Tonight, I sat down to a microwaved Indian dinner from Trader Joe's and popped in a movie. A movie just like any other that I receive through my Netflix service and pop in on quiet nights to distract myself from those pesky life events. Job becomes more stressful, friends are having trouble, family is pressed. Everything swirls around and around itself and we forget what it is to slow down, almost to make it stop. We can't make it stop, no matter how much we try. It keeps going even as we make every attempt that we know to keep it in line and going according to plan. It never does. This movie, like some that I fall upon, stir something within me. It makes me sad and happy that it sometimes only takes something so trivial to bring about something so tidal. I just wanted to hug my family. Tell them that I'm scared to lose them, and remember how much I love them and how proud I am to be a part of wonderful family. I think about my friends, ones that I've lost, ones that are far away and those that are so close. The relationships that I have created and lost through years past. I worry about my perception of life, and how meaningless it can sometimes appear as opposed to how meaningful it really is, every single day. I pray that before it is too late that I can feel what that oneness that everyone keeps talking about.

Time

This morning while on my way to work, just like any other day, I came up to one of two rotaries that I go through in Cambridge, respectably yielding to the traffic. The person behind me apparently did not feel that my reaction time was adequate enough as he prompty honked his horn feverently, indicating that I needed to move my ass. Normally I guess the average person's reaction is to go on the defensive.
"Oh, shove it up your ass!"
right?
But I guess I felt as though whether or not I have really moved that much faster, thus allowing the other driver to get to their destination that much quicker, made really no difference at all.
I played out a few quiet scenarios in my head:
1) They're running late already to the big meeting/presentation of the year. This could mean their job, their bonus, the inground pool, or the new puppy! or it could mean they're fired. Is that really my fault? does that really require a brain rattling honk? based on the state of the vehicle, something tells me they weren't wearing a suit, nor prepared to stand before a powerpoint. But I'm judging.
2) The passenger is having a baby (there was no passenger, by the way) and they were rushing to the hospital (which I'm not aware of one around that area) and I held them up for that one second, causing the baby to be born right there in the broken down vehicle, thus spurring an ill-fated life of drugs and crime.
3) They needed to be somewhere. A place, to see a person, about a thing. Or just to get to train station or the grocery store, or really no where at all. who knows, but I was in their way.
Massachusetts drivers do have a well deserved reputation for being a tad bit more aggressive behind the wheel. It seems as though we've acquired for ourselves a busier lifestyle, overloaded with caffiene and fried foods. We drive fast, communicate through e-mails while traveling to avoid having that awkward personal connection, and we cherish every minute of it until we die.
What's the rush? I mean, I know so many philosophers and song writers and next door neighbors all say the same thing. Carpe Diem. Live like you were dying. Be thankful for you life and so on and so forth. I whole heartedly agree. But shouldn't we be doing things that we at least enjoy? just a little? don't get me wrong, nothing sounds more appealing than speeding down Storrow Drive, with my bluetooth flashing and my Dunkin' large hazelnut with skim and 2 splenda balancing effortlessly on my right knee while I try and read up on the daily news. But what's the rush? where's the fire? how is a 15min 37 sec ride to work that much better than a 16 min ride to work. or a 20 min ride.
I love having a busy life. Working two jobs and learning to balance my personal life manages to challenge me everyday. There are definitely times when people cut me off or I don't move fast enough and I'm the one shouting obscenties over the Local radio announcer. Everyday I ask someone "how are ya? how's it going? how's the family? no news is good new right?" and it always seems that someone comes back with "there is just not enough hours in the day, or days in the week".
A shame that the time we're given isn't enough. We are given so many precious moments, and still we can't learn to appreciate that much. Even if we were given more time, what the heck would we do with it? More crap! Spend it being angry about something else.
Our weekend consists of two and 1/2 days. This past weekend, I was able to see my Best friend, my family, My long-time college friend and neighbor, A co-worker turned friend and my boyfriend; and still managed to have a good healthy phone conversation with my other close friend. That was a lot of people for 2 1/2 days! This is an average of 2 people a day. I loved getting to see them all, absolutely loved it. And it made me feel like somehow I will learn to evenly distribute and manage my personal time so that I get to smile and laugh with the people I love most in the world all the time. The gas was worth it. The time was worth it. I didn't rush and I made even more wonderful memories as I try to do everyday. People always make living like you were dying into this overly dramatic situation. Go skydiving! Swim with sharks! Say yes more and No less! but what about maybe, and perhaps. What about, yeah I'll be there, but I might not have my make-up done just right. What about, I'll do my best. How did our time become so important to other people. Or how others spend their time, so imporant to the rest of us.
As my 4 year old nephew said to his Auntie Jessica: "Don't worry about me Auntie, worry about yourself".

Happy New Year.

I'm curious about this New Year, what is so happy about it? What was wrong with the last one? And what difference does it make if there is glitter and kissing involved?! I guess every blog today is probably taking a moment to pause and reflect on the year past. I suppose I could too, but there truthfully would not be much to tell. A year of travel, realization, growth, death, writing and a severe lack of sleep, too much wine, not enough cheese! I believe that 2009 was probably the least eventful year for me, and honestly I quite like it. It has been a year of work, and just a moderate level of play (have to work on that for 2010 I propose). I was unbelievably grateful to have my family home and safe from Iraq and to be able to have us all together for some much needed Cabot/Ritter tom foolery!

