking ticket from my sleek black windshield wiper. But almost immediately after I felt nothing could ruin this moment for me. These are moments we don't see often, 'relish' I thought, in an almost cinematically gentle whisper. I pull away from the curb and head back where I came from.
I am working hard to quit smoking, and today does not help much. I have nothing in the car, and contemplate stopping by the local convenience store, but I think better of it. Stepping back down the ladder would be an almost perfect way to destroy my overwhelming elation. Cas Haley in the speakers, sunglasses and speed. I imagine myself on the beach with my new books and pair of headphones, that is where I should be driving to, but I am not. I pull into the parking lot, circle and squeeze my Scion into a nearby spot and continue on my way to another few hours of work.
There are somedays that I am thankful for my co-workers. They keep me sane, remind me what laughing right from the pit of my stomach feels like, they take me away from my computer and in front of human beings, both good and bad. But somedays, I wonder what would happen if I left. I would have free time, time to read all those books at a spritely pace. Time to spend with my sisters and friends or perhaps the brown eyed mystery man from the Cambridge church. But I remind myself of how bored I felt when I left. I get consumed in my own thoughts. I write pages and pages and think it could be a book, laugh, and then put it away to never look upon again. Drink the wine, smoke the cigarette and lay back in bed just stare out the window at the street lights behind the wilting tree branches.
How many letters have a written? I imagine how many of the same sullen morbid lines I have jotted again and again. Reminds me of the Spanish vocab drills my 8th grade teacher would ask of us, rewriting the same lines 10 times over, emblazoning them in your mind for days until they'd leak out during sleeping hours the night before the exam. But I digress. Letters, how many? and how many never mailed. Letters to my family, my friends, dead presidents, inanimate objects and customers I've dealt with through the years. Letters that proclaim so much, or absolutely nothing at all. But never read. Never even sealed in an envelope and stamped. Never even torn from the cheap Family Dollar spiral bound notebooks, piling up on the floor in the corner just beneath my bed. For now, the letters stay hidden. I plug in my shiny new fan, peel back the first pages of this new book. Before long, I am sleeping restlessly to the quiet voice of Kris Delmhorst.
To My Dearest __________,
How was your day today? I found a sun spot on my left hand this morning while applying my hand cream. It reminded me of how bright you are. How you had at one time illuminated the darkest places within me. How your smile caused such burns that I merely welcomed, throwing the SPF to the side and shutting my eyes tight against the intense heat. Even in the coldest nights in the deepest of December, never did my lips quiver, my knees quake, or my spine shake. But today I am cold, and it feels quite refreshing.
I awake to a dull slow pounding. I immediately think, in my drunken state, that it is my alarm clock, but after a few more pounds, know that this can not be right. My mind is not spinning, my head feels no pain. Perhaps the TV next door. Damned city, I can hear the conversations of the married couple three houses down. The clock reads 4:27am, perhaps the landlord, it was said that she tends to wake up early. I rise from my bed to round the doorway into the bathroom, the pounding has ceased for the moment. But before I could open the door, it has begun again. I move towards the window in the kitchen, while messily pouring a tall glass of lemonade. Doesn't sound any louder out this way. I make the 25 step trip to the front door and stumble up against the view finder. Nothing. Must be a TV somewhere in the neighborhood, sound on this street can echo like a canyon. Ignore it, back to bed.
It is hot today and I am in a long sleeved shirt. White, 3/4 length sleeves and jeans with the same flip flops I wear everyday. I tuck the new, crisp beautiful books into my tote and continue back toward my car, parked down past the Harvest. I pass by the door way to the MoTu office that my sister once worked in, and remember the oversized Apple computers they used to design the software. I had fantasized about being in that chair one day, but I guess somewhere along the way, it began to look uncomfortable. Harvard looks especially bright today, and I contemplated a stroll through the campus, but it seemed to be bustling with new arrivals, and unfortunately I had to get going to my second job for the remainder of the day. I felt good. I imagined that someone I knew would happen to be walking around Harvard Square at that same moment, see me and think 'My, she looks happy'. When I returned to my car, the smile seemed to melt right down my left arm as I picked the daunting parking ticket from my sleek black windshield wiper. But almost immediately after I felt nothing could ruin this moment for me. These are moments we don't see often, 'relish' I thought, in an almost cinematically gentle whisper. I pull away from the curb and head back where I came from.
