The Nature Of

I don't know how to be a beauty. I don't know how to paint my face in complimentary colors, or simple monochromatic tones that match my naturally olive tone. I do not know how to be ravishing in long gowns and slinky black cocktail dresses. I do not know how to pluck and preen myself to be clean, shapely, and symmetrical, which is really the standard of beauty. I do not know how to keep my skin soft and blemish free. I do not care to dye, straighten, curl, or otherwise process my hair into oblivion to keep up with the latest trend or to match the round curve of my face. I do not manicure my hands nor pedicure my feet. I do not spend hours of my day attending to the shape of my body to please others. My ultimate goal is not a six pack and a behind that any man or woman would stumble over seeing.
But I can discuss the nature of ethics and religion and how the two do not necessarily correlate. I can take a moment to find clever solutions to everyday problems. I can make baskets, scarves, wash clothes, and a number of other useful items out of skeins of yarn. I can breathe a new life into reused and re-purposed items. I can make clever jokes overflowing with wit and puns and phrases worthy of classical literature. I can make a meal that soothes both the soul and the palette. I can comfort you in times of distress and lighten the mood in the most awkward way imaginable with my insensitive outsiders perspective. I can drink to success and sorrow, and still find a way to smile and joke while I regret that last beer. I can appreciate the way the moon hangs in the night sky while still understanding it is just a suspended rock illuminated by our own personal burning, life-giving star. I can find solace in knowing that even if a person is not in my presence, they are always there. I can relent and admit that I am wrong. I am aware that I am flawed, imperfect, and mildly mad. I am completely capable of being the monster which hides in the depths of my soul, the conscience that picks away in my brain, but I am capable of fighting it. I am a beauty in the most treacherous of ways. I can be a siren that hooks you in the calm, warm morning light. I am the equally unnerving and familiar buzzing and chirping of the creatures of the night. I am a woman riddled with the cracks and imperfections and wearings left by those who have had me before. I am a woman who feels unable to love you wholly because I cannot love myself wholly. I am a woman who keeps her life to herself because her life feels as if it's being lived for another. I am a woman of character flawed, of emotions strung, of a conscience muddied. I am woman of a quiet, uncommon and ill-defined grace. I am a woman. I can make you feel as if you're the most important person alive, but I will also hurt you in almost as many ways as I hurt myself.

Why you should Why.

What exactly is it that makes people think it's okay to tell people what they should or should not do? I understand the difference between informing people of WHY the decisions their making might be bad for them, but to flat out say "I don't agree with this, and you need to stop it" is not going to change anyone.

Valid arguments --- You should not be a street prostitute. This is not good for you. You can contract STD's, prostitutes are more likely to get hooked on drugs, have a higher risk of being raped and killed, it is illegal, it will damage your self-esteem, and opens you to a generally unsafe community and workplace where a number of negative things will or can happen to you. If prostitution is really something you desire and feel that it will fulfill you, then consider connecting with a higher class of prostitution or check out facilities in Nevada that would be safer.
Non-valid --- Prostitutes will go to hell. I can't believe you would be so immoral to sell your body. Don't become a prostitute.

Valid argument --- Do not pierce your forehead. A piercing in a place that is not easily concealable drastically reduces the amount of job opportunities available. People will judge you on first impression and may write you off as a fool; are you prepared for that? Are you strong enough to handle the repercussions and weight of people's judgments? Even if you decide to do it and remove it, you risk leaving a scar and you will ruin your complexion, especially if a keloid were to develop.
Non-valid --- Forehead piercings are gross and ugly. You shouldn't get them.

Valid argument --- Do not expose yourself to your neighbor, even if it's unintentional. I understand your desire to be naked in nature and enjoy your life as you please, but understand that if there is a visual line from your neighbor yard to your junk, there will be problems because legally they can report you for indecent exposure. Your neighbor does not expect to see genitals while he or she is grilling hamburgers in the backyard with their kids. If being nude in your yard is that important, consider building a better fence and planting some dense shrubbery. If being nude in your house is that important and the fence nor shrubbery can  conceal your windows, purchase curtains that allow light flow in but block the visual of your naked body.
Non-valid --- Public nudity is a disgraceful sin. You should be ashamed. Put your clothes on.

Post Traumatic Sunday Disorder.

I don't know why I'm angry. I don't know why I'm upset and sitting here in my room watching the light leave the earth. Maybe it's the culmination of everything. Maybe Sundays are made for rest because people know that there should be no work, no conflict, no tasks to be done for at least a day so that the mind and the soul have maybe a moments peace. I need more peace in my life. I need more voice, but a calm, unwavering, less angry voice...

A what is a what is a what is a.

This is becoming ever increasingly hard to do. Contain my thoughts and bring them to life in a cohesive, almost tangible way. My brain feels as if it's been rewired. I'm distracting myself from the core, the subconscious, by ruminating on the uncontrollable, the upsets and the obstacles of life. Minor, fleeting obstacles, but isn't fleeting and gone in a moment. I'm hiding myself from my self with constant noise in my mind. A barrage of songs with lyrics melted into my brain and notes that chime as the words flow. It's all fodder. An easy escape for the unbearable task of facing myself. Facing myself means releasing myself. Opening my character, my soul, my flaws, my talents to the world. Bringing myself to the plateau of knowing, and I fear what I may not know because of what I do know. I know the darkness that clouds my mind with negativity. The darkness that blinds me with rage. The darkness that walls me up and pulls me from the people I love. The darkness that doesn't allow me to understand love. In truth, I don't understand love. Conceptually  in theory, from first hand accounts and descriptions and the visual clues I gather.. I can formulate love. I can determine whether it's real, but I cannot understand the driving forces. I cannot understand the unconditional, doubtless, accepting love that we seem to seek. Surely it exists because I've seen it! Just like the stars and the universe, but I don't dare to declare I understand how they work or why they exist. Or, if they exist. They tell me they are stars, they tell me how big, how hot, how far away, but I have never touched a star, never been in it's 'presence'(surely, if they're as hot as I'm told, I'd die in scorching awe). So, I see, but how can I be sure what I see in existence really exists?

Reality is a word. Like toadstool.

Fix it, or I'll break it.

"There are other things to stress about."

