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Trying once more to make the grade, I give myself another challenge. Like saying tomorrow I'll quit so tonight it doesn't matter what I do. A premier distraction, procrastination. The perfectionist's curse. I'm being watched by my corporate overseerÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€in the guise of concern for my work/life balance she counts the minutes in my timesheet. Today was the best kind of day regardless of that minor irritationÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€that wet earth/fog smell that comes with 100% humidity and cool air. Like I was up in the mountains againÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€that dawn damp, burned away by the mid-morning sun. But today never-ending wet.
Pity the modern-day oppressors! They are unable to see through their own vanity to realize that the faces that they press upon the ground with booted feet are their own. It takes courage not to lose hope in all this madness. "It is impossible to live a pain-free life, so why try?" Pundits do Say this. There comes a point when you close your heart's boundaries and decide that no matter what violence or sin, you have encircled safety around those you love and that is all that matters. The challegeÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€when you are asked to open for a stranger.
His calm eyes. A peaceful countenance. Every word a lie. Sorry Charlie, wrong again. Old friends for sale. A torrent of interactions remembered with a hug that takes 10 seconds too long to end. Why not? My easy confidence challengedÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€not so easy? More like over easyÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€not too quick to get cooked. But enough of the castigation! If anything is too easy, it is that slide into self-immolationÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€that habit is harder to break than cigarettes. Probably because it gives the illusion of being cheaper. At least I am able to laugh at myself. At the very least indeed.
Stayed up the night before reading Slammerkin, a historical about a London prostitute. Midway through, realized it wasn't going to be a happy ending. I needed a break. So I started reading A Million Little Pieces, which was about a junkie. Cheerier, because of the promise that technology holds. The prostitute (early spoiler) gets the clapÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€no promise of antibiotics here. The disease burns through her and a potential future disappears. The junkie practically pickles himself, but through the power of modern medicine, lives to tell the tale. There are no good old days. Only disease, misery, slavery, and death.
Hanging with my homebwoi. Spelling intended. I'm hopped up on too much cakeÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€I brought it (chocolate) to our play date from a work lunch. Simultaneously exhausted and delighted by him. How do you respond to the questions all the time? I was like this as a child. I remember asking my motherÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€is the moon made of green cheese? And what I remember is that she said, "Yeah, what you said."I asked her if the lion's head ring was her wedding ring, and if my father gave it to her. She laughed and said, "Yes, whatever you say.-
Oh say o say it isn't so. My brethren say it isn't so, so I sway into the nothingness, a torn hole sewn until torn no more. Doubled back upon itself, the gaping wound is not more, but the scar, a tattered reformed hem, still remains, the hint of unwashed stains, the presence of a life lived wholly and sinfully, or at the very least a life lived in the dirt. But a dirty life, a visceral life, is nothing to be ashamed of. We come from dirt, we eat dirt, and eventually, we become dirt. Come here love, come.
Of all the ways she expected to see him, it was not like this. The easy smile now a marketing technique, the once admirable charm now smarmy and Godless. His divinity buried under witticisms and virtuosic social technique. She and her friend plot a personality intervention. I cannot tell you of their planÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€it must remain secret to work. They scheme plots within plots. You understand? They promise themselves that when they are through, the scales will fall from his eyes and he will know the truth of his true powerÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€not the getting more, more, moreÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€the addict's path.
Small town girl struck dumb by an array of a New York Deli. These choices are too overwhelming. Her corporate job, a virtual heaven of cleanliness and light. Working with principled human beings. Being taken for her word. She became an adult, she became human. The beat of the drums in the distance. A Seraph unfolds. Hey look at this. It happens, it exists, and in the rarefied air of the metropolis, she shone. Skin and hair and disposition softened and smoothed with care and careful study. She feelsÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€peaceÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€the present state of her condition--aches to catch up.
She'd kiss him, to stem the torrent of words. He was good for making pronouncements like,"In the great scheme of things..."or, "At the end of the day..."She hated it. All it was was filler anywayÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€jibber jabbers white noise. It was his version of other people's stutterings and Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœummms' and Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœuhhhs' or (indiscriminate parts of speech type) cursing to fill the gaps of thought and conversation. She chose instead to be quiet while she waited for the right words from herself and others, which people found difficult to take. Without the padding, a sentence could last forever.
They've fasted and cleansed all day. Now comes the fleshy mistake, the point when they get dirty all over again. Without dumb luck or pychotropics, love will not be enough for this pair. But with the advancement of free will, what does it matter what the omnipresent narrator thinks anyway? "I love you.- "I love you too.- Once the text of the conversation is seen in black and white, or the physical manifestation of their love is seen, you realize they are not compelling. But for the players of the piece, what else is there to fight or live for?
