'She Screams... for Ice Cream'

“You may find the perfect lover by comparing tastes in ice cream, says Alan Hirsch, M.D., a neurologist and director of the Smell and Taste Treatment and Research Foundation in Chicago. Researchers call this “ice-cream hedonics.” Dr. Hirsch conducted a study of 720 people, ages 24 to 59, in which he correlated personality tests, their favorite ice-cream flavors, their partners’ favorite ice creams, and relationship status. Coffee-ice-cream lovers—found to be dramatic, seductive, flirtatious—are most romantically compatible with strawberry fans. Vanilla gals (emotionally expressive and fond of PDA) melt best with rocky-road guys. And mint-chocolate-chip fans are meant for each other.”

- Men’s Health, ‘Is She Good in Bed?’

I think I’ll start taking all my dates to Baskin Robbins from now on. Although my three favorite flavors (no kidding) are coffee, strawberry, and mint chocolate chip. So… am I poly-compatible or just, you know... hungry?

Happy Birthday, E

E: This year our sponsored event in the fair is a vocal contest of sorts and I am one of the judges. Last night I had to sit through some girl butchering my favorite rocker ballad, Extreme's More Than Words. Its like our family's favorite song and I wanted to throw a mic at her face for ruining it in such a horrible way. GR.

[If only I could rescue you from this life, girl. But it's oh-so-funny sometimes.]

Yes.

I disregard the proportions, the measures, the tempo of the ordinary world. I refuse to live in the ordinary world as ordinary women. To enter ordinary relationships. I want ecstasy. I am a neurotic — in the sense that I live in my world. I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself.

- Anais Nin, March 25, 1933

Purpose

There must be purpose here, 'cause most of us keep waking up.
(Don't you think it's pretty here).
It's so unexpectedly predictable, so sloppily intentional.
Does anyone know the punch-line yet?

There must be rhythm here, 'cause all of us have a heartbeat.
(Don't you see the music here).
Inside our ribs we tick an average of 60 beats a minute.
A-rum-pum-pum-pum-pum...
A-rum-pum-pum-pum-pum-pum...

There must be forgiveness here 'cause most of us have our weaknesses.
(Tell me what are your weaknesses).
I don't know myself, and I am afraid of you.
I'm happiest on chemicals.
The goings come and the comings go.
Forgive me I'm just an animal.

There must be healing here, 'cause everybody here has been damaged.
And we'll wear it like a tattoo, every scar is a smile.
To hell with the going down.

And we'll wear it like a tattoo, every scar is a smile.
To hell with the going down.

To hell with the going down.

There must be an afterlife here, 'cause everyone prays for resurrection.
You see the end comes quick as a bullet.

- Cloud Cult



[I think I'm manic again.]

Runaway.

I'm at that point where I've been away for so long, so often, that I'm staying away still to avoid the mess I've left behind.

[Take that any way you want.]

'Life is Short.'

Although it is only 6 pm on Sunday, I have managed to accomplish several things the past two days:

- read 4 books. Two by Chelsea Handler, the new David Sedaris, and finally bloody finished Hellenga's Philosophy Made Simple.

- started drinking yesterday at 10 am with a few Irish coffees. By lunch I was a) hammered and b) moving on up to SoCo/oj/lime (surprisingly tasty, a most excellent lake drink).

- I have a sun tan. Complete with sunglasses lines.

- Revived the Saturday night skinny-dipping tradition with E and B.

- Went antique shopping in town. Found some crazy book called 'Hoosier Lyrics,' a collection of early 20th century poetry by someone I'd never heard of... so of course I bought it.

- Laundry? Dishes? Boats covered? Check. Check.... and getting there.

- It's raining and the lake looks like something out of the mind of Melville. So much gray and blue and the shocking electric green of the plants in contrast. It's breathtaking.

- I don't have to work tomorrow and have decided to stay up here an extra day. Hell to the yes.

- Did I mention how much we drank yesterday? Oh. My. God. By noon we'd killed the whiskey and knocked off a pony keg of Heineken. On to the Southern Comfort and then my old friend vodka-and-cranberry-with-lime. Oy vey.

[And then, in true Camp Mitchell of the North fashion, we went fundraising at the annual lake assoc. bbq. We had our own table. We took ridiculous pictures of things up our noses and falling out of our mouths during dinner. It was awesome.]

- We ballroom danced on the pier (sloppily, quite blitzed) to Ella, Billie, Frank, Louie, and Coltrane (of course)... and then stargazed. And went streaking. And managed to put ourselves to bed by midnight. I'm so goddamn impressed I can barely express myself.