Will wonders never cease? Such words of wisdom from the mouth of a man whose speech is half filler phrases. "You know what I'm saying? It's like that type thing."

After 25 years of life it NEVER occurred to me to be stressed about other things! Things like whether or not I'm gonna get fired from my job for being rude to the kid that unbeknownst to me at the time has autism, How about how I'm going to manage to save enough  money to buy a car because I'd be upsetting a slew of people if I tried to buy a scooter, which I can certainly afford right now. Maybe how I'm going to get to the dentists office so I can finally smile without being self-conscious. Maybe I can concern myself with how I left the man I love and I'm being crushed by the weight of his absence. Maybe I should worry about the roach problem that seems to come back in waves- not big ones, but the little waves that lap the edges of the sand. Maybe I should worry about the new ant problem caused by how unclean you are. Maybe I should stress about my responsibilities as club president to a club that doesn't even show up. Maybe I should worry about how I'm falling so far behind in classes because I'm so stressed out about everything else. Perhaps a good source of stress is my weight which I can't keep in check and parts of my body that seem to be deteriorating and how I can't manage to get myself together to take care of myself. Let's get mental and start obssessing over whether or not I do have borderline disorder, or whether or not I can see that therapist so that I can start making steps to not behave and think the way I do. Maybe I should stress over waking up in the morning, then feeling a wave of remorse knowing I didn't die in my sleep.

Is that enough stress? No. Let's pile on the dishes. Literally. I apparently shouldn't be worried that when I get home, after you're asleep, there's not only a pile of dishes in the sink, but both sinks, and the counter has dishes just sitting there. Maybe I shouldn't stress out about having to clean a sink full of dishes that I did not put there just so that I can make myself a meal. That, that would be illogical, and time wasting.

I should stress about other things, more things than the really simple task that you tried to rationalize not doing, or keeping up on.

Let's fucking stress.

Suffer the Fool

The house would stink of cooked fish. Broiled, baked, fried, cured... whatever the process, the assualt on my nostrils was unbearable. The bottom of the door was plugged and secured with a rolled up towel or t-shirt or anything I had within reach, anything to block the scent from creeping into my locked room. The fucking cinnamon never helped. "It'll go away in a bit," she always said, like it was no big deal, like my nausea was just weakness passing. She would heat up a quarter cup of cinnamon in a dry frying pan to release it's aroma in an attempt to mask the smell of the putrid fish. But the stomach churning smoke was already there, lingering, attacking, permeating my world.
Nobody ate the fish but her. She never opened the windows before she started cooking. Never lit a candle first. Never closed our doors. Never used the fan above the stove to suck the smoke out. Never warned us. Never did it when the house was vacant. It was almost biological and mental warfare. She knew it was acrid and unbearable and would send me hauling to my room to avoid the assault. There's no winning though, because if I was in my room, I was being rude. I was an inconsiderate, lazy, selfish person just making excuses to hide away from everyone and everything.
So I was given a choice: stay and suffer the physical, mental, emotional anguish of being around her in discomfort and loathing, or leave and suffer the emotional anguish of knowing that she is now alone and disappointed and there's nothing I can do to make her happy.

And it was always the same. Stay and suffer. Leave and suffer. Suffer for the sake of suffering. Suffer for others, suffer in spite of yourself. Suffer because it's what we're meant to do. Suffer to suffer.

Suffer because it's all you know. Suffer because happiness feels much too good, and therefore must be wrong. Suffer because turmoil, battle, confrontation, and conflict are so much easier than smiling, being considerate, asking questions, bringing your guard down, listening to each other. So much easier, because it pushes all the people away except the people that will love you even in your worst of moments, and that's what you want, the truest of friends who also live with turmoil, battle, confrontation, and conflict, and won't judge you when you lose your bearings and slip into your monster's mask. It's your safest place, behind that mask, because then it's not you. It's your monster that does this and you have no control over it, and therefore, nothing is your responsibility.
You can always be forgiven, because it's never you.

Burned Steak

It's so easy for me to feel guilty about the things I say and the things I do. Honesty just for the sake of not lying to people, being sincere and forthright, seems to be the wrong thing to do.
It's not fair, you know. Everyone says they want the truth, but the truth is they only want to hear what they want to hear.

No, your project needs more work.
Yes, you're meal isn't the best you've made.
No, you're a terrible driver.
Yes, that was a poor decision.

Great. Now I've told you the truth, get upset at me for trying to be a candid friend. Cue the passive-aggressiveness that you'll no doubt throw at me after the following days of our 'altercation'. Bring in the dirty looks you think I don't notice. Can you be a bit shorter with me when you're requesting something?

It's a bit overwhelming, I gotta tell you. You're upset now that I've given you the honest opinion that you asked for. You're annoyed that you didn't get the praise you were expecting. So now I feel bad for hurting your feelings, for bringing you down, for crushing your dreams.

So here it is, I'm going to beat myself up for being upfront. Tonight, I will lay my head on my pillow wondering what it is that I should do to make up for being true. What I can do to repair the immoral behavior I've exhibited for being a friend. I will tell myself that I was wrong and that I should have been painfully tactful and cautious to your sensitivity.

I thought adults were supposed to be smarter, wiser, thicker skinned.
Looks like someone lied to me.

Time escapes me as I wait and waste.

I keep visiting this page and starting to write with the intention of making something brilliant, or soul-touching, life changing. Truth of it is, this is not for works of grandeur. This is mine. This is my confessional. This is my release and expression. This is my humanity reduced to fragments, sentences, non-poetic poetry, and when necessary, cryptic reminders. These are the parts of me that no one will sit and listen to. That even I won't listen to. I would rather unload them here, and continue with myself, feeling a hair lighter.

I've been shedding a lot lately, but it's all been trapped in the tangle of my curls. With time, diligence, and perhaps if I can remember to return to this place, maybe I can remove the knots and begin to float.

I don't know why I do it. I don't mean to get upset with you. Maybe I do. Maybe I want to show you the side of me that you don't want to see. Maybe I'm trying to test you. How much can you take? What's your tolerance for pain? That might not be it. Maybe I just get annoyed when you cut me off, when you presume to know everything that I'm going to say. In most cases, you do, but that doesn't mean that I don't have the right to say them. Maybe I need to verbalize things to reaffirm my knowledge. Maybe I just hope to be a glimmer as smart as you are. Small victories make me feel like I'm not consumed by your shadow.

