Archive for the ‘ Sigh’ Category


Posted on July 9, 2009

Every time i look at him, my heart breaks a little more
i swipe the beginnings of a tear from my eye and watch him silently      (intently)
He lies (on the couch.) Oblivious to my internal mayhem. (as I prefer)
i lean in to kiss him and smell his forehead
His skin…i’ve always loved how it smells (sweet)
But now, as i breathe him in

i am waging war on myself. and no matter the outcome, i am destined to lose…

and then i do…

Fear-stained tears flow freely now, salting his sweet-smelling face…
He is surprised. (which is completely unsurprising.)

Odd, this…

Sudden surge of emotion
Unbridled sensitivity
Careening helplessness

This is that, after all

It is true that i cannot help my-Self
Rather, i cannot stop myself from being my-Self
(not that he has asked this of me…)
But myself is selfish…
My-Self looks out for its own interests, above all else

And his-Self loves my-Self so much
(so, so much)
(more than i deserve)


another. and another. and now…another.
running over his face.    smearing him.
making his sweetness, salty

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“I want to feel that again…” A Continuing Tale of Discontinued Desire

Posted on January 27, 2009

Just not gonna sound like it used to...Just not gonna sound like it used to…

“I think he’s going to break up with me,” she weeps.

This sentence actually takes a solid 3 minutes for her to communicate amidst shallow gasps for air, tear-filled halting and hysterical hiccups, but for our purposes, I thought I’d give you the benefit of the upshot.

I mentally search for the verbal balance between “reassurance” and “reality check.”

I am once again listening to the sad chronicle of my broken hearted friend, Lady Earth.
I am also making a conscious effort towards increased compassion and empathy.
“Well, what do you want or need him to say?” I gently ask, “What would make this better?”
Her answer doesn’t surprise me.

“I want him to tell me he’s sorry. That I’m his best friend. That he can’t see his life without me. That he loves me. That he’ll try…”

I wish she wanted the couch. The couch I could help her with.

Making someone feel something that they simply do not feel… hmph.
Sadly, there is nothing anyone can do to reinstate emotion gone AWOL.

I contemplate her situation and find myself running through a litany of my own futile attempts to manipulate people and situations.
Ugh, I swear it was like meeting the Ghost of Absurd Actions Past.
I cringe in the face of the memories.

To be fair (to myself) and not allow a crazy spiral into the abyss of self-loathing that the rehashing of mortifying thoughts can cause, I remind myself that to “desire” is human.
In some religions, desire is the considered the divide between “human” and “Deity.”

I suppose, in the religion of my own mind, desire is a blessing. I thrive on that internal pinging which reminds me that I’m a bit off course. That I’m not fulfilled. It’s like sonar for the soul.

The sonar just gets really fucked up when it encounters foreign objects. Like other souls. It gets confused. It wants to ping and guide and dictate the course for everything and everyone within its functional radius. Soul sonar can be pretty self-absorbed…it doesn’t recognize that Others have their own path.


I attempt to reason my way out of this…for her, of course.
We are in a perpetual struggle, from birth until death, to get back there. To feel as good as we once did. Even if it wasn’t actually that good, for the mind has a funny way of glorifying the past.

We are born and desperately reach for the first breath of life. We struggle and suddenly feel the relief of the oxygen seeping into our lungs and tissues and vital organs and we spend the next 80 years chasing that breath. It’s probably good that we don’t remember how amazing that first breath felt, for I’ll just bet that an inhalation has never been as gratifying as that initial gulp.

We move through the tunnel of childhood and peek our heads out at the end and we glimpse Oz. Everything is new. Everything is unusual. But it’s scary. So we rush about trying to assimilate and make it feel normal and then complain about how mundane life is.
We wish we could see Emerald City as we had when we first emerged from the tunnel. Before we were scarred. Before we were forgotten or left behind.
Before. Then. Not now.
Still, we try. To revive the mutual amazement.

We fall in love and see the amazing beauty in anOther. We long to incorporate pieces of that person’s extraordinary facets of being into ourselves and we hope that they see us as equally intoxicating.
But occasionally, amongst all the incorporation and assimilation, we stop exploring the “extraordinary” facets within ourselves. We become wholly entrenched in our mate. Sadly, our Other also sees this and the equilibrium of mutual stimulation is thrown perilously out of whack.