I am working hard to quit smoking, and today does not help much. I have nothing in the car, and contemplate stopping by the local convenience store, but I think better of it. Stepping back down the ladder would be an almost perfect way to destroy my overwhelming elation. Cas Haley in the speakers, sunglasses and speed. I imagine myself on the beach with my new books and pair of headphones, that is where I should be driving to, but I am not. I pull into the parking lot, circle and squeeze my Scion into a nearby spot and continue on my way to another few hours of work.
There are somedays that I am thankful for my co-workers. They keep me sane, remind me what laughing right from the pit of my stomach feels like, they take me away from my computer and in front of human beings, both good and bad. But somedays, I wonder what would happen if I left. I would have free time, time to read all those books at a spritely pace. Time to spend with my sisters and friends or perhaps the brown eyed mystery man from the Cambridge church. But I remind myself of how bored I felt when I left. I get consumed in my own thoughts. I write pages and pages and think it could be a book, laugh, and then put it away to never look upon again. Drink the wine, smoke the cigarette and lay back in bed just stare out the window at the street lights behind the wilting tree branches.
How many letters have a written? I imagine how many of the same sullen morbid lines I have jotted again and again. Reminds me of the Spanish vocab drills my 8th grade teacher would ask of us, rewriting the same lines 10 times over, emblazoning them in your mind for days until they'd leak out during sleeping hours the night before the exam. But I digress. Letters, how many? and how many never mailed. Letters to my family, my friends, dead presidents, inanimate objects and customers I've dealt with through the years. Letters that proclaim so much, or absolutely nothing at all. But never read. Never even sealed in an envelope and stamped. Never even torn from the cheap Family Dollar spiral bound notebooks, piling up on the floor in the corner just beneath my bed. For now, the letters stay hidden. I plug in my shiny new fan, peel back the first pages of this new book. Before long, I am sleeping restlessly to the quiet voice of Kris Delmhorst.
To My Dearest __________,
How was your day today? I found a sun spot on my left hand this morning while applying my hand cream. It reminded me of how bright you are. How you had at one time illuminated the darkest places within me. How your smile caused such burns that I merely welcomed, throwing the SPF to the side and shutting my eyes tight against the intense heat. Even in the coldest nights in the deepest of December, never did my lips quiver, my knees quake, or my spine shake. But today I am cold, and it feels quite refreshing.
I awake to a dull slow pounding. I immediately think, in my drunken state, that it is my alarm clock, but after a few more pounds, know that this can not be right. My mind is not spinning, my head feels no pain. Perhaps the TV next door. Damned city, I can hear the conversations of the married couple three houses down. The clock reads 4:27am, perhaps the landlord, it was said that she tends to wake up early. I rise from my bed to round the doorway into the bathroom, the pounding has ceased for the moment. But before I could open the door, it has begun again. I move towards the window in the kitchen, while messily pouring a tall glass of lemonade. Doesn't sound any louder out this way. I make the 25 step trip to the front door and stumble up against the view finder. Nothing. Must be a TV somewhere in the neighborhood, sound on this street can echo like a canyon. Ignore it, back to bed.
Chapter 1 (just to keep track)
I awoke to a pounding sound. My heart? Footsteps? A fist at the door? I couldn’t be sure. Heart and mind cloudy with sleep and sweat, I push myself from my overused mattress and stumble to the broken down door. My eyes refuse to open and my knee meets the wall violently, loud curses fling themselves from my lazy lips. The wood floor creaks achingly under my gentle footsteps to the door and I peer through the viewer, conveniently placed 6 inches above my short frame. Nothing. The hallway is as black as pitch and still as the wind on this painfully humid night. Must have been a dream I reassure myself and dangerously make my way back to the bedroom.