I am sitting, staring at the same computer screen I stared at this exact time 1 year ago. And all I can wonder about is how my thought process has changed. What occupied my mind then as opposed to now? I know what it is and unfortunately due to my lack of self discipline and probably a little respect for my mental health, it is the same thing. Why do we kiss the one we love when the ball drops? We could kiss them anytime we want, what is so special about this giant glowing ball and the fact that is it being, quite dangerously, lowered from the sky. Are we thanking them for sticking by as one year passes to another? An appreciation of having wonderful people in our wonderful lives? A good-bye to the past and hello to the future. But I'm starting to wonder about the desperation people feel. This deep burning need to just have that one kiss, just when the ball drops. Alright, alright, maybe I'm only talking about myself because I sure as hell haven't the felt the need for any kisses at any other point in time when there is not giant glowing glittery mechanical balls dropping in celebration of a new and prosperous year. Perhaps is the nostalgia, the overwhelming sense of warmth and positive energy of getting starting everything anew. Well, maybe not everything. Some old habits are seriously hard to break.

You are like the most bitter cup of black coffee
scalding hot and
steaming from my faded travel mug
curling the ends on my hair
my taste buds screeching
and my heart pounding in his cage.
My blood pressure takes off, straight to the moon.
You are like the Marlboro Red
I bummed from a stranger outside a bar
my breath cursed me and
my body beat me
the burning tornadoes tearing
at the corners of my heart.
And the race had begun in my chest.
You are like the tall glass of dark red wine
flushing my cheeks and warming my skin
my fingertips and toes seem to move like mud
and my body slows to a guiet lull
reminded of the movement of the sea.
For shame, I must pour myself another.

To my Best Friend

What is it about these sneakers? It seems as though when I wear them I tend to feel some kind of unconscious spring in my step. It has been that way in the past, but today I feel heavy. Not even the extra dose of caffiene in this mornings coffee seems to help. The sticky notes look a bit more pink today and the lights, awfully bright. What I thought might be a mindful and productive day, has quickly turned itself downhill and I can smell the sting of the smoke trailing up from the crash landing. There is so much more I could be focused on. Things that are detrimental to the path my life may or may not take. Things that could alter what is to be my next move in what looks to be a horrific game of chess and chance.

In attempting to escape my life for a few days in the deep corners of a quaint wooded town in Massachusetts, it seems as though the dive back in has been fifty times harder than the climb out. A gentle reminder, there is no escaping, as much as I'd like to think so. Loved ones are still sick, family is still struggling, and friends are still shaking their heads in wonder. I'm still going to make stupid mistakes under the influence of alcohol, after which I will pour myself another drink and apologize profusely while continuing to make rude sarcastic comments and hiding myself behind slurred language and the deep green of empty wine bottles.

How do some people come to mean so much to someone. My best friend and I have known each other for about 15 years. Some of these years we didn't talk on a regular basis, what with me in college and her having children and getting married. I was still learning what it meant to have balance in your life. School, work, family, boyfriend, and my best friend. But we never let each other go. Still to this day our attachment to each other astounds me. Our support for each other has been boundless, even when we don't agree. There is not one subject we can truthfully agree upon and yet still I am over there almost every weekend. Bottle of wine, hand rolled cigarette and deep belly laughter. There is nothing better than freezing in the basement, watching QVC and crying out how heinously ugly all the jewelry is. Laugh about Friendly's in Fitchburg and times when our judgement proved us wrong. Building strong relationships has never been my strong suit, but it seems as though in the sense of having a great friend, she and I have found true love (just don't tell her husband).

In researching Humanism for a writing sample I am working on, I found something interesting, well it's all interesting I suppose, but this was an aspect of religion that was not something I had thought about previously. Humanists put a significant amont of emphasis on living in the here and now. Living life to the utmost and making make decisions that are not only conscious and aware of the human race, but also making yourself happy. In working towards a common goal as a species, this is to make the individual a happy and successful person. It is about fostering and encouraging creative thought processes to add to personal satisfaction. Humanism puts the responsiblity of creating a happy and successful home on each and every one of us. In letting go of the supernatural, we are dependant only upon ourselves to make this life worth living. A part of an article I read stated "Humans are social by nature and find meaning in relationships.... The joining of individuality with interdependence enriches our lives, encourages us to enrich the lives of others, and inspires hope of attaining peace, justice, and opportunity for all." (Human Manifesto III). Building strong relationships is something that therapists say, we are taught by our parents and by the positive/negative relationships we have when we are younger. Of course, this is open to interpretation as mostly everything is, but based on circumstantial evidence, I could aggree with the statement for the time being. So it can be said that based on the lessons I have learned in my past surrounding relationships and how to build and sustain them, I could be helping the human race. The pressure is unbelievable!
To my best friend of 15 years, thank you for helping me enrich my life while trying (perhaps fruitlessly) to enrich yours and thus adding to my personal satisfaction and encouraging me to create peace with the other people that I meet along the way, as I work through these mindless days. Who knew our laughter could affect so much!

Addiction

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.

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.

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.