And then suddenly, you’re gobsmacked by reality and you’re friends are giving you corny nicknames like “Lady Earth” and blogging about you. Sigh.

Essentially, my sweet Lady friend lost herself. She quit her important-ish career. She became cash-dependent, attention-needy, and high-powered-telescope-style focused on her relationship and forgot exactly what made it “cool” and “challenging” (in the positive sense) in the first place. Her Other, however did notice the change.

I don’t mean to seem like I am placing blame solely on her. There is never a single defendant in the Court of Broken Promises. We are all guilty. We are all at fault. We all wandered down the path that led to here.

We deserve to feel gratified and validated, but we cannot ignore the way “Today” looks. And the reason “Today” and “Yesterday” have different monikers are because they are not, in fact, the same.
Ignoring that fact and hitting the mental “Repeat” button on that track entitled “Days of Yore,” may invoke emotion in you, but will just annoy someone who is “over” that tune.

I pray that there will peaceful and expedient resolve for my friends. I pray that she realizes that she cannot forcibly make him see her as he once did.

And I pray that I’ll remember to re-read this musing the next time I am tempted to take “What Is” back to my mental General Store and exchange it for “What Was…”

“Thou art to me a delicious torment.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

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The Girl has Very Poor Bedside Manner…

Posted on January 19, 2009

Great Wall of Girl

Great Wall of Girl

I think I am the friend that I’ve always needed and wanted but never had. Or something that doesn’t make me sound completely egotistical and self-righteous.
I will now (obviously) clarify.

But first, a parable…

There was once a couple (let’s call them “Water”) who were friendly with another couple (we’ll call them “Earth”.) The Water people had long been allies of Gentleman Earth, and were delighted when he found his Lady. Spring had sprung and love seemed to blossom exactly as it should (no cynical sarcasm here AT ALL.)
But just as the Earth had rotated round the Sun nearly three full times, the temperature started to change. It was almost imperceptible at first, but the Earth was cooling. Sometimes, things are a wee bit clearer from the Water. Sadly, Lady Earth seemed not to acknowledge this change. Unwilling? Unable? Hard to say.
But, the fact remained that the environment was quickly becoming inhospitable. The Water people opted to “Judge not, lest…” (you get it) and remain loyal to all in a nod toward blissful ignorance. They hoped to pretend that they didn’t see it. That they didn’t always know what a smooth operator Gentle Earth could be…
Sometimes Water people don’t like to make waves.

And now the Lady tearfully reveals her torrid tale of perfect love gone wrong. She describes all he said. All he didn’t say. What she suspects. What she knows. What she hopes.
Therein lies the problem. There is no “hope.”
And being one of the only people in her life who is a known associate of both parties in equal measure, I feel it necessary to tell her so.
For this Lady is one of those people who has many “close” friends. She has plenty (read: too many) girl friends in her life who will lend a sympathetic ear and reassure her that he “loves her more than anything” and that this was a “blip”, “a bump in the road”, a “phase”, or some other such nonsense.
“There’s no hope.” I state. “He’s not in love with you anymore.” “Your goals have completely diverged and you would be best to wrap this shit up and seek that which is closer to what YOU want.”
OK, so I didn’t say it EXACTLY like that, but that was the Cliffs Notes version.
I am simply stating the truth, with hope that she’ll acknowledge that which she most assuredly already knows somewhere deep within.
Further, I have a deep and abiding love for Gentleman Earth. He’s an ass, perhaps. But he is my friend and I adore him. If there were even an inkling within me, which stated that he wanted this “thing” with them to continue, I’d have played the role. But he doesn’t and I didn’t. I felt that my tough love approach was appropriate, if not easily digestible.

This is but one example in a growing file, of recent instances where I have felt the need to call a situation out as exactly what it is. Or at least how I see it to be. Even when the parties involved are seeking something else entirely.
It’s like this facet of me that I am reluctant to put a cap on. I’m not being deviant to make an impression. I don’t do it to cause friction. As I’ve previously mentioned, more times than not, I’ll opt out of opining aloud at all. Deaf ears are challenging to converse with.
But perhaps, when impassioned about a topic, I hope to offer options. The option to flip the script. The option to pinch the power from the source and redirect the current.

Please understand that I am the product of the liberal mafia. No one ever told me what to do.  Ever. Which is all well and good towards creating a “strong” “self-reliant” young adult, but is there not worth in guidance? I’ve broken up with more than one therapist based on the principle that if I am paying you $200 an hour, the least you can do is not answer a direct question with another question.