The morning is always a difficult time. My fingers meet the snooze button time and time again over a period of about an hour, until the time catches up with me and I have no time. A quick brush of the hair and teeth, two slices into the toaster, jeans, a t-shirt, a sweatshirt to cover the tattoos and flip flops. Fill the tote with all the necessary items for the day, am I working tonight? Thankfully, no. Two jobs and a rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle. I pretend to hate it. I make sure I have everything and shut my bedroom door, my knee aches with the memory of my rude midnight awakening and I spend most of my morning commute to work scrunching my eyebrows at negligent Boston drivers and trying to remember that dream, or even if I had one at all. I pull into a parking spot at work, repack all the things that I pulled out of my bag during the drive and slam the door, my sweatshirt catching in the crack. I tug at it violently hoping that it’s just slightly stuck, but instead have to dig deep in my bag to find the keys, unlock the door, pull my sweatshirt out, drop the keys, nail my head on the door, shut it with a furrowed brow and head to my desk.
The day ends in a flurry. I’ve thrown back two or three coffees, I’m not really sure, and I’m on my 2nd liter of water. I wave goodbye to my co-workers, clock out and head to my car, removing my sweatshirt, now that the sun has graced the day with its presence. I slather a generous helping of SPF 30 onto my left arm to properly protect my tattoos from the beautiful rays of the sun, pull to the end of the drive way, slide on enormously oversized sunglasses, and light a menthol cigarette. My ride home is equally as enjoyable as the ride in, clear on the highway for the most part. I gracefully tuck the tail end of my burning cigarette between my thumb and middle finger and flick it forcefully out the window, watching it violently land on the pavement in my side view mirror. I contemplate dinner plans and think if there are any errands I need to run before landing at home. I decide to rightly discipline myself, head home and finish all the projects that I had told myself I would do when I moved in over a month ago.
Checklist:
1) Hang curtains
2) Living room extension cords for lamps
3) Clean dresser and dispose of dead flowers
4) Collect clothing for consignment.
A never ending checklist I must keep in mind. Every time I manage to knock off one thing another three creep upon me. Perhaps I should actually treat this apartment like home, as I never have for any of my previous apartments. I park around the corner as I still do not have a sticker to park on the street I live on, and head inside for the night, which I’m almost sure will end up wasted. My key sticks in the door, but with a little shoulder grease I bash it open and proceed directly to my bedroom. A quick check in the mirror to make sure I’m not dead, dry off the hands and I stand at the center of my room, glaring at the curtains, possibly trying to will them to just simply hang themselves. The truth is it will only take 5 minutes, but it’s 5 minutes that I would much rather be doing something totally unrelated and not nearly as productive. And I begin to ponder, why curtains? Why anything? A topic that I’m sure I will have to sleepily jot about in my spiral bound journal later on in the night with a glass of red wine in one hand and bleeding ink in the other. The stereotypical writer; a drunk. I begin contemplating pouring a glass for myself at this precise moment, but think better of it as I’m trying to save that Renaissance for perhaps a special visit later this week. A special visit that I desperately wish I would stop looking forward to and rehearsing in my head as if I would be tested later. A special visit that is truthfully, not special at all. I propose to throw what seems like a mere handful of laundry from the tower building in the corner into the washing machine and snatch up a chair from the kitchen in order to properly wrestle with the curtains.
With the curtains hung, the washing machine spinning and flowers still rotting away as graciously as ever, I decide on hot dogs for dinner. I gently make slits along the dogs, listening and watching intently as they snap and pop in the fry pan. How did I get here? Why curtains, who cares? Is Boston really my home? Do I really love that dirty water? I feel like a traitor just thinking it in my own head. My disconnection with reality sometimes feels so great that I feel like my own overcooked hot dog. Burnt around the edges, just enough that my friends want to ask me what’s wrong, but still soft and juicy in the middle, laughing at the politically incorrect jokes and the consequentially misshapen faces, drinking at the bar and engaging in paper thin conversations and concerning myself with the placement of my bra strap. I’m thinking too much about it. This is too intense of a thought process for a simple Tuesday night. Slowly turning the burner to off, I roll the hot dogs over for one more quick sizzle. I empty the contents of the pan onto my brightly colored dinner plates, which I hoped would bring some life to this kitchen, but only make me sad each time I remember that I spent $8 per plate. I numb myself by the light of the History channel, my mind spinning until finally I shut it off and turn myself in for the night.