I understand that you don't want to hurt me, upset me or otherwise make me uncomfortable. Being direct will not hurt me. Well, that's a lie; it might, but I'll respect you more for being straightforward than dancing around my feelings.

I feel like I'm not doing anything right. That asking for a phone call is asking too much sometimes. That when you do call I should be ever so grateful that you're giving me your time because you could very well be doing something else that's much more productive or interesting. I feel that sometimes I don't benefit you in any way, that you'll never learn anything from me. That all you get from me is affection, support and sex. I want you so badly to understand that I'm damaged. That I cry at night out of exhaustion of the soul. That I often think of walking away from everything. Just walking North until my feet are bleeding and the frost forming around my nose and lips tears away at my life force. There are time I want to lay in place and never get up. Break all the clocks, shut the blinds, and fall into my horrible, horrible dreams, because at least in my dreams, even if I have no control, it doesn't matter. They're fluid, they change, and nothing matters in them. Here, on earth, in this consciousness, I must be civil, I must be sociable, I must be learned and, if not completely, at least barely proper. But inside, I feel like an animal. I want to fight and fuck, and scratch and bite, hunt and dig, join a pack and terrorize trespassers. I want to roll in the dirt and climb trees. I want to shit and piss where I please. I want freedom. I want fucking freedom.

I don't want choices. Every day, thousands, millions of choices. All for what? For me to end up back in the same bed, every night. To wake up to the same sun, every morning. To go to the same job, and if not the same job, the same fucking people at every job because they're all the same. They've got opinions, they've got a way about them, a demeanor, a style, a kind of humor, but they're all the same when you get down to it. We're selfish, lost creatures with brains rotting and floating in the depths of societies expectations and our creature comforts(read: creature prisons.)

I don't know how I got to this. I started out with the intention of just expressing that I don't mean to be the way I am, which is mean, confused, insecure and possibly incapable of being whole. I mean to tell you that I love you, and it hurts me more than I can describe when I feel disconnected from you, when we can't manage to express to each other our state of being.

Maybe phone calls past midnight may be the culprit.

Everyone gets cranky when they need sleep.

If I die... Dance. Laugh now, cry later.

You haven't had an empty moment in your entire life, have you? The ghost is miles away. Since the familiar stain has been left on me, the cause has been out of sight, out of reach, out of my mind. Daybreak threatens and my swallowing red bed calls for me, yet I can't submit. Your sidewinding jokes surface in my mind. Legs jittering while you rest remind me of my nervous past. The easy way you infiltrated my life with the simple knowledge of maintaining my stilts has broken my pattern. I learned, smiled, and dilated. I am terrified, unworthy, and distinguishably damaged. I am love for the witless fool who wants to love me. For you to love me is nothing short of providence.

Religion and work should remain separate, unless your work is in the ministry. Please do not leave pens inscribed with lofty quotes, such as fathers are a gift from God or blessed be the (choose your humbling trait), in my drawer. I do not put animal skulls in your space, please pay me the same respect by not suffocating my space with your religious "merch". Jesus must be rolling in his ... uh.. omnipresence.

This entry was all written out explaining how I stayed up til 3am cleaning and cooking instead of studying for a final that required me to answer 23 out of 50 questions right to pass with an A in the class... but it was whiny. I was complaining and I decided that it was not worth posting how blah blah blah blah I felt about the situation. I was just complaining. That needs to stop.

I got a 46 out of 50 on it. Thought I did worse.

I'd like to take credit for being extraordinary and coming out on top even when things are stacked against me, but truth is the class was simple. I doubt a single student failed.. then again, I've encountered some students that have me shocked that they've even made it to college.

Poppies.

Eggs, tomato, avocado, cheese, wheat bread. Happiness.

Breakfast at noon. My roommates are shuffling in the kitchen, one cleaning, the other making breakfast for her and her lover who's still upstairs, lounging in her big queen size bed.
In forty-five minutes I have training for chemical safety and disposal at the college. My truck is being used to move furniture(we still haven't gotten everything in, and frankly, I've been living out of a two suitcases and rotating my clothes.. I'm sure my coworkers have gotten very used to my 'outfits' by now) which leaves me to decide whether I want to bike to work, or hitch a ride. I'm trading in my four wheels for two wheels. I'm broke. Not complaining, just stating. My tuition is more than I can afford, but I'm doing payment plans. I'll sell a kidney.

"Broke and lonely, cold and hungry, and though it may sound funny... I'm doing alright."

It's been raining sporadically for much too long so I'm not going to chance bicycling.

For weeks now, I've been delaying going home to... well, going to my parents house to get the rest of my things. I still only have a bed and a bookshelf in my room. Not really conducive for the storage of everything I own. I think though, it's time to let go. Perhaps I've been avoiding facing that point itself. Having to shuffle through my past, facing all the tangible things that have had a hand in making me what I am, or keeping me from being what I am.

Clarity comes in many forms. Too frequently I envy the possession-less and spiritually satiated monks.

Mr. Brightside

Easily I could put the blame on you. I'm astounded that I was oblivious. I don't know how you did it. Haven't felt like this in months. There's a tightness in my chest from the weight of the unknown and at the same time relief that I know you'll be around when I need you. Can't say you'll always be there, not if you're like the rest. Yesterday morning I saw myself in the mirror. Not the reflection, but me. It felt odd and frightening. Not something I approve of, not yet, but something that won't fall out of my memory. There needs to be a change. Well, more of a change. You're well aware of that and you've gone to work before I could notice.

Crafty.

This is Sparta!! Wait, it isn't. It's West Palm Beach, fucker.