If the old adage about “that which we do not like in others being exactly what we grapple with within ourselves” is to be believed, then I think my “harsh” nature is completely justified.
Perhaps, at times, my own moral compass could’ve used a few verbal recalibrations. Maybe I’d have done well to know that others cared enough to tell me when I was out of line.  To know that “arrogant” and “self-assured” don’t exactly live in the same place. Or even in the same neighborhood.
I think on some level, I try to tell those closest to me what I think they need to hear instead of what they want to hear, because I was never given a definitive solution. I never had anyone else to blame or credit for my choices or their outcomes.

So here I am. Staid in my unpopular opinions. Encouraging Others to act decisively and with great confidence. Attempting to do for them, that which I seem unable to do for myself. It is a flaw in mankind as a whole, to be sure… this need to be correct. To act only when victory is assured. To chill in the transition until construction of the next phase is complete and seemingly move-in ready. Trouble is, it will never be complete. For the most part, we must be open to the idea of movement with expectation and even excitement regarding the unknown.  Of finding beauty in the undefined and strange.
I’m getting there.

“And I’ll shout and I’ll scream
But I’d rather not be seen
And I’ll hide away for another day…” ~ Zero 7 “In the Waiting Line”

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On Sex…

Posted on January 14, 2009

See? Now you're thinking about it too...

See? Now you're thinking about it too...

The Girl loves the word. The Girl loves the act. The Girl loves the physical, the emotional, the set-up, the breakdown, and the aftermath. Fuck. Sex is awesome.
But sex has caused a major rift in my life.
You see, I am seriously considering disowning my gender.
Who are these women who constantly misrepresenting red-blooded American Girls like myself and participating in these “studies” where they get to “report” THEIR opinions on acts of corporal pleasure as those of all of womankind?!
Why must they speak out regarding the fact that they “rarely” think about sex (I think about it constantly) and how porn makes them uncomfortable (porn can be hot, as long as it’s not that gnarly, illegal stuff.)?
Here’s the thing, if you are feeling like sex is not important to you, whatever, but kindly shut up. Don’t share with your friendly neighborhood scientist. You are fucking with the curve. Trust me, contrary to the study that my “people” apparently “reported” to, 67% of us would NOT be happy having sex “less than 12 times a year.” Honestly.
Let’s use basic tricks of the trade, so that we can stand united on this stuff, ladies.
If you’ve started dating someone and you are playing the “courting” game, would you offer up the fact that you would rather go to the movies than have sex? No, no you would not. Thus, perhaps you should not be divulging these tidbits to published studies. Besides, who elected YOU the voice of a gender?
Please, let’s tow the company line on this. Do it for your sisters who are willing to admit and embrace their slightly more deviant sides.
Sincere apologies (not really) to anyone reading this who feels the Girl is merely being “provocative” for the sake of the thing, but this is a very real issue that threatens my membership within a gender group that I have always been very welcome in.
I’m sure we’ll come to some form of conclusion, but I for one am staid in my opinion on this one…
In the meanwhile, the Girl will totally see the 15-year-old boy next door’s daily number of sexually oriented thoughts and raise his number of fantasies.

Not at all obscene or depraved,
The Girl

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Girl in the Ghetto: A Tale of Being Defiled by the System

Posted on January 13, 2009

Actual Photo. I'm ballsy when sick.

Actual Photo. I'm ballsy when sick.

I am having an anxiety attack. I cannot breathe. I am walking through the ghetto with tears streaming down my face, absently brandishing my wallet in one hand, while sobbing into my fancy, overpriced “smartphone.” I am wailing about the “injustice” that has been foisted upon me.
Innocent me.
Coddled me.
Woe is me.
Me who jokes about being a germaphobe and having OCD…
Me who is presently convinced that both “self-diagnosis” can now be logged as “official diagnosis.”

Where am I? How did I get here?
Let me back up.

I don’t get sick.
Sure, I see plenty of doctor’s, but mostly for pleasure as opposed to business.
I tell him that I can’t sleep. He writes me up a script for some Ambien. Pleasure.
I tell her that I am concerned about premature aging. She writes me an Rx for topical crème, which will ensure taut facial skin for decades to come. Pleasure.
Since these medicinal journeys are largely elective, I choose my physicians much as any New York girl chooses, well, anything…based on location.
I select those on the Upper East Side and those in Grammercy Park. I avoid Midtown because it’s irritating and avoid the Upper West Side, because there are too many uptight Jewish grandmother types with severe hypochondria. Location, Location, Location.