One glass of wine, which I am making up for because I didn’t drink with dinner. Another to warm my sullen bones. Perhaps a third just because I love the way it makes my letters look on the $.99 pages. I wish I could cry tonight, but perhaps the sodium in the hot dogs has dried me up. I keep writing. Write here, write now. Writing the wrongs, the cigarette burns, the humiliations and catastrophes in a mere 24 hours. Write. My pen bleeds and smudges, streaking my palms and finger tips like black blood. Or perhaps it is my blood and I just have no color left in me. I contemplate rising for another glass but my movement is muddied and thick. Twenty pound toes, and fingers with such fortitude. I continue on writing, not so sure what is with the fascination to fling myself so violently against this page, but I am here and I am not leaving. I linger for moment on the deep brown eyes of the kind face sitting opposite from me in last nights Al-Anon meeting. I didn’t catch his name, but perhaps it could be Dave, or Ben, or Mike. The options are endless, but what’s in a name truly. I ponder how perfectly the tiny tornadoes of toxic air flittered around his thick digits while waiting for the bus. Around mine, they seemed significantly less graceful, almost menacing and malicious in nature. My attention to this single detail irritates me and I try to move on, but somehow I always manage to motion back to some utterly mindless simplicity surrounding the mystery of Dave/Ben/Mike…. Whatever his name is.
My eyes lids begin to droop with a soupy movement. I drink down the last sip of wine, feeling one last wave of warmth move over my thick body. Click off the light, and rest my bones.
The morning is always a difficult time. My fingers meet the snooze button time and time again over a period of about an hour, until the time catches up with me and I have no time. A quick brush of the hair and teeth, two slices into the toaster, jeans, a t-shirt, a sweatshirt to cover the tattoos and flip flops. Fill the tote with all the necessary items for the day, am I working tonight? Thankfully, no. Two jobs and a rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle. I pretend to hate it. I make sure I have everything and shut my bedroom door, my knee aches with the memory of my rude midnight awakening and I spend most of my morning commute to work scrunching my eyebrows at negligent Boston drivers and trying to remember that dream, or even if I had one at all. I pull into a parking spot at work, repack all the things that I pulled out of my bag during the drive and slam the door, my sweatshirt catching in the crack. I tug at it violently hoping that it’s just slightly stuck, but instead have to dig deep in my bag to find the keys, unlock the door, pull my sweatshirt out, drop the keys, nail my head on the door, shut it with a furrowed brow and head to my desk.
The day ends in a flurry. I’ve thrown back two or three coffees, I’m not really sure, and I’m on my 2nd liter of water. I wave goodbye to my co-workers, clock out and head to my car, removing my sweatshirt, now that the sun has graced the day with its presence. I slather a generous helping of SPF 30 onto my left arm to properly protect my tattoos from the beautiful rays of the sun, pull to the end of the drive way, slide on enormously oversized sunglasses, and light a menthol cigarette. My ride home is equally as enjoyable as the ride in, clear on the highway for the most part. I gracefully tuck the tail end of my burning cigarette between my thumb and middle finger and flick it forcefully out the window, watching it violently land on the pavement in my side view mirror. I contemplate dinner plans and think if there are any errands I need to run before landing at home. I decide to rightly discipline myself, head home and finish all the projects that I had told myself I would do when I moved in over a month ago.
Checklist:
1) Hang curtains
2) Living room extension cords for lamps
3) Clean dresser and dispose of dead flowers
4) Collect clothing for consignment.
A never ending checklist I must keep in mind. Every time I manage to knock off one thing another three creep upon me. Perhaps I should actually treat this apartment like home, as I never have for any of my previous apartments. I park around the corner as I still do not have a sticker to park on the street I live on, and head inside for the night, which I’m almost sure will end up wasted. My key sticks in the door, but with a little shoulder grease I bash it open and proceed directly to my bedroom. A quick check in the mirror to make sure I’m not dead, dry off the hands and I stand at the center of my room, glaring at the curtains, possibly trying to will them to just simply hang themselves. The truth is it will only take 5 minutes, but it’s 5 minutes that I would much rather be doing something totally unrelated and not nearly as productive. And I begin to ponder, why curtains? Why anything? A topic that I’m sure I will have to sleepily jot about in my spiral bound journal later on in the night with a glass of red wine in one hand and bleeding ink in the other. The stereotypical writer; a drunk. I begin contemplating pouring a glass for myself at this precise moment, but think better of it as I’m trying to save that Renaissance for perhaps a special visit later this week. A special visit that I desperately wish I would stop looking forward to and rehearsing in my head as if I would be tested later. A special visit that is truthfully, not special at all. I propose to throw what seems like a mere handful of laundry from the tower building in the corner into the washing machine and snatch up a chair from the kitchen in order to properly wrestle with the curtains.