A most excellent lake weekend.

Honey put on that party dress

Looking over my shoulder to verify if I am, in fact, alone has become an unshakable habit when I wake up in the morning.

Some days I’m not. In fact, I’m reviving the age-old art of the One Night Stand… with a vengeance.

And… I love it.

Is it wrong to feel empowered? To ride the strangely euphoric wave of sexual liberation? To be this charmingly detached? Seductive without apology? Brutally honest and demanding and altogether contrary to my typically blazingly sensitive and polite self?

Is it also wrong that this weekend I woke up and could have sworn I was suddenly transported to my college days, some hybrid of Lolita and Tom Petty’s “Last Dance with Mary Jane?”

Or am I just burying my broken ego underneath the weight of another man?

(Sex is the gateway drug for the broken-hearted, if you ask me. Well, I suppose I still don't know if I'm broken-hearted or not, really. Rejected is probably the simplest description. But it's a hurt, a thorn, a wound nonetheless. Goddamnit, why do I still think about you? Get out of my head!)

Maybe this is what I mean, or what I’m looking for:

The man of your dreams,
perhaps not
maybe just one of the
many that have fallen
but for now I am
ridiculously happy
to be the one who
curls himself around you.

[found in OPLL]

Do the Dwayne Johnson

Loves:

- martini Thursday nights, outside under the stars
(if we could actually see the stars from downtown)
- 'This is my kingdom'
- Not bothering to actually engage in the debate as to whether we are friends because we collectively lack moral standards and are thus apathetic friends or if we are in fact friends because of a shared sense of fraternal love, tolerance, and undiluted capacity for forgiveness.
- Steak n' Shake, after-hours downtown crowd. We saw the Jonas Brothers. Or, rather, the Indianapolis version if one of them wore a pink sash around his scrappy locks and one was actually a girl. Still, a good sighting.
- 'Live Green, Buy Vintage'
- 'Baby I'm Shameless'
- Tense polling re: grape jelly brands (childhood preference). Results mixed.
- 'You tell me about your [insert experimental sexual experience here], I'll tell you about mine.'
- Frisco Melt. PLATTER.

On the flip side

I officially love the Amp 'Walk of Shame' commercial. So much so that I typed out the lyrics and forwarded the whole shebang to my brother and best friends with the tagline, 'where the hell was this when we were in college?'



My brother replies with a clip of Ben Folds's 'Late'... aka a heartfelt dirge lamenting the loss of Elliot Smith.

Let's recap: I celebrate a commercial proudly encouraging embarrassing decisions and sexual promiscuity. My brother remembers a great artist remembering another great artist. I am an asshole.

Got me thinking about dichotomy, contradictions...

If I had a dollar for every time someone (ok, a man, men in general) told me I was either 'interesting' or 'fascinating' I would have... a lot of dollars.

So what the hell makes me so interesting, you know? This is what I keep asking myself. I'm 'different' or 'special' or 'one of a kind,' depending on who you ask and how much he or she may have been drinking. I'm 'a study in contrasts.'

Well let's discuss some of those.