But now I’m sick. Really sick.

And in my 72nd hour of swollen glands, inability to swallow, fever, and horrid body aches, I deem a non-pleasure generated medical visit necessary.
I peruse the list of 43 “general practitioners” located within 2 miles of home. Location wise, Hoboken is the obvious choice. Like a trendy extension of SoHo, I could go to the doctor and then grab coffee and biscotti while I wait for my prescription to be filled. Genius.
But I can’t swallow the biscotti and I can’t smoke while I drink the coffee and I’d have to call the car service, which necessitates, you know…effort. And energy. Of which I have zero.
Based on the facts that Dr. Gilberto Gastell is a quick .7-mile jaunt from the Boat (a 13 minute walk according to Google Maps) and that he can see me at 2pm, I conclude that proximity (even in a way shady neighborhood) and the promise of drugs by 3pm, win the day. I’m off to meet Dr. Gil.

What a difference a half a mile can make. I cannot fathom that my city views and tree-lined sidewalks are technically so nearby.  I am in another world. I find the address and walk into the office, which can only be described as a half DMV, half Immigration Office.
I have to literally back out of the door, so that the other sick people can re-arrange themselves so that I might join their ravaged motley crew.
There are seven rows with six chairs in each row. Filled. Every last one. Plus several standees. They hack. And sneeze. And they smell. I’m not being mean. They just smell collectively…sick. I suddenly feel like I’m getting hives. I prepare to make a break. Hit up the local Walgreen’s. Sudafed, here I come.
But I can’t get out.  There is no visible path.
The lady with the severely broken English demands my insurance card, and it is then that I notice the Post Office-style plexiglass windows, complete with security door, which only opens on one side at a time. I gingerly lift my side, place my card within the safety barrier, and pull it down until it clicks shut. She takes the card and tosses a clipboard full of forms inside, and motions for me to run along and answer them.
I notice a sign printed in Spanish, with the loose English translation at the very bottom: “Please no ask how long wait. Doctor move fast as can.” Seriously. Can’t make this stuff up.
Just then, a nurse calls Hector Gutierrez into the office and in my first victory in what feels like weeks, Sr. Gutierrez vacates the chair directly next to the wall I am currently smooshed against. I seize the opportunity without bother for the usual analysis of those who might be more deserving of the accommodation. Sorry elderly women and sickly children. This one is mine. It’s MINE, bitches! Muhahahahahahaha! The lady next to me chooses that moment to begin extracting the wax from her ear. The dude next to her is doing the “wake yourself up” snore.  I root around my bag for my antibacterial hand sanitizer, and attempt to quell my thoughts that if I hadn’t arrived with some acutely heinous disease, I’d surely contracted at least seven by now.
I focus on the task at hand. Name. Date of Birth. Emergency Contact. Consent. Sign. Date.
I finish in record time and triumphantly deposit the clipboard in the lock box. The nurse requests my $30 co-pay, and I pull out my MasterCard just as a 300 pound man barrels into me after an unfortunate encounter with an errant chair leg. He gives me a dirty look, but not so much as a cursory “Lo Siento” and limps off, just as the nurse is informing me that this is a “cash-only establishment.”
What. The. Fuck.
This is a Doctor’s Office.
This is NOT illegal gambling. This is NOT a brothel. This is NOT your local drug den (though even THEY accept credit cards at this point…)
I stare back in disbelief, “Um, not even like, personal checks? Just cash?!”
“Si” and she slams the partition between us.
I knock timidly… “Um, hi… is there an ATM around here?”
“Down the block.” Slam.
I grab my coat silently cursing America and it’s shitty healthcare system, me and my “pioneering spirit” which begged to shun corporate life in favor of “freedom”, and it’s Freelancers Union Insurance PPO-grade medical practitioners. I brazenly shove my way out in search of an ATM.

And that’s how I got here. Having an anxiety attack. Not breathing. Walking through the ghetto, tears openly streaming… Not looking even a quarter as crazy as I feel.