With the curtains hung, the washing machine spinning and flowers still rotting away as graciously as ever, I decide on hot dogs for dinner. I gently make slits along the dogs, listening and watching intently as they snap and pop in the fry pan. How did I get here? Why curtains, who cares? Is Boston really my home? Do I really love that dirty water? I feel like a traitor just thinking it in my own head. My disconnection with reality sometimes feels so great that I feel like my own overcooked hot dog. Burnt around the edges, just enough that my friends want to ask me what’s wrong, but still soft and juicy in the middle, laughing at the politically incorrect jokes and the consequentially misshapen faces, drinking at the bar and engaging in paper thin conversations and concerning myself with the placement of my bra strap. I’m thinking too much about it. This is too intense of a thought process for a simple Tuesday night. Slowly turning the burner to off, I roll the hot dogs over for one more quick sizzle. I empty the contents of the pan onto my brightly colored dinner plates, which I hoped would bring some life to this kitchen, but only make me sad each time I remember that I spent $8 per plate. I numb myself by the light of the History channel, my mind spinning until finally I shut it off and turn myself in for the night.
One glass of wine, which I am making up for because I didn’t drink with dinner. Another to warm my sullen bones. Perhaps a third just because I love the way it makes my letters look on the $.99 pages. I wish I could cry tonight, but perhaps the sodium in the hot dogs has dried me up. I keep writing. Write here, write now. Writing the wrongs, the cigarette burns, the humiliations and catastrophes in a mere 24 hours. Write. My pen bleeds and smudges, streaking my palms and finger tips like black blood. Or perhaps it is my blood and I just have no color left in me. I contemplate rising for another glass but my movement is muddied and thick. Twenty pound toes, and fingers with such fortitude. I continue on writing, not so sure what is with the fascination to fling myself so violently against this page, but I am here and I am not leaving. I linger for moment on the deep brown eyes of the kind face sitting opposite from me in last nights Al-Anon meeting. I didn’t catch his name, but perhaps it could be Dave, or Ben, or Mike. The options are endless, but what’s in a name truly. I ponder how perfectly the tiny tornadoes of toxic air flittered around his thick digits while waiting for the bus. Around mine, they seemed significantly less graceful, almost menacing and malicious in nature. My attention to this single detail irritates me and I try to move on, but somehow I always manage to motion back to some utterly mindless simplicity surrounding the mystery of Dave/Ben/Mike…. Whatever his name is.
My eyes lids begin to droop with a soupy movement. I drink down the last sip of wine, feeling one last wave of warmth move over my thick body. Click off the light, and rest my bones.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Family
This weekend while at my best friends house, her husband was watching a show called "Gamer Generation". Now I don't know what channel it's on, or what time it normally plays, as they embrace the wonderful world of DVR, but I can tell you this: it was cool from several different aspects.
The basis of the show that I somewhat caught from joining half way through was that it was based in the middle east and it was focusing on First Person Shooter games that are marketed in America. The show focused on how they feel that Arabs are ususally depicted as the enemy in these games and also how researchers felt that the severely aggresive nature of the games was affecting the aggresive nature of the player. One researchers believed that there was no affect, but after conducting tests, found that there was a significant affect on the brain while someone is playing a First Person Shooter, and the aggresive tendencies can become much more intense. The other factor to incorporate is how young adults perceive theses games. Do they understand that is satirical and mocking fun? Or have they immersed themselves in the alternate reality. The matter reaches all over the world, and through all races and ages. How do video games really affect our social behavior?