We haven't looked into the garden in ages. It's lain under accumulated frost and snow and dead leaves for at least six months. Things are beginning to come up and I'm sad to say (brown thumb that I have) that I'm not sure if the burgeoning life I'm witnessing encompasses real flowers or weeds or both. In a week or two we will go out and attempt to tell the difference armed with spades, clippers, gloves and garbage bags, and brand new fancy electric cutters, perhaps also with a horticulture book to guide us. The weeds always seem more tenacious
At the restaurant, people in the know would sometimes order things that were not supposed to be on the menu, but were known secretly to the chef. A Gumm special would bring out a confection that looked like it was made of plaster of Paris, but would taste surprisingly of strawberries and vanilla. Some secret words would bring out the chef himself and he would do a soft shoe and song before serving you. His voice was like Biz Markie or ODBÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€harsh yet strangely melodic. I once mispronounced my order and awoke the next day urgently desiring to dance.
Rushing out the house, she hopes the taxi traffic will beat the subway delays. The night rushes by the windows, dark and wet. She places her head by the lowered glass, attempting to sober herself, calm her frayed spirit. The cabbie tries to flirt with her in a strangely aggressive way and she quietly dials 911 and places her thumb over SEND. The fact that he pays attention to her at all alarms her more than the nature of the attention itself. She has no social graces or natural boundaries anymore. It's all wide open and raw for her now.
Hey, losing your dignity again? Tripping over yourself again? Following the crowd? Nod if you feel me. Hang your head if you don't, you know you're lying. Did you pay your bills yet? Do your taxes yet? Renew your subscriptions? Take advantage of those rebates? Wash the salt off your car? Say, "I love you,"and kiss her goodbye? No, it's not alright. It's fucked up that's what it is. This is how geniuses end up on welfare, how clever people end up as alcoholics. Always thinking of that Hail Mary pass you've got dreamed up your sleeve. Stop it.
Spring has begun and she's wondered all day why she is not paired. This happens about the same time every year, around this time when the promise of warmth reminds her of her cold, cold bed. It wouldn't be as much of an issue if her very singleness wasn't described by everyone she is surrounded by as a modern spiritual affliction, as if something about her was wrong. Why couldn't it be dumb luck or fate? She blames societyÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€when did it suddenly become a competition? When did she begin obsessing over the minutest details of her presentation to the opposite sex?
In a moment, the little girl thought, I will breathe. And when the first inhale begins, it will be slow and steady, like an elephant. Quiet, like a mouse. And when I exhale, even I will not hear it. Hide and seek is a game of stealth and cunning. And I am like a snake sometimes too. I will hide in here for as long as it takes for him to find me. He is not very smart either. Not like me. I am very good at not being seen. I am an invisibility expert. I am like a ghost.
It is beautiful today. I am ready for the journey. The wind is breezy and the sun, bright without the oppressiveness of summer. Perfect walking weather. I wear a loose linen dress and sturdy pretty sandals. I had a good breakfast and my affairs are in order. In the process of walking off the sins of the previous night, I drink lots of water, attempt to sweat out the evening's confusion. I went home at a reasonable time; since I've gotten older, it's easier to say no. I remember when I always wanted to make sure I didn't miss anything.
Sometimes she feels like a mask, as if once she tries hard enough to be the person everyone thinks her to be she will become this person. Sometimes, she feels she is that person and wonders if she's finally fooled herself into this personality. Has she stated her personhood often enough to finally believe in it? In the moments that aren't filled with busyness and camaraderie, when she feels mostly alone with her thoughts, she is not sure who she is. She remembers being a kid who used to dream of giving herself to God. There is no connection anymore.
And now she is obsessed with the mercury content in fish. Suddenly, like all ideas nowadays, the danger appears suddenly, where there was once safety. She reads about it wherever she turns, sees it on television too. For her own mental health, she wants to take a sabbatical from all these dangers of diet and environmental toxins and foreign ideology. She decides to watch DVDs. Comedies, westerns. Blazing Saddles. Science Fiction. Dune. Drama. Birth. The last traumatizes her into uneasy dreams that night. The whole Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœdamaged woman' thing is a little too close to the skin. Decides to try exercise.
I feel my age now like never before. I hesitate, pause. Time means something to me. My body has changed a lot in the past yearÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€I cannot abuse it with the same abandon I used to. Sleep matters. What I eat matters. I am careful. I look before I take a step. I watch other people more. I am a people watcher. I look at facial expressions, at the size of pores, feet, and hands. I stare at how others fix their hair, how they stand and dress. They stare back at me. I'm no longer in my head.
One day she looked up and realized that she was everything that she spent all of her twenties trying to avoid. The particulars don't matter, but what is important is the absolute horror in which she viewed herself. She wouldn't go as far as some Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬ËœNausea'-type existentialist crap, but it was pretty damn close. What was particularly disgusting is that she had absolutely no imaginative way to extricate herself from the situation. The well had run dry. A dream was deferred. It didn't explode or whimper or fade away. It fell down the priority list until it fell off completely.
Spring is hereÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€her allergies wake her in the mornings. She doesn't mindÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€her symptoms are a small price to pay for the gorgeous weather. She walks everywhere nowÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€she's shaken off hibernation mode and cannot stay in bed the way she did not three weeks ago. With that other parts of her begin to emergeÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€pale legs and shoulders. Instead of blow drying and straightening and other unnatural procedures, she allows her hair to dry in the sun and it curls in a wonderfully imperfect way. Simply put, Spring is her season. Spring is the time of her Becoming.
At the baby shower, everyone arrives paired, like in Noah's Ark. She has volunteered to answer doors, so she is painfully aware of the uneven single to coupled ratio at this event. She is struck at how many of these people are happy to be there togetherÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€at her doorway sentry position, she realizes that this party has more happy relationships than she has seen in her lifetime. At this point comes the insidious idea that perhaps she was bred for her single existence, because of the sheer number of socioeconomic risk factors that are her life. Nurture trumps nature.
Thus far his child has spent most of his time in a state of shock, unaware of anything except pain and cold. His father wonders, if given the chance to grow, what kind of man he could turn out to be when his beginnings were so sad and painful and devoid of touch. He remembers very well his mother's touch when he was so small. No one believes you can remember that far back but he does remember. That touch is what steadied him when he was faced with opportunities with mischief, and occasionally evil. What will steady his boy?
My upstairs neighbor yells at her children often. Her children are at an age where parenting skills require ability at negotiation similar to what's needed on diplomatic missions. Yet, she yells more often than she speaks. Sometimes, I wish to go upstairs and say to her, "Do you think all this yelling is effective?"But this is not supposed to be my business. Unfortunately, it has become my business, as I am a quiet person and her screaming disturbs my home too. So I have been writing a letter to her which I have begun at least half dozen times.
That teenage boy imagined that he could fly with his special suit and in the end, in a gothic church, surrounded by Special Forces, he did fly and he escaped. Was he like Superman, or was he a crazy kid in a stitched and duck taped outfit? No One knowsÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€it's been covered up and buried in red tape. Wasn't covered in my newspaperÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€was it in yours? I do know is that sometimes you've got to believe people when they're telling the truth, no matter how crazy it sounds. It's called faith, and I've got loads of the stuff.
Never move backwards. She sits across an old lover smoking a cigarette (partly for its repellent qualities) and they discuss Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœold times.' He has already attempted to touch her once (in the kitchen) and she twisted herself from him gently and without harsh reprimands. She will call her cab soon and there will be the scene at the door or perhaps at his chair where he will attempt to tease goodbye kisses out of her and try to lay his head somewhere he knows she is sensitive, her stomach or breast perhaps. She will resistÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€she cannot lose her bearings.
In a massively bad attempt at unconditional love, she calls him again, hoping for affectionate reciprocity. He is, as always, happy to hear from her, friendly, and distant. They speak about inconsequential matters: the weather, work, travel. She offers a date and he demurs. She offers another and he says, maybe, I'll call you back. He never does. She wishes to call him just so she is clear that he isn't interested. This is the extent of her sickness. She is conditional, absolutely conditional. She is a creature of love and wishes as much attention as a queen of Sheba.
The little boy who was small for his age chased the school bus every day, but whenever it slowed, would say, "Never mind, I'll catch the next one."His features were strange and people though he never went to school because he wasn't smart enough. But that wasn't true; his intelligence was a secret that only he and his mother held to their hearts. He was waiting for the day that he could catch the bus without it slowing down. He knew going to school would be difficult due to his physical differences. Therefore, he wanted to be a legend.
There were three of themÃƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬â€a girl and the grandparents who raised her. The girl was pregnant, but did not speak to her beloved. Instead, throughout her term she wore beaded sandals that he made for her. She was fixing a worn strap when her water broke, too early. As it happened, her beloved wished to tear away their misunderstanding and carried a ring that he bought especially for her. Before he could get to the hospital, the baby died. The grandparents wrapped the baby up in a quilt and placed it between the lovers that night for rest, peace.
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