In my defense, it was just all so MUCH. I haven’t had even a gulp of fresh air since Friday, and this was not exactly the biscotti-laden transition back into the world that I dreamt of…

That was nearly two hours ago.
Four ignored business calls, two over the top Spanish soap operas, and sixteen resolutions to burn every bit of clothing currently on my person and finally my name is called.

I emerge twenty minutes later with a prescription for 10 days worth of antibiotics.
Uhhhh, yeah… I could’ve done that.
I want a prescription pad for Christmas next year. Seriously. That would totally be the best gift ever. “The Prescription Pad… the gift that REALLY keeps giving!”

“A bodily disease, which we look upon as whole and entire within itself, may, after all, be but a symptom of some ailment in the spiritual part.” ~Nathaniel Hawthorne “The Scarlet Letter”

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Judge, Jury and the False Idealism of The Fairer Sex

Posted on January 11, 2009

The Fairer Sex? Hmph...

The Fairer Sex? Hmph...

Without getting into unnecessary and apparently falsified details, there was something of an alarming threat directed at my City earlier this week. I was informed by multiple unconnected yet reasonably reliable sources. I was asked to tell “only who I must.”

I did.

When I’d completed my best impression of Paul Revere meets Chicken Little, I consulted my gut regarding the validity of the “imminent danger.”
I was feeling something, but it wasn’t exactly registering as fear.
Not in the global sense, anyway. That familiar “terror chill” that I’d previously experienced when hazardous situations were at hand, wasn’t kicking up.
But something was stressing me…and I sensed that it might be more centralized than I’d been preparing for.

Before first light had officially broken, the tempest descended.
He presents himself as the exceedingly boisterous, unbidden party guest. The type whom no one who had actually been invited to the gathering will admit to bringing along.
He is at first quiet and soft, then suddenly shocking and reckless. He is pleasant and dignified then abrupt and wretched. He is unapologetically hypocritical. He is maddeningly hypothetical.

Dickens once said “It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.”
And that is all I shall say on that.

I look to the sky. I mull the mysteries of Birds, Aero-planes, and other Wing-ed Objects…

The Boat is located on the water. Exactly where the flight patterns of all three major NYC airports intersect. Each day I observe aircrafts on their final approach. Sometimes, they are so near that I imagine that I can actually see the little kid with his face mashed against the window peering out at the cityscape below.

When they clouds hang low over they the metropolis (as they often do), the light from the descending jets illuminate the night sky long before the airplane itself is visible. The glow cuts the darkness and my mind drifts to the hundreds of souls on board. I contemplate the idea that each individual is anticipating. Some high on the possibilities which await. Some wishing they could just keep circling.
Everyone with a story. Everyone with a plan.

“I am a citizen of the world, and I have met, in my time, with so many different sorts of virtue, that I am puzzled, in my old age, to say which is the right sort and which is the wrong.” ~Wilkie Collins “The Woman in White”

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Confessions of Fear

Posted on January 5, 2009

Probably my second favorite...

Probably my second favorite...

I’m not actually scared of death.
I’m not actually scared of my OWN death.
However, (deeper confession):
My single greatest fear is the end of mankind as a whole. Like apocalyptic, Nostradamus, 2012, earthquakes, fire, famine and flood type of shit.
Thus, I refuse it.

I simply block any “information” of this sort from entering my consciousness. People have said it’s a control issue, an explanation that frankly bores me to tears, but could possibly have a bit of merit.

Please, we all know that we are sitting on a rock hurtling through an uncharted abyss, and at some point, there is strong possibility that it may crash. But thus far, I haven’t seen any Exit signs (and we all know that’s the first thing I look for), so I’d rather not entertain these possibilities. Why bother? Can’t do much to stop it.

The Spouse recently asked me what I would do if I knew I only had two weeks to live. I made a supposedly “in-jest” comment to the effect of “been there, done that… I believe they called it 2005.” And promptly changed the subject.

Here’s the rub- I was actually not joking at all.

Yes, I would make sure everyone knew I loved them and all that jazz, but the truth of the matter is, I would buy every drug within a 30 mile radius and proceed to do them all with reckless abandon while unapologetically committing 6 of the 7 deadly sins (except wrath, for I’d have no use for wrath whilst having so much fun), over and over until I gave up the ghost.

Which leads me to people who sincerely use the phrase “Live for Today” (most of whom, ironically, are in 12-Step Programs.) Really? Honestly? You’re lying. You don’t mean that. I would like to MEET the person that truly “Lives for Today.” The entire concept is fatally flawed. You wouldn’t recognize me if I lived only for today. Trust that.