Well I'm sure it's an enormous topic, one that truthfully I can't speak to all that well, nor have the time and space in this blog to deeply and thoroughly investigate into. I have never been a video game player. I have dated many video game enthusiasts, but now, at my ripe old age of 24 I feel like guys that have immersed their lives in a video game (take World of Warcraft for example) just need to get a life. It cliche, but it works. I dabbled in Sonic the Hedgehog back in the day, and the closest I got to any real destruction came from the classic Wolfenstein. But given I'm a female, and I think it's pretty obvious that most female are not usually drawn to the death and destruction that a First Person Shooter game brings. We'd prefer the cutsie Little Big World, or a personal favorite, Rachet and Clank. It's clear in research all over the country that First Person Shooter games can lead to a desensitized, anti-social and more aggressive nature. http://www.independent.com/news/2009/may/17/your-brain-video-games/
It's interesting from a cultural and musical perspective because you want to look at the kids. What happens in their minds to feel like these actions are okay? I understand for many there is the fore-thought that the game is fake, but for some younger players, they can not understand the difference. There is is most certainly a power handed over to the player that they do not get in the real world, that draws them into these positions. The ability to control ones fate is an intoxicating and addicting feeling I can only assume. A similiar situation has basically surrounded the careers of serious metal musicians, ie. Marilyn Manson or Rob Zombie. Marilyn Manson more so because of his unique attire I propose. I remember many years ago the kid that were arrested for a shooting, claiming that the lyrics of a Marilyn Manson song told them to do it and I watched in the den of my parents house, shaking my head quietly. I think the kid was about the same age as me at the time.
I think that just the idea that we are positively drawn to the idea of having control of another life becomes the basis of the argument. Do we feel like because we can not control our own fates, the idea of controling someone else's is that much more seductive? Our own lives are not something that we find interesting, so thus we cling to gossip and propaganda surrounding celebrities, from their frosted tips down to the designer toe rings. It seems as thought for a lot of us, our own lives are just not sufficient. We're not living our lives to the fullest, we feel we're missing something, an opportunity or the chance of a lifetime. We feel like we're living vicariously through these stars in the magazines, trying to act and look like them as best we can to ensure we are the image of perfection. So does this same image transcend through music? Absolutely. Through video games? it would just about seem so. The concept seems to be about the same, except that the image is something twisted, angry and violent. They are trying to create for themselves a persona in which they can control their fate and the fate of others. A persona where they are powerful, invincible and free in every sense of the word. This persona can become completely mind altering to someone who carries an anti-social personality and does not feel connected, personally and emotionally, to a community in the real world. They find a home with the others with these same tendencies and the online community grows until such things as marriages happen. It seems like a total unplugging from the real world. A true Matrix.
Have we all kind of become like this, perhaps to much less of an extreme? With our blackberries and iPhones? I mean, I know that I've written about this already, but it always seems to become interconnected as you pull from all the different aspects of society. No matter if it be the video games or the palms to television. We have consumed ourselves with the idea of becoming someone else. I mean, something as simple as coloring your hair. I'm guilty, I'm a natural blonde and I colored my hair red about 6 years ago and about 4 years ago went black. I have no idea what I would even look like as a blonde. oh well, people say it suits me, perhaps it's the tattoos.
Now, letting go of all these fantasies and and whimsical notions is like admitting to alcoholism or drug addiction. It is something that we feel is okay for ourselves, until someone throws it in our face and we begin to question our nature at some point or another. Some realize something is wrong, most others simply write it off. I recall my moment, and everyday I try and remind myself about what it is that makes me who I am and more specifically, like no one else. I do not need video games, or celebrity gossip to feel apart of something, I am a human being, a part of the human race. If that community isn't small enough for you, I'm not sure what is. We have to share the earth with so many others, and even though not one of us shares the same fingerprint or laugh and smile, we're all pretty much family.
So don't hurt each other.
The basis of the show that I somewhat caught from joining half way through was that it was based in the middle east and it was focusing on First Person Shooter games that are marketed in America. The show focused on how they feel that Arabs are ususally depicted as the enemy in these games and also how researchers felt that the severely aggresive nature of the games was affecting the aggresive nature of the player. One researchers believed that there was no affect, but after conducting tests, found that there was a significant affect on the brain while someone is playing a First Person Shooter, and the aggresive tendencies can become much more intense. The other factor to incorporate is how young adults perceive theses games. Do they understand that is satirical and mocking fun? Or have they immersed themselves in the alternate reality. The matter reaches all over the world, and through all races and ages. How do video games really affect our social behavior?