In that moment, all I could think about was ripping a chunk out of his heavily tattooed neck. Apologies count for nothing. It's easier to be angry and wounded, to let the frustration out with empty, screaming threats.
What bullshit.
What nonsense.
What a waste of time.
What an exhaustion of effort and energy.
Does the world thrive on drama? Do we attach to it because we lack adrenaline in our daily lives? The centers of our mind must still thrive for the rush our predecessors felt that comes from the hunting and killing of animals and barely surviving against the elements of nature. We've become sedentary and placid but our core still rages.. that visceral, carnal part of our humanity riots inside ourselves, seeking that flood of endorphins, that thrill of danger and death. And here we are, yelling, trash talking, staring each other down beckoning the other to throw a punch.. simply because we don't chase our meals anymore.
Alright. So perhaps my theories on human behavior and evolution is wrong. I don't know what I'm talking about. What I do know is that I'm tired of being angry. I'm tired of people being angry with me for such trivial fucking reasons. When is walking away from a fight not a sufficient response? What could more pointedly say, "dude, trouble ain't worth my time, I'm washing my hands of this"? How many times must I repeat over your screaming "I APOLOGIZE" before I can move on?!

I am shamed by the behavior of humanity. Such waste.

Such good lessons..

Fuck this. I quit.

Nouns are plaguing me.

They're everywhere, interjecting into my life

Changing as they go

From girl to boy and boy to girl

From the tiny shop on the corner to the gutted remains of a dream

The colors change, and the flowers die

And those homo sapiens which are really neanderthals in disguise

They steal my time

They steal my joy

My pride and my ability to persevere.

They do not change, they grow

Little seeds get shot into my skull

Growing to be putrid smelling flowers

And poison oak
They grow their tangled, diseased roots into my head
My mind shifts
It cracks like sidewalk cement
It retreats and cowers as it loses the battle
The cells choke
My lungs burn because I've forgotten to breathe

Oh yes, those static creatures take my breath away
One day I won't get it back

Tuesday.

Are we so self-important that we find it necessary to spill the minutia of our every day lives for everyone to see... that we send pictures of dinners, bruises, and bathroom snapshots into the world with the intention of sharing the awesome story of "me"... that we make snide and passive-aggressive remarks that seem almost random while secretly hoping that the kindred spirits we call friends pick up on it and agree, and that the poor soul we're shooting sharp words at like arrows will twist their mind into a tangle of paranoia and self-doubt... that we spend endless hours chattering about nothing and we laugh with the rest of the population at the misfortunes of the individual, and we throw in our wasted pennies like they're bits of gold... are we so self-important?

When all the good memories fail, we'll have backup drives to reboot our minds.

Resistance is futile.. escape is possible.

It never fails. Five minutes I'm awake and the bright start to my day becomes a hole of frustrating, chest compressing depression and guilt.

It has to stop.

Well, I do feel sorry.

My breast hurts. When I extend my right arm the muscles send a twist of pain into my shoulder. My knees feel like they've been battered from a long distance run and my ankles echo along. I assumed my head would have a bump on it, but it never showed. It's sore to the touch beneath my thick hair, and it likely bruised down to the skull. The sides of my hands, right along the pinky finger and below, shout at me with every key typed. The inner part of my right leg has a foreign bruise roughly the size of a lemon. I can't remember how that got there.

Damaged, again. Bruised, aching and there's the possibility of another tiny bone fracture in my hand. Worn out. I do this to myself though. I let the anger and hate and ignorance and misunderstanding and judgments and discontent and resentment flow into me. I never learned to protect myself from it, and so it comes shooting at me all at once. To keep myself from doing something horrible, from destroying others and hurting them in ways I can't take back, I begin to forget myself. Every insecurity and disappointment embodied in them becomes mine, and I destroy every piece of it from the inside out. I destroy myself for them. I forget myself, my happiness, my simplicity, and that ability to wash off petty burdens is no where to be found. I get caught in the gaze, in the voice, in the hatred and disgust spilling from their mouth, and I forget myself.

I wake up black, blue and purple. I wake up sore to the core. I wake with an empty chest, dry lungs, and a wet face.

I wish I could wake up.

Throwbacks and solid shits.

These late nights are wearing on me. I feel like I'm missing the world. I took a look in the mirror this afternoon and decided I could pass for an Irish girl... or a zombie.

School and work are starting soon and I'm looking forward to being busy. Extremely, extremely busy. Lucky for me, my job has a lot of down time which leaves me to work on other handsy projects and there are many in mind.

Tonight I had quite the inspiration. Bracelets with mirrors and wooden discs, little mushroom figurines or other childhood staples, necklaces and other jewelry made with metals and beads. Oh, the possibilities...

However, I must not get overwhelmed. There's so much to do and I need to keep on track and keep learning the basics.

Looks like I'm hitting the books.... or the interwebz.

It's going to be a great year, but this one isn't over yet.

_______________________________________
Update 1.04.11

So much for being busy. Found out today that my financial aide has been repealed. Gotta pay for everything out of pocket, but I can't afford that.. soooooo... guess I'm only taking one class. It's Algrebra, so I'm not just screwing around playing with charcoal.

It's not the best of situations. It's going to take me a much longer time to go through my required courses at this rate.

C'est la vie.

One Eyed Girl

I masturbated about five times today, give or take.

Maybe that's not the best way to start out an entry.

Hi, how are you? I'm doing well. It's been a relaxing Sunday. I enjoyed some homemade eggplant parmesan, got a lot of house and computer work done, started on my next project, and masturbated frequently in between. I'm not looking forward to going to bed because I've been having some rather strange dreams, which is why I've been at myself for the past eight hours or so. The combination of the melatonin pill I just took and expending so much energy should put me to bed in about an hour or so and hopefully my exhaustion will prevent me from having distraught dreams.

Yeah, I'm using it as a form of medication. What do you think sex is? It's primal. Our purpose in being or the at the very least the forms of activities we should sustain throughout our lives are eating and drinking(surviving), being active(both work and play to maintain healthy bodies), sleeping(restoring), and screwing(furthering the species and releasing stress). It's what animal do.

We don't talk about it though. I mean, we DO. We have websites for open discussion and magazines that "reveal their secrets" and about what's normal in the bedroom, PSA's informing you on the latest threat to your junk and how NOT to have a baby. We talk about it, but I don't think we do.

I use sex as a sort of medication or drug. By definition, I suppose this makes me an addict. I use the toilet for shitting. By definition, this makes me sane and sanitary. Perspective, eh? In any case, it's the precursor to a good nights sleep. It helps relieve my stress when I'm having a particularly bad day(hands down one of the best distractions. Fuck TV.) It puts me into a good mood so that when I show up for my crappy job(you know, when I am employed), I don't immediately want to rip my bosses eyes out and cram them down his throat. It doesn't leave me with a raging hangover the next day like an all too familiar liquid joy named Jameson. Also, it gives me a self-esteem boost. I feel better, which means I look better, which means I smile more, which means I'm nicer... you get the point, right? All roads lead to a better me which is better for everyone else.

However, it does leave me wanting. I go weeks sometimes without. No touching, no being touched, no nothin' and there's always a trigger to make me fall. Someone starts discussing last night with their lover, another is discussing technique, another is throwing out innuendos like she's about to join a nunnery and needs to get it all out of her system, another is just perverse and makes jokes about sex constantly. It's on the TV, it's in the news, it's everywhere you look. Everything in existence can be described as phallic or vaginal. The world thrives and continues because of reproduction. You can't escape it. Now, I suppose you're thinking there's no real reason to prevent myself from doing what I please and making myself happy, but as I mentioned before it is a medication. The first dose of a single prescribed pain pill you take for your broken arm works much better than the two pain pills you'll be taking as one dose when it's a week and a half down the road. The body builds a resistance to it and the more you take the more you have to take.

So I find myself, after two weeks of staying busy and distracting myself with the sometimes monotone and meaningless shit that occupies my day, locking the door, putting on the music, and opening my underwear drawer... but in the end it never sets me straight. Don't get me wrong, I more than enjoy it but there's just always something missing. So I go for option two which I know will work. The little black book.. or more specifically my little black phone.

That's when I wonder if this is an addiction. I stare at the number wondering if I should really bother. In two days I might feel different and change my mind because I'll certainly have been distracted enough by other nonsense... so do I call my dealer and get what I need from him for total satisfaction or do I use what I have and make sure I don't build that resistance? That I don't go overboard and he becomes completely useless to me because I've hit the roof and I need to go in search of something or someone else?

So today, I masturbated five times... give or take.

Tomorrow and the day after, with a little self-control, it might be once. After that, once every few days, then a two week span...Then this ridiculous cycle starts again.

Of course, I could be doing worse things.

Like your mom.

Bitchmoancomplainmakeyouabetterperson

Once I had a friend tell me that one of the reasons he liked me was that I didn't complain. Generally, I'm rather easy-going even though I'm hot-tempered and violent(yeah, it's quite the paradox to me as well). I'm not picky when it comes to food, choices of activities, places, or events. I can hang with almost anyone and do just about anything. For others, hanging with me is an acquired taste; I can live with it. There are moments when I feel I should speak up and put people in their place and people consider it complaining. For example: "Hey bitches. Lower the fucking volume. This isn't your house and in case you weren't aware, our hosts have neighbors, the neighbors have phones, and cops like breaking down a good time." Seems like a valid concern, not a complaint.

I've thought about that compliment he gave me and he's wrong. There are times I just want someone to listen to the insanity that is my life and there are actions taken by others that I feel necessary to correct or 'complain' about. I've realized that perhaps what he meant was because I so infrequently complain about my own life and since I don't find it necessary to bitch about the shit hand I might have been given, I'm really just throwing out opinion and criticism on everyone else's life(I'm aware of how bitchy this sounds).

Truth is, I could not care less. About yours or mine. Life is life and eventually, it's not.

Consider this:

My room had the carpet ripped up before it became my room. My feet are sitting on cement and paint splatters from the original paint job when this house was built. The walls are covered in stains, markings, small nail holes, and slightly discolored white paint that's been peeled in random areas of various sizes. It's not pretty. It's not elegant. The room I had prior also had all these problems, but we filled the holes with putty, we redid the paint with a nicer color, and tiled the floors. I even painted the closet. My old room, beautiful, breezy, bright, and cozy... and it's now being ruined by a sibling, the same one that destroyed the room I'm currently in. Every day I sit at this computer looking at the wall in front of me, noticing the irregular circles of pen markings on the paint, the indentations from a furniture mishap, the color transfers and scrapes from who knows what, the random amount of drywall peeking out at me from behind the fading white, the bad putty job that wasn't sanded after it had dried, the deliberate scattering of thumb prints above my light switch, the skinny, messy words carved into the thin paint, the peeled patches of paint, the holes from tacks and nails, and of course the sloppy attempt to paint the panels around the door and closet. It's a small room and it's a wreck. I don't have the money for the paint and supplies to fix it. Even if I did, I guarantee that I'd be on my own, even though I helped with their projects. But, it's still a room. It's MY room. It's my shelter and my cave and my place to be and do what I please. And because of that, as ugly as it is, I still love it.

I have nothing to complain about because everything in my life can be changed and it's my duty to do so. No amount of bitching and moaning to you is going to make a difference.

I have plenty to correct in you because you need to change.. for yourself, of course. My bitching and moaning might not mean a thing to you, but eventually you'll tire of it and decide that maybe you should consider taking my complaints(advice) to heart.

In any case, we're just doing this to pass the time until there is none to pass.

Dead yet? No? Hm. Maybe tomorrow, my dears. Shut up and make today worth it.

My Wheels Went Missing

I can still remember it. Of course, it's my first memory and therefore the most vivid in my mind. It was the moment I realized my own consciousness. My brain formed and started to store lucidly. It's a bright fall afternoon and I'm sitting in the driveway of our duplex, feet perched on the pedals of my plastic tricycle which is red and yellow with black wheels. My messy hair is flying about my face in the gentle wind. It's short, black and curly. I'm looking, just staring into the road, at maybe nothing in particular, or something enticing that's stealing away my attention-- at this point, I'm not even aware of what it means to be enticed. I stare and listen to the low hum of the air conditioners from the surrounding homes and apartments. Listening to the squeaks and steady rolling of car tires. Listening to the clicks, scurrying and chirps of small animals that occupied the city. I am aware that I am alive but I don't know the word alive. I am two and when December comes I'll be three. I am tiny, frail, and breakable. I don't know any of this. The animals are smaller than me. The little tree branches snap in my hands. The bugs crunch under my foot. In my own world, I am everything and everything is mine. Even those things that are out of reach, like the envelopes of unattainable treasures that the man in blue brings everyday. He puts those packages in the peach box by the sidewalk, the box I can't reach that's next to the fragrant white flowers. Not yet, but in time those gifts will be mine. I watch the neighbors mull around, lugging trash cans and recyclables to the curb as they curse in Spanish at the gound. A bottle of beer had fallen out of the bin and well beyond their capacity to reach without stopping to collect it or spilling their cargo in the process. He is an angry drunk says my mother, but to me he just seems unhappy and lazy. I see the girl that lives on the diagonal corner, who will in coming years provide me with my first case of head-lice, playing wildly with the dirt in her fenced in yard. She picks up fists of grass and root and throws them in the air then at her older sister who runs inside to tattle-tale to mom. Before I could know what it meant to do it, I judged her. 'What a filthy girl', I thought to myself. In reality it was more likely, 'eww she's yucky!' As we grew up together I found out she really was a yucky girl. She rarely showered, pulled other peoples hair, picked up dog droppings with her hands and did not understand how to share. The last time I had seen her I was nine years old and she was still sucking her thumb. At the time her mother wrapped both her thumbs in duct tape to break the habit, but she just put her mouth over the tape and continued on with her disgusting act of comfort when mama wasn't looking...

Looking, yes, that's what I was doing. My hands were gripping firmly on the handles and my body sitting in a stiff and ready position like I was set to take off, but I went nowhere. My eyes just shifted, positioned and absorbed. There were no neighbors in the other part of the duplex. My father still had the discolored FOR RENT sign sticking askew out of the grass. I was happy about it. I liked that sometimes I could open up the door, pull my tricycle in and ride around the house with wild abandon. No cabinets to run into, siblings to get in my way, drinks that are at risk of spilling. The whole place echoed the sandy noise of my plastic bike wheels rolling on cheap tile. It was small for a couple and their three kids, which is what we were packing in on our side, but for the big spirit in the little body that was tearing up the living room on what seemed to be the fastest thing I could ever own... it was a world to create. A world both outside and hidden from the streets and buildings and scary creatures and siblings and dirty girls and loud drunk neighbors whose words I could never understand.

A world that was mine, now that I knew I could have one. Now that I knew that I was.

And I hear my mother call me. I don't want to go in, not from this spot. Not from this new thrill of reality. Not from this wonderous thing you adults call thinking. This thing that you all will eventually take for granted. I want to sit, and feel, and see, and breathe my slow breaths. I want to imagine and steal from this world and take it into my own.

Again, she calls, and the moment is gone. My consciousness hides away until it gets the chance where we're all alone again, when there's no-one to demand or distract us. When it can whisper in my ear and it can wheel inside of me with wild abandon.

Tend to your garden.

“Only the guy who isn’t rowing has time to rock the boat.” — Jean-Paul Sartre

The savers of my soul will be an oven, a cookbook, and an empty house filled only with yarns, leathers, string, paper, tools, and bookshelves.

I won't deny it. I'm certainly a better writer than I am a speaker. My mouth and mind seems to have a few severely damaged transmitting wires that cause endless hilarious and sometimes rather embarrassing slip-ups. It's only been recent since this has happened. When I was younger, I said what I thought and could carry a conversation without having to question how much I trust my mouth to cooperate. However, since the past three years it seems I'm spilling and tumbling into a downward spiral of poor speech patterns which yields a cluster of confused faces.

Turns out I am a Spooner.

Most instances of spoonerisms are used in poking fun at drunks, but I manage to do quite well sober.

Based on this list of speech errors I have more than I thought.

• Anticipation
• Blends
• Exchange
• Perseveration
• Sound-exchange Error
• Word-exchange Error

Anxiety, nervousness, pressure, stress are causes of speech errors.
I think mine is also a lack of confidence. I feel as if what I have to SAY isn't very important.
Then there are times when I have too many conflicting ideas swirling in my head and I try to get them all packed into one sentence, but failing miserably to even get across a singular idea. They overlap and become a tangle of unrecognizable sounds.

I've been working on it, now that I've noticed I do it, even though I'm not really into this "verbal communication" thing. I can't wait for the days of projected telepathy. Come into my mind, see what I see, do not hear what I say because I don't hear what I say!

Where are the people that speak my language?

Debra.

It was hard to miss her when she walked in. Her hair was a fiery red that stole the eyes but was nonthreatening.

"Hello. May I help you find anything, ma'am?"

She was unresponsive and looked as if she were in a daze. Thinking she could not hear me over the noise of the commerce and the child play pit which was, unfortunately, directly in front of the stores entrance, I moved closer to her. Before I could repeat myself she snapped back into herself and turned her head as if I'd popped out of nowhere.

"No, I'm fine. Just browsing." Her eyes became absorbed into nothing again and she went back into her mind.

For a minute I just watched. There was something off about her. The way she walked was slow but not deliberate. Her body seemed as if it wanted to be slumped and lethargic but her posture wouldn't allow it. Her chin stayed parallel to the ground as she seemed to intently survey the bottles of shampoo, gel, and spray conditioners, but nothing really kept her gaze.

She was a woman in her late forties. Well groomed with shoulder length vibrant red hair, healthy light skin that was slightly wrinkled around her bright green eyes and thin mouth. Her body was solid yet feminine. She wore a simple blue button up blouse, black slacks and a large but almost empty black leather purse she supported in the fold of her elbow. The pants, when she remained still, covered everything but the toes on her strappy expensive heels. She stood with confidence and pain and took fluid steps around the stands stacked in overpriced hair products. Her hand reached to touch random containers but her eyes showed no interests in what was within them. They were just something to feel as she moved along her course.

I couldn't resist. I had to break her from her wandering eyes and mind.

"Your hair looks lovely. Did you just recently have it dyed?"

There's no shock here. Her hair is much too red to have been natural, and much too vibrant to have been on her head more than a day.

"Yes. I went over to Regents hair salon on the other side of the mall. "

"I'm familiar with them. They did a wonderful job. Who helped you, if you don't mind me asking?"

Staring at me, taking a moment to think, she tried to recall the hair dressers name and was troubled by it. She scrunched her brow. It was the only facial change I had noticed throughout the coming conversation.

When her tongue got a hold of it she quickly blurting the name before it left her again. "Mark! He was the only one available without an appointment. I felt like treating myself today. I found out this morning that my husband wants a divorce."

Whoa. What does the twenty-one year old beauty store clerk say to the woman whose life might be crashing down around her?

"I'm sorry to hear that dear. How long were you married?"

My hope was that the answer was in the single digits.

"Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years and out of nowhere he doesn't want to be with me anymore."

I can feel the pain coming off her, but her eyes don't well with tears and the color in her face stays even. She continues with her even paced stroll around the shop and I remain in the middle, watching her touch bottles outside of her eye-line.

"Do you have kids?"

I shouldn't be questioning her. What business is it of mine to delve into this womans private life? What could I possibly do with this information other than bring to the surface something she's probably been trying to avoid thinking about all day?

Still without looking at me, she replies to my inquires. "Two but they're grown and out of the house. I spoke to my daughter this morning. I'll be flying out tomorrow to stay with her and her husband up north until this business is done."

Business she says. Like it's the drawing up of a blueprint, the signing of contracts, and the gathering of supplies and personal items. Nothing of feeling, remorse, hurt comes from her mouth. She's detached herself. The strength and solidness her body language exudes now becomes a vision of unclimbable walls stuck with jutting sharp bricks and spikes, and sprayed with poison. She's collapsing on the other side, but allows no one to see.

"Well, that's good. At least you'll be around people that love you. Consider this a new start. Might be difficult after so long, but now you're free to do and be whatever you please."

I smile in hopes that what I've said has comforted her in any way. I have no experience with grief counseling. I do not understand what it is to love someone and dedicate so much of my life to them only to have them up and leave in a days notice.

Finally, she stopped her graceful walking and looked at me. She saw that my intention was sincere and that the question of finding a good conditioner for her newly dyed hair was far beyond any thought that concerned me. I had seen into the worries of her life and had not tried to divert the conversation into anything light and had not tried to ignore the situation by distracting her with tips on how to care for her hair. I patiently stood and listened and did not judge. I had tried to make her feel that though she may be losing love, that there was so much more out there, even in the kindness of clerks.

She picked up the most expensive bottle of shampoo formulated for red hair and made her way to the counter.

I rung her up. She picked up her small shopping bag and examined me once more.

"Thank you."

I smiled timidly at her. Her face looked as if it were going to break into a smile, like it ached to, but it never broke through. The smile was not returned.

I watched her walk out in the mass of Sunday shoppers strolling by as they talk to each other, eat and drip on their clothes and floor, shift department store bags from hand to hand and immerse themselves into phone conversations as they rush to their next destination. She walked into the madness, her head still high, her shoulders back, but the fluidness had gone. Her walk now had character, maybe even the slightest bit of a swagger.

After that I did not see her again. I did not know her name or what had happened to her nor could I find out.

I knew though, without the expression of her face to confirm it, that she was sincere when she said those words: 'Thank you'.

All of my shoes have no tread.

I found myself today.

No mirrors involved.

Buried in the depths of my bags,

Shoved into the corners of my desk,

Scattered randomly in my books and old journals,

Were the scraps of my life.

Scribbles of words on bent and dirty pieces of paper,

The backs of restaurant checks,

Crumpled cocktail napkins.

Evidence of moments from now forgotten nights.

The capture of fleeting blinding truth.

Recorded desecrations of the soul.

With each paper I stumble upon, a memory clicks.

Or sometimes, nothing. My handwriting becomes a strangers.

Sentences and phrases unfold before my eyes and

I cannot understand them.

Could it have been me?

And then I remember, that we're not meant to remember it all.

To know ourselves, we must also forget ourselves.

Maybe forgive ourselves

And certainly, to love ourselves.

As frequently as necessary...

How can you scold the bee for stinging when you're taking its honey?

What do you want from me? Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I've been in school. Tuesday I ran errands and helped move a couch. It's Saturday and though I had plans to attend a hockey game, I didn't. Nor did I leave to hang out with my friends to watch this hockey game. Every night I come home, I clean up whatever mess you've left in the kitchen. You ever wonder how the leftovers get into the fridge? Me. No fairies or ghosts or polite strangers. ME. You ever wonder who refills the dogs dishes? Me. You ever wonder why your laundry is suddenly folded, the laundry you left overnight on the couch? Do you know who mopped up when your dogs relieved themselves in the house because no one took them out? Why are all the dishes put away? How did the kitchen floor suddenly get so clean? Out of sight, out of mind. You never see me do it, so you assume I'm doing nothing. I guess it doesn't occur to you that I don't enjoy working when you're around. That you make me nervous when you're over my shoulder, that I'm tense and freezing up. That nothing will ever be good enough for you so I don't bother trying in front of you. At night, I fix, I clean, I organize. And in the morning, everything becomes a mess again. There's no use. There isn't a single drawer in the kitchen that's organized because you're all incapable of structure. There is no such thing as returning items where they're supposed to be because there is no 'supposed to be'. It's all a mess because your heads a mess and you do what you please without regard to function or ease of access.

And you berate me. Tell me that you know where I stand. That I don't care. That I'm selfish. It's easy though to end the conversation when we're not even having a conversation. This is one sided. You tell me what you think, and when I try to explain why I do what I do, it goes in one ear and out the other. But I hear what you're saying. I hear what you call me even when you don't realize I'm around. I feel the nastiness emanating from you when I walk past.

Well guess what? I don't fucking care anymore. NOW you're right. I don't care. You will never try to see the positive in my actions because you're so negative in yours. Your distaste for your own life, your own unaccomplished dreams, your sad fucking story is overriding your sensibilities and you're taking it out on me. Fine and dandy. I can't do this dance anymore because you're intentionally stepping on my toes and I'm gonna need those to walk away from you.

I just wanted to have a beer and play a video game with you. Why are you doing this?

You just managed to go and fuck things up.
It's been years, boy, YEARS since the conditions of our relationship have been questioned. I thought we had found common ground; platonic love, no messiness and complication. What changed so suddenly that you decide you'd be content spending our lives making each other miserable? Is this coming from the residual pain and hopelessness from your current failing attempt to start a relationship with another person? Is it because she didn't turn out to be the person you wanted her to be and now you're confused and lonely? Is it because you're so low on yourself you don't think anyone else could be worth your time? Am I your back-up plan, your fall-back, the just-in-case number you never deleted?