Perhaps that is why I am forever egotistical. Analytical. Self-assessing. The depths of my own imagination and theories on “how” and “why” and “what-if”, are not nearly as chilling as indulging an idea that “tomorrow” is a fantasy.

Still, I have been a bit alarmed lately with my overall state of being. I’m restless. Literally. Symbolically. I need to do something to alter said state, but am wholly paralyzed. What the fuck am I waiting for? To KNOW? Know what? That it’s ending? That it’s beginning? Theoretically, should it matter? Shouldn’t my actions be the same, regardless?

Further, I have less than zero desire to get old. Call me vain, but I want nothing to do with watching myself deteriorate. The cycle of life is overrated.
Look, I know it’s been a little tumultuous here in the Water lately, and I swear I intend to lighten it up soon. That’s the plan. But we all know what they say about the best-laid plans…

So, for today, I shall continue to examine subjects of my choice and actively shun the rest. Unless, of course, I am given some imminently credible and catastrophic evidence that renders such exam useless.

In which case, you can find me in some version of “The Red Shark” screaming down a road “somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert” at 120 miles per hour, waiting for the drugs to take hold.

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However Shall I Be the Queen of New Year’s Eve With No Sleep??!!

Posted on December 31, 2008

Can\'t Stop It...

I lie in bed fully awake and restless. I am trying not to move and adjust too much as I know it’ll disturb him and then there will be two of us feeling as I do…frustrated with me and my mind. My brain seems not to demand nearly as much of me during waking hours as it does in the blackness of night. My thoughts drift through time. Seamlessly blending what was, what is, what could be…

I give in.

I now sit in the living room as the nascent daylight plots its daily coup against the night. Almost imperceptible in this moment, but the clouds are tinged slightly orange and I’ve seen enough city dawns to know that signifies roughly 45 minutes till the city is bathed in the glow of a new day.

For now, I stare at the water. Smooth. Slow moving. Regal, even. The first Ferry boat floats by and I notice that its reflection mirrors on the water and gives it a decidedly ethereal appearance.

This is not good. I am thinking too much. Assuming. Hoping. Trying. Hunting for belief in a mind that isn’t sure that there is even value in such nonsense.

I realize I speak far less than I used to. Verbally, anyway. I am just not sure that what I am saying could possibly be expressed in the way that I need it to be, so I choose not to say it at all. It’s better that way. When I do express and it inevitably gets fucked up, I find myself here. On the couch. Watching the daybreak. Going over. And over. Again.

I try not to highlight books during a first read through. Though it may be argued that the phrases and paragraphs that zing you from the get-go deserve notation, I mostly reserve that honor for a second go-round. I have been unable to adhere to my own rules in the case of Capricorn. At this juncture, I wonder if the whole exercise is futile, considering that my highlights span 90 percent the first hundred pages.

As to what happened…

“Everything that happens, when it has significance, is in the nature of contradiction. Until the one for whom this is written came along, I imagined that somewhere outside, in life, as they say, lay the solution to all things. I thought, when I came upon her, that I was seizing hold of life, seizing hold of something I could bite into. Instead, I lost hold of life completely. I reached out for something to attach myself to… and I found nothing. But in reaching out, in the effort to grasp, to attach myself, left high and dry as I was, I nevertheless found something I had not looked for…myself.” ~Henry Miller “Tropic of Capricorn”

The day has dawned a gnarly gray. I kind of love it. The clouds move just a bit too quickly through the sky and I watch the helicopters land across the water. There is nowhere I can go from here. Not now, anyway. Sadly, my bed won’t have me (or is it I who won’t have it?) and if I see one more infomercial, I may physically cry, so it is here that I remain. Watching the clouds. Seeking the discovery. Highlighting that which appears significant.

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Overall, The Girl has a Crappy Holiday Attitude…

Posted on December 23, 2008

Light Beyond the Tunnel

Light Beyond the Tunnel

The Girl is a pleasure to have in class.
The Girl is very social. Though she occasionally talks during lessons she does get on well with Others.
The Girl is a social butterfly. She always has a smile and a kind word for her classmates.

The Girl makes gnarly-ass mean faces as she walks down the street.
The Girl has a general distrust of people and tends to believe that she is smarter than everyone
The Girl is pretty exclusive regarding who she allows into her inner circle and can’t be bothered to formulate nice things to say about those outside of it. Nor does she say mean things, though… so maybe she is somewhat salvageable….

The Girl is a shadow of who she once was… particularly during the Holidays.

I realize that I make expressly mean faces when in the presence of tourists. Especially in Times Square. Which I should know better than to walk through, pretty much anytime between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, but certainly just before Christmas. Sadly, Times Square is the main artery that bridges midtown NYC with…well, everywhere else on Earth, so The Girl finds herself trudging and shoving and occasionally grumbling aloud far more often than is recommended by the AMA, AHA, FAA, FDA,NA, AA and the like…

Look, regarding the money tossing tourists… I’m grateful. Please do buy 3 dollar cans of soda from the illegal street vendors and poor imitations of Kate Spade bags from the thief with the bed sheet on the corner. Please enjoy our fine cuisine at luxe establishments like Red Lobster, Bubba Gump’s, and Friday’s. It’s good for the economy. Please, DO stop dead as soon as you get to the top of the subway steps and stare at the sky as you try to get your bearings and figure out if left is North or South. Don’t mind me and my 17 shopping bags. Don’t concern yourself with the 98 pound human who is now being bottle necked by everyone else who is pushing me into your newly purchased I Love NY foam finger. Please! Enjoy the view! I’ll wait.

Seriously, I’m not that angry of a person, but I do get a bit haughty regarding the cultural rules of visiting a new place. Especially a crowded new place. That I have to share with you.

Sigh. For the first time, I am excited for the dark and gray skies of January and February. When the Others leave and I am left to my devices.  When the invasion ends and the lull returns.

But for now, I wait. I dig my heels in and sway in the breeze hoping it blows quickly. Turns out, I just may love the wind.

“Tell me, you go over a man’s house for the first time, do you take off your shoes? Do you put your feet up on his coffee table? Do you walk in the kitchen, eat food that doesn’t belong to you? Open the door to rooms you got no business opening?” ~The Hunting Party

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When the Naked Truth Is Just Too Much…

Posted on December 20, 2008

Yes, this is MUCH too much...

Yes, this is MUCH too much...

I have oft used this space to say things which I hope are meaningful, if not entirely what I mean. Unfettered honesty is actually not as poetic in practice as it idealistically seems.
Thus, I frequently grab the hand of my dear friend the metaphor, and proceed into the dark and gnarly undertow of my thoughts in attempt to depict some sense through the chaos.
I select my words with exacting precision and try to avoid writing after taking Ambien (which seems to be my 29 year old answer to the drunk dial.)

I find that song lyrics are an infinite source of inspiration while attempting to express through writing. I have long classified myself as a lyricist (as opposed to a beat-head).
By my definition, a “lyricist” is one whose ultimate allegiance to a song, is based on the lyrically inspired journey the mind embarks upon while listening.
I am forever amazed by the depth of situational emotional encoding a meaningful verse can sear into my brain. I can say with much certainty that I will always know which tracks to turn to when I want to indulge my own broodiness (or end said broody behavior), when I am mid-mull on an issue, when I want resolution, or when I just want to say fuck it…
And I am guaranteed to get what I want, even if it isn’t exactly what I need.
I once hatched a plan to write a story using only song lyrics, but decided it would be more challenging to use the line that comes directly before the line I am getting at. For instance, to illustrate this admittedly convoluted idea with a current obsession, were I to desire to incorporate the line from Ladytron’s “Ghosts” which states that I “made you a prisoner inside your own frequency” I would WRITE the line just before it lyrically, which is “made a trail of a thousand tears.”
In the end, the story would be a jumble of lyrics which appear completely incongruous and discordant but upon “decoding”, would equal a completely linear thought process.
Yeah, I’m sure I was high when I came up with it. The idea totally necessitates that a reader really like Google, care enough about the author’s point of view to get to the bottom of it and (to a degree) dig similar music and/or be in a similar state of mind as the writer. Hmph. That’s a lot of requirements.
It could be argued that a more straightforward approach to speaking one’s mind might be more efficient. But maybe I just feel that those who aren’t willing to examine, don’t really deserve the truth. We are always saying something. Perhaps, there is a modicum of honour and integrity in the systematic selection of the souls we allow to dissect our truest intentions.

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