Well I'm sure it's an enormous topic, one that truthfully I can't speak to all that well, nor have the time and space in this blog to deeply and thoroughly investigate into. I have never been a video game player. I have dated many video game enthusiasts, but now, at my ripe old age of 24 I feel like guys that have immersed their lives in a video game (take World of Warcraft for example) just need to get a life. It cliche, but it works. I dabbled in Sonic the Hedgehog back in the day, and the closest I got to any real destruction came from the classic Wolfenstein. But given I'm a female, and I think it's pretty obvious that most female are not usually drawn to the death and destruction that a First Person Shooter game brings. We'd prefer the cutsie Little Big World, or a personal favorite, Rachet and Clank. It's clear in research all over the country that First Person Shooter games can lead to a desensitized, anti-social and more aggressive nature. http://www.independent.com/news/2009/may/17/your-brain-video-games/
It's interesting from a cultural and musical perspective because you want to look at the kids. What happens in their minds to feel like these actions are okay? I understand for many there is the fore-thought that the game is fake, but for some younger players, they can not understand the difference. There is is most certainly a power handed over to the player that they do not get in the real world, that draws them into these positions. The ability to control ones fate is an intoxicating and addicting feeling I can only assume. A similiar situation has basically surrounded the careers of serious metal musicians, ie. Marilyn Manson or Rob Zombie. Marilyn Manson more so because of his unique attire I propose. I remember many years ago the kid that were arrested for a shooting, claiming that the lyrics of a Marilyn Manson song told them to do it and I watched in the den of my parents house, shaking my head quietly. I think the kid was about the same age as me at the time.
I think that just the idea that we are positively drawn to the idea of having control of another life becomes the basis of the argument. Do we feel like because we can not control our own fates, the idea of controling someone else's is that much more seductive? Our own lives are not something that we find interesting, so thus we cling to gossip and propaganda surrounding celebrities, from their frosted tips down to the designer toe rings. It seems as thought for a lot of us, our own lives are just not sufficient. We're not living our lives to the fullest, we feel we're missing something, an opportunity or the chance of a lifetime. We feel like we're living vicariously through these stars in the magazines, trying to act and look like them as best we can to ensure we are the image of perfection. So does this same image transcend through music? Absolutely. Through video games? it would just about seem so. The concept seems to be about the same, except that the image is something twisted, angry and violent. They are trying to create for themselves a persona in which they can control their fate and the fate of others. A persona where they are powerful, invincible and free in every sense of the word. This persona can become completely mind altering to someone who carries an anti-social personality and does not feel connected, personally and emotionally, to a community in the real world. They find a home with the others with these same tendencies and the online community grows until such things as marriages happen. It seems like a total unplugging from the real world. A true Matrix.
Have we all kind of become like this, perhaps to much less of an extreme? With our blackberries and iPhones? I mean, I know that I've written about this already, but it always seems to become interconnected as you pull from all the different aspects of society. No matter if it be the video games or the palms to television. We have consumed ourselves with the idea of becoming someone else. I mean, something as simple as coloring your hair. I'm guilty, I'm a natural blonde and I colored my hair red about 6 years ago and about 4 years ago went black. I have no idea what I would even look like as a blonde. oh well, people say it suits me, perhaps it's the tattoos.
Now, letting go of all these fantasies and and whimsical notions is like admitting to alcoholism or drug addiction. It is something that we feel is okay for ourselves, until someone throws it in our face and we begin to question our nature at some point or another. Some realize something is wrong, most others simply write it off. I recall my moment, and everyday I try and remind myself about what it is that makes me who I am and more specifically, like no one else. I do not need video games, or celebrity gossip to feel apart of something, I am a human being, a part of the human race. If that community isn't small enough for you, I'm not sure what is. We have to share the earth with so many others, and even though not one of us shares the same fingerprint or laugh and smile, we're all pretty much family.
So don't hurt each other.
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