I buy organic produce but eat ramen noodles without hesitation.
I'm a bit of a ball-buster but hate (hate hate hate) to sleep alone.
I make fun of chick flicks but watch Lifetime movies. ('Boyfriend for Christmas' is a personal favorite, btw. That one might have been on the WE channel though).
I reject conventional Christianity (especially Catholicism) but feel most spiritually connected in ancient cathedrals.
I look like I belong on Wisteria lane but the suburbs give me nightmares.
I am the WASP postergirl but pretty much wish I was Jewish. A lot, actually.
One of my greatest and most shallow triumphs comes from the fact that I look better than you do and I paid less for my outfit. (I said it was shallow).
Even though I'm as domestic as it gets, I don't know if I'll ever have children. (My choice, it's complicated).
The word 'marriage' gives me an involuntary physical reaction. Not the good kind.
I feel suffocated by my hometown but hate when an outsider criticizes it.
I alphabetize my dvds and color-code my closet but my car is a mess.
I complain when I feel unappreciated by men but usually ignore and/or push violently away those rare few that do show interest.
I survived open heart surgery but still faint when I get an injection... or even think about getting one.
I always get seasick, I'm afraid of fish and deep water... but I love to scuba dive.
I don't trust people.
I own real fur.
I drink beer with a straw.
I'm a damn good cook but you'd never know it because I buy groceries less often than the moon wanes and only use my kitchen for making tea and storing non-perishables like $3 bottles of wine.
I know the lyrics to more showtunes and antiquated Broadway hits than current top 40 songs.
Hate: MTV, Fox News, fundamentalism, sexual discrimination, wearing clothes.
Love: Golden Girls reruns, gardens, reading books outside, being serenaded, traveling.
Think Green, Buy Vintage.
I hate insects but will probably make you kill it for me.
I'm terrified of being ordinary but might not have a choice.
I can quote Jane Austen verbatim... from the books.
I work in retail and still like to play dress up. Can anyone say 'theme party?'
On those days when I think I might want to be a mother, I cry because I don't think I would survive it. I never want to pass this on to my child. Never.
I never cry. Never.
I talk too much but don't actually confide very much in anyone.
Never been a great dancer, never gonna be a great dancer. Although I do a mean Cuban Shuffle when I've been drinking heavily.
I am my mother, no 'turning into' about it.
I give the best advice in the world for someone who refuses to have an genuine romantic relationship of her own.
I'm solid as oak but flighty as hell.
If I love you, then I love you unconditionally. Once you're in the circle, you're in for life.
Love being overdressed in dive bars.
I make my life harder than it really is with a complex web of theoretical ideas, strobe lit daydreams, and overly-intellectualized analysis of the everyday.
I'm lonely often but good luck trying to get close to me. Really, good luck.
My family means everything to me even though we're really just one big fucking mess.
I've seen a lot of sunrises and don't sleep well.
I miss living abroad and hate that my French has gone straight to hell.
Love to kiss gay men.
Talk during movies.
Tend to obsess over one person for months at a time, even if I won't admit it. Years, even.
An optimist with an uncanny ability for cynical foresight.
Desperately in need of verbal affirmation most of the time.

From the Mixed-Up Files of...

E: I just had a brilliant idea. I keep getting press releases for Bible Baptist's "PURE LOVE" preachy abstinence teen program this weekend. how awesome would it be to go in true abfab form and act like we thought it was a PURE ROMANCE sex toy party and start demanding vibrators and nipple tassels!

Sent at 8:06 AM on Friday May 2

me: oh. my. god

THAT is AMAZING

E: or prank call....maybe we'll make drew do it tonight

_____________________

I have the greatest friends in the world... we have our own particular brand of sexual anarchy, what can I tell you?

The State of the Economy

There might be some change on top of the dresser at the back, and we should check the washer and the dryer. Check under the floor mats of the car. The couch cushions. I have some books and CDs I could sell, and there are a couple of big bags of aluminum cans in the basement, only trouble is that there isn’t enough gas in the car to get around the block. I’m expecting a check sometime next week, which, if we are careful, will get us through to payday. In the meantime with your one-dollar rebate check and a few coins we have enough to walk to the store and buy a quart of milk and a newspaper. On second thought, forget the newspaper.

- Louis Jenkins

Brian, this is for you.

Just read something about people complaining about love not finding them, or the 'right person' not showing up... the very core of the Snow White 'Some Day My Prince Will Come' complex.

Interesting, because I was just speaking of the same thing with friends... this kind of passive role just... doesn't suit. There is nothing wrong with a little Cinderella fantasy, a desire to be swept off one's feet, whisked away on a white horse, etc. Fine. We all indulge in secret romantic daydreams, ain't not shame in admitting it... but there is a distinct difference between these harmless dreams and actually sitting still, waiting for the fantasy to come to life.

There is a world of exciting mistakes and romantic foibles waiting outside this little waiting-by-the-phone-with-a-cat-and-an-astrology/candle-collection cliche bubble. I remember reading somewhere some sort of quote attributed to Jonathan Rhys-Meyers (spelling?) in which he recalls sitting in some Hollywood bar listening to these two young girls bitch about how they'll never find the perfect guy and bemoaning the fact that all the Brad Pitts of the world just didn't seem to be appearing or interested or whatever. His response was my favorite... basically, he turned to the girls and said (I'm paraphrasing), "Well, if you want to land Brad Pitt, you have to look like Angelina Jolie! So until then, get off your arses, hit the gym, and quit complaining!"

Right on, sir. Enough with the entitlement, let's face the fact that a girl's gotta fight for what she wants. As in take an active stance. Make it happen. Carpe Diem. (Or carpe noctum, as the case may be, wink).

Anyway, obviously had a poem in mind (quelle surprise). