Thursday, December 30, 2010


Do you know how hard it is to write articles sometimes?

Maybe it's because I'm now no longer in a relationship, and because I no longer have frequent interactions with *him*.

Regardless of the reasoning, when I sit down to write something (not here, clearly), it just feels contrived. Artificial. Not good enough.

That's the reason why I stopped writing those relationship articles. Because it started to feel forced. Artificial. Not good enough. (If even good at all.)

That's all I wanted to say. That right now, it just doesn't feel good enough.

the years are rolling by too fast

Nothing that I'm writing is satisfying me right now.

So I will keep it short and sweet.

For whatever 2010 was, it was another year that I learned, and lived.

Let us keep the tradition alive in 2011.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

like William Faulkner taught me

I knew this was going to happen I was going to sit at this computer and I was going to hear the sounds of my clicking on the keyboard and I was going to write write write until I exhaust myself and then I'll have nothing left to say but until then I'm going to just write stream of conscious and if anyone makes the effort to read then that's on them but I would greatly appreciate it because I really write everything so others can read it there's not a lot I keep to myself quite frankly I mean what would be the point of doing that I've never felt the urge to keep everything to myself


so I've got a lot on my mind like what happened the other night when he showed me that my body is loosening up its limitations and that he really can do a body good shit I'm almost embarrassed writing that out loud but I said it anyway because it's true and I was going to say something else but it's funny I can write about things that happened in the past effortlessly wax poetic about my blind first love or my latest real love but when it comes to this other him I can't really say too much because I feel like everything happens in real time and because he writes too for some reason I just clam up so I guess that's all I have to say about that besides I probably shouldn't offer you too many details anyway but I guess I'll just say brain grade A and leave it at that


so 2011 is coming up and I will make this my year and make every year following my year as well because I've got to live like I'm dying because I don't know when that will be true and since I don't know that I have to live accordingly and shit I just looked at the clock and I can't believe it's 1:51 am and I'm not tired I'm not tired at all but I've got to find a place to stop because I will continue this forever if I let myself


it's funny that I am so many things but the last thought word shift in my seat as I stop myself abruptly is going to be about you




Sometimes, I see things, and think things that send my heart into overdrive.

Like, I can feel it, as I sit, with my left hand pressed firmly against my skull, I can feel my heart thumping in my chest, as the weight of reality settles in, dropping, ironically, like a feather, gliding through the air bit, by bit, by bit.

That is exactly it--that's what the settling of reality feels like.

When you are faced with something you can't exactly fix, something you can't change, something you have to accept. Acceptance is hard, and not for chumps. You may think you have accepted something hard; just swallowed it and moved on, but until you've sat there, feeling your emotions shifting into deeper channels; until you've felt your heart actually start to beat faster; until you've felt reality land inside you, well, until you've felt that, you've probably never accepted too much of anything.

As someone who has grown to need--without even realizing it--control over things, seeing my lack of control reflected in a picture of you, away from me, is hard to swallow. It settles, slowly like that feather, but roughly like an anchor, and continues creaking inside me, like a house at nighttime, settling into its foundation.

My breathing slows and my thoughts grow louder as I realize. As I simply sit back and realize. Acknowledge. Accept.


holiday daze

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and everything in between--

I'm so sorry. A lot's been going on. A lot of moving back and forth, a lot of time spent reading, spent laughing with friends and family, and spent thinking, thinking, thinking, as always.

I will be back. Probably right around the beginning of 2011, with something to say. I don't have too many thoughts right now (well, not ones I choose to share), as I'm sitting at the very poorly-lit computer desk in my parents' house, but I have been scribing a bit, off and on. Maybe I'll drop a little bit of that on you. Just depends on how my eyes feel in the next few minutes after I publish this.

Seriously though, I know we don't communicate, necessarily... it's really quite the one-sided relationship, you having access to my thoughts and all, but not always sharing your own with me... but it's cool, and I just want you to know that I do miss you. Just because I'm not writing, doesn't mean I'm not thinking about you :)

I'm just enjoying a break from the reality I've created for myself, and slipping back into the sweetness of what is my holiday life.

I wish it was always like this, but if it was, I wouldn't appreciate the holidays.

love love,

Monday, December 13, 2010

if you want to fuck me, just do it and shut the hell up already, goodness

This made my night.

I was reading along and discovered this post, and it's so true.

Why are people blurring lines so heavy?

If you are in love with my pussy and want to wax the fuck out of it, then you need to tell me that, and maybe I'll be foolish enough to let you do so. (Because hey, maybe your waxing is the fucking bomb, and maybe, just maybe, it's the best I've ever had.)

But, if you are in love with my pussy, then you have to talk solely to her. Don't lie in bed with me, don't cuddle with me, don't hold me close, don't rub my back until I fall asleep; find some way to prevent your eyes from looking at me, all boyish charm and bright brown diamonds.

If you are in love with my pussy, then don't kiss the lips on my face, don't make love to them, don't take showers with me, don't make jokes and make me laugh until I'm almost embarrassed that I've laughed so hard. Don't take me out to dinner, don't make me dinner, don't text me just to talk about anything. Don't call me, don't wait on me to get home, don't get excited when I get there.

Don't invite me to spend the night and lay all of your beauty down next to me. Don't mingle your toes with mine. Don't kiss me behind my knees until I get weak and almost fall on you. Don't blindfold me and make love to my body because you knew my shyness about a certain position was eating me up.

Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it.

If you are in love with my pussy, do exactly what you could be doing now

(moving away and forgetting)

because if you do anything other than that,

you might be in love with me.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

man with a sign

He walked down the concrete divider separating the eastbound and westbound traffic, in between his small blue cooler, lime green container--a helmet, perhaps? or bucket?--and what I imagine to be the limits of believed efficacy.

He walks past my car, holding a small, humble piece of cardboard, a sign, with neat, printed letters. Something to the effect of "HOMELESS, PLEASE HELP. GOD BLESS." As he walked by, I regretted that I had my sun visor faced toward him, blocking my view of his face. I could only see him from the mid-torso downward, and once he got past my car, I could see his full profile, but with his face turned away, facing other cars.

As he approached once more, slowly walking past my car, paying me no attention, I tried to throw him a smile, though I imagine my smile wasn't what he was looking for. He pulled off his hat, humble sign tucked between his arm and ribs, and lifted up a ponytail of oily-looking, dirty-blond hair. He lifted it, and lowered it, and flung out the back of a dingy gray baseball cap a few times, until he could get it on in one fling.

In these last seconds before the light turned green, I wondered if he had been in the military. I looked at his legs, the muscle definition still apparent, and wondered if this was the life he lived as a veteran. I wished I'd had something to give him, not cash, but attention. Imagined me sitting on that concrete divider, atop his green helmetbucket, conducting an interview with a homeless man. Where are you from, originally? (I hope not Miami.) How many hours do you spend out here? How long have you been homeless?

And finally, before I lost sight of him as I turned onto the highway, I thought of my dad. What if that was my dad, homeless, the leathery golden-red skin replaced with taut brown?

I drove away, even more lost and searching, it seems, than when I started my empty journey through empty cities, containing much but still not having what I'm looking for, whatever it is that is banging back and forth, wildly, blindly against the dark walls of my reasoning. My eyes welled up with tears and my wires crossed and further frustration set in.

a heart on a search for that which is unknown

I continued driving, as he paced with a humble sign with neat, printed letters; me, no closer to my truth, and neither one of us any closer to home.

what's going on in the world, mine and the outside one

On Friday, when I was waiting for the last minutes of the day to float by, my mom called me. I answered, prepared to tell her that I'd call her in a few minutes when I left, but she cut me to the quick, and informed me that she'd just called 911 for my dad, who was in pain and couldn't move his right arm or shoulder. She told me she'd give me a call and she told me to call my sister, who hadn't wanted to go to the hospital. (Her and I both have one thing in common: we can be intensely sensitive, and places like hospitals, where we imagine that emotions are on full display, all the time, are not places we are comfortable going, especially not with others who will be there to monitor our reactions, and ask us, if anything, that dreaded, means-well-but-usually-never-does-well question: are you okay?)

I sat at my desk with my head down, for privacy, and as everyone milled about in the room, laughing and talking as usual, I felt like the world--at least, my part of it--slowed to a crawl. Oh my God was the only thing I said aloud, other than okay, and as I got off the phone, I didn't want to talk to anyone. I wanted everyone to leave me to my own devices. I started, for lack of a better term, freaking out. I've been feeling emotionally strange all week, I thought. Was this what those weird feelings were leading up to? I started thinking about skipping the dinner party planned for Saturday in order to drive home. I started thinking about taking a couple of days off of work so I could be at home during this uncertain time. My manager wanted to have a typical long debrief at the end of the day; I was curt when I told her I didn't have time for that, I had to go call my sister.

In looking back at this scene, it is been proven that I am more my father's daughter than I like to imagine. Cut from the same cloth, I am every bit the worrywart that he is, every bit as ride or die as he is, ready to drop everything and make that three-and-a-half hour journey home just because he went to the hospital. Not only do we look alike, we are alike.

He wasn't having a stroke, and the doctors have run lots of tests to figure out what's going on. So, we're waiting. They think it's an infection. I just know that I'm prone to panic, and that just because someone goes to the hospital doesn't mean they aren't coming back out. (Thank God my mom is the level-headed nurse.) Please, keep us in your prayers. I can't wait to find out what the test results have to say, but I pray it's nothing grave.

In other news:
--I heard this weekend that Bernie Madoff's son killed himself. I can't say I'm confused as to why. His dad fucked up many people's lives in the name of greed, and he seemed to have fucked up his son's life in the process. That's so unfortunate. Suicide is certainly not the answer, but I'm pretty sure in the midnight hour, he felt like he didn't have a soul in the world on his side. May he be able to rest peacefully.

--Haven't heard from *him* since he left, and I doubt I'm going to hear from him before the year's out. Even if I do, I can't say I'm really excited about the possibility. Anyone who is willing to move out of the country and not make an effort to talk to you, doesn't want to talk to you. I've decided that I'm not going to waste my time talking to people who don't want to talk to me, and that includes people who think that they miss me when they really miss my vagina. Moving on...

--Last night, at a very, very nice holiday party, I had coffee and dessert. This is a big deal for me because I don't drink coffee, and have probably never had a cup of coffee in the years that I've been alive. (Seriously. I don't like it.) But after a few cups of wine, and with some delicious rum cake, it was great!

--I'm trying to figure out what it is about Miami that I don't like. What it is about South Florida that I don't like. I can't really put my finger on it, but it's there. I'm not exactly sure what it is I'm searching for, but I really hope I find it. And I really hope when I do find it, I know. One thing I know already is that I haven't attached to any of the places outside of Orlando that I've lived. I've downright strongly disliked them. I guess I'll just have to keep moving around until something tickles my fancy.

--Currently reading: It by Stephen King. I'm about 200 pages in (it's 1000+ pages), and I'm really in. It's very creepy, but I have to keep reading, even at night when I get super spooked. Mr. King can write the hell out of a scene.

--I've had my hair twisted for about a week now, and it still looks good. I'm trying to really do protective styling... meaning, twisting my hair, tucking the ends in, etc. Hopefully it helps. I used the famed Ecostyler gel (in the pink container) and I really like how it's holding my hair. My frizzy hair needs all the help it can get.

--Trying to figure out my plan for next year. Have a couple of ideas floating in the air. With a couple floating, if some don't work, at least there will still be some ideas left. We'll see.

--That might be it.

I'm going to not fall asleep in bed reading like I have done the past couple of nights. I'm in a writing mood right now anyhow.

Please please please, keep my dad in your thoughts, prayers, meditations, etc. And keep my panicky heart in your thoughts/prayers/meditations also.

Monday, December 6, 2010

bodily perception

... me and those dreaming eyes of mine ...

For some reason, I have always loved things that suggest irrefutable impossibility.*

Don't ask me where I picked up the talent from, but even when I was a child, I could pick out the melancholy emotion as effortlessly as an orange in a bowl of rice. It's like I had an innate sense for it; like my body would have a physical reaction.

Usually, it would result in me launching inexplicable tears down my unblemished cheeks.

One of these instances--that I've been thinking of lately--resulted from a song. (As most of them did, and still do.)

My mother always tells me the story about me and the song "Forever Young." (No Jay-Z.) When I was a kid, something about Rod Stewart's raspy voice, and something about that song would send me into a world of sadness, and apparently, I would ask my best friend's mom if she could turn the song off, because it made me sad. (My words, at around 6 or 7.)

'Til this day, I can still remember the video (with that red-headed kid and Stewart sitting on what I remember to be a cliff, with the sun shining a golden yellow on them--I would be curious to watch the video in present time to see how much my memory holds up), and the feeling--more so than the lyrics, necessarily--come to me immediately, and I can feel tears well up in my eyes, as they are right now, as I'm writing this. (No lie. If you could see me, my eyes probably look as big as saucers and are probably shimmering like raindrops in the sun, full of tears that I will not let fall.)

There was something in that song, something about this idea purported by Stewart (or whomever wrote that song) about being "forever young," about a father, or someone, letting someone else go, but recognizing that they would always be forever young to them (but in my heart you will remain, forever young...) that still cripples me right at the knees. (The tears are welling again.) The fact that this could cripple me even at six intrigues me.

There were many unexplainable instances--I quit my ballet class when I was five, on the night of our recital, because the music made me sad. (Again, my words. I'm pretty sure my parents aren't making this up. Part of me feels like I can remember this.) I can definitely remember sitting on my mom's table (something she would have yelled at me for if she saw me) at eight or nine, listening on repeat to Prince's "The Most Beautiful Girl in The World," and crying. Just straight crying, and feeling the impossible swelling up within my heart.

What the hell was I crying for? I was eight. I'd never been in love, I'd been hurt, but not in the type of way that hurt gets you when you're older. (Though one should never underestimate those child-like hurts. Sometimes, the purity of them, and the lack of ability to understand their source can mold a person much more than anything you'll ever experience as an adult.) I was eight, and susceptible to my body's natural reaction to the impossibility in these songs.

Today, listening to them, or thinking about them, I can understand the impossible beauty in them. Asserting that someone will be "forever young" to you--we all know that time waits on no man, and no one will be here forever, and no one will be forever young. Prince waxing glory about "the most beautiful girl in the world?"

and if the stars, ever fell/
one by one, from the sky/
I know Mars, could not be, too far behind/
'cause baby this kind of beauty/
has got no reason to ever be shy/
'cause honey this kind of beauty/
the kind that comes from inside...

At eight, somehow my body must have recognized the rarity of such an utterance existing in real life. Maybe I was crying then, to prepare me for now. Maybe even then, I could sense the shy beauty inside myself.

The impossible in song, in lyric, in words, in literature, always causes that deep swelling to occur inside of me. I don't know how else to describe it, really. While my eyes well up with tears, something happens within me, something moves, and then, when it's over, my body puts it back wherever it came from.

Sitting in my room tonight, doing my hair and listening to D'Angelo's Brown Sugar (because it was the CD last left in the player, and because I did not feel like smearing coconut oil and gel all over my stack of CDs), a thought, a reality, something that I surely knew, but never took the time to think about smacked me right upside the back of my head.

As I sat on the bed, I looked across at the calendar hanging on my wall, and thought of *him* and the number of times I used to see him, back before I moved and he left. I acknowledged in my head that I used to see him almost every single week. Compelled, I got up, flipped the calendar back to January, and looked at the little hearts I marked on the days I saw him.

Almost once, or twice a week, hearts would appear, sometimes with comments. (Ever a writer, I truly document just about anything and everything you could think of.) As the calendar hit July, the hearts didn't appear for almost a month. (I was a G--being in Miami initially was the only time in my life living away when I stayed away for a month. I was really trying to play nice with Miami, at least at first.) They appeared at least a couple of times a month, until I flipped the calendar quickly past November. There was no need to look at the last set of hearts, placed in the middle of that month.

As I sat back down, I said out loud what I'd never thought of before: from once or twice a week, to once or twice a month, to not at all, and D'Angelo was steady crooning to me about those dreaming eyes of his, and the ostensible return of an impossible type of love I once knew very briefly, plus my body's reaction to the beauty in the concept of being an impossible dreamer (me and those dreaming eyes of mine, said in a way as if to say, oh, my eyes, they are wandering again, seeing things that I know won't be for me, don't mind them, I'm just hoping...) brought slow tears that turned into real tears. No sound, no nothing, just the hard scrunching of my face, as if to squeeze the rest of the emotion out, fast and hard.

The song ended, and I let it go, back to wherever it came from. I got up, wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, and washed the rest of the oil off my hands, so I could write.

And here I am, with you.

Maybe sometimes, I let my heart pay its weeping tribute to the realities that I so often choose to overstep, knowing that dwelling on them too often or too intensely will bring nothing but a barrage of melancholy I choose to avoid as often as possible.

And often, I wonder, if it will always be with me. A gift from beyond my reasoning that I will dutifully always carry.

*--maybe the impossibility that seems so unchanging isn't quite impossible at all. You see, I think that deep down inside of me, in fact, I know that deep down inside of me, I don't actually believe that anything is impossible. Which probably accounts for all my tears over my maturation--having a spirit that refuses to let go of hope, while being met with a world that suggests impossible is the answer. My heart's probably confused.

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