I'm not doing this. You know better. This would never work out and you're grasping for something, anything easy to keep you afloat and happy. I won't be your crutch, and I certainly won't stand for you to muddy this friendship.

Grow some balls. Deal with the pain. Shut the fuck up and move on. You're better than this. Really.

I do it! You should too!

xkcd: Freedom



YEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS


Exercise your freeeeeedddooooommmmmm!!!

Ceramics Canonizing Life.

Our visit to the Norton Museum of Art was fascinating. While my group and I were mostly drawn by the Chihuly ceiling, there were many pieces we enjoyed for their own dynamic properties. One in particular that I enjoyed was named "Tomb Model of a Table Filled with Offerings of Food" which was found on the second floor settled in with their China collection from the Ming Dynasty. It was made with light tan earthenware, white slip, lead glazes and traces of polychrome. The contents of the table, which was about six inches in height, are 'spirit articles' -- offerings of cakes, a boars head, peaches, tofu, wine and wine cups. These models were placed in tombs to supply comfort and 'nourishment' for the soul when in the spiritual realm. The Chinese believed that spirits that are discontent or unsatisfied in their afterlife can bring misfortunes to their living family members. These models served as a way to ease them by providing an imitation of the pleasures and standard of living the deceased were accustomed to in life. Its history and connection to the otherworldly teaches us the perceptions, beliefs, and superstitions of a past empire. This piece specifically caught my attention because it has no fundamental purposes. The majority of items found in that part of the gallery were furniture, vases, tubs, ink wells, flasks, teapots and various other functional items but the table and it's contents was a mimicking of everyday life in recognition, memory, and assistance to lost loved ones. It is a piece that has purely emotional ties and is simply aesthetic and comforting-- to the living, of course. While I did like the ewers and teapots adorned with single glazes and some with elaborately detailed scenes, they were created to serve purpose or merely for decoration to show status. The table models placed in the tombs are essentially created out of fear, love, and care. It is not an item one would find being sold in the market like a collection of bowls. They are individualized and personal. Another element that I enjoyed was how simplistically detailed the tiny figures were, like the boars head which didn't have extravagant markings but could still be easily recognized. Also, the 'spiritual articles' were placed with an easy symmetry. The colors were earth tones of greens, whites, rust, tan and black.

The Chinese believed the afterlife was an extension of life. At the height of the Tang dynasty tombs were furnished with ' three color' earthenware models. During the Ming Dynasty three-color ware "spirit articles' were revived. This miniature table is filled with offerings of cake, peaches, a boars head, wine and wine cups intended to supply sustenance in the spiritual realm. Roaming spirits with unfulfilled needs were believed to bring misfortune to the living family members. Therefore, tombs of the elite were fully equipped with clay models, ensuring[and sometimes exceeding] the standard of living enjoyed in life.

Don't tell your girlfriend, either.

I've never liked white walls. The sunlight in the morning deflects to make the whole room blinding and irritating. The hangover doesn't help, of course. I'm waking up this time in a place completely unfamiliar, a bed that isn't mine. He's still asleep and I wonder if I can make it out the door without him noticing. It's not worth it. Come Monday morning I'd rather not deal with the thick silence while we're punching in at the timeclock so let's get it over with this stupidly bright morning. Looking around the room, I notice how boring it is, undecorated and minimal. A scented candle barely used, a box of cheaply made bowling and baseball trophies on the floor, a bottle of cologne on the dresser next to the vodka, and his dirty blue coveralls laying on the floor but not a spot of dust or dirt anywhere else. I wouldn't think the man wouldn't be so clean, but boring, yes that I understood. It took me too long to notice the picture sitting next to the TV. A boy, maybe three years my junior, smiling in his school picture, looking straight at me, judging me, cursing me in his head, wondering what I'm doing curled up in that bed next to the man he respects and loves so dearly. I couldn't have known, and I couldn't look at him anymore. He started to stir next to me and I rolled over to face the bathroom door. Should have snuck out. He's up now, tapping my shoulder as if to say, "up, get your clothes, I'm in need of breakfast and you're not coming with me." There's not much talking. As he took his three minute shower I got my things together and fixed myself up. I had found my shirt on the leather couch in the other room.

I'm searching for my socks when I notice him behind me, clean and dressed.

"Did you decorate this place yourself?" I had my doubts. It was too cozy and comfortable to be his taste. He seemed like the wooden bench and cement blocks type of man.

"No, my roommate bought all this. Even my bedroom set is his."

"Is that his little brother in the picture there?" I knew the answer, but asked anyway.

"What? No. That's-- that's my son. He's 16, lives in Rhode Island with his ma."

Four years. I was close. Then, it almost came out.. that question that's been churning my stomach all morning, "Still with her?" I decided to let it go. I couldn't change what had happened, I made a mistake. He'll have to live with it.

He's eyeing me as he chugs a glass of orange juice, then says, "You about ready to go? I've got some things I need to take care of. Slept in too late and the stores opening soon so I gotta head out and...."

One would think considering the situation he would be better at lying. It was half after seven on a Saturday and he relished staying in for the weekend.. but I wasn't going to point that out. I wanted out more than he wanted me out.

"Yeah, no I just.. just need to get my shoes."

I put them on half-assed and head out the door, sitting to adjust and tie them on the top of the staircase while he locks up the apartment. I could feel him looking down at me as I fumbled with my shoelaces, so I turned to give him a reassuring smile that this will all turn out well. This whole situation isn't going to blow-up in his face because I don't want to be bothered with it anymore. I won't be responsible for that tan line on his finger fading. So not to worry, you're in the clear dear and please, don't call. I wanted to relay all that but what I saw coming back at me was not expected. He was smiling at me, watching me curiously. This was not the look of the man I kissed last night. No, this smile was that of a new parent fascinated by the way his child is learning, struggling and failing at tying their shoes. It was a look of wonder, amusement and it made me flush and sick all over. Then it really hit me. I was still a child and he should have known better.

Once I was laced I flashed on down the steps with keys in hand then waved above my head without a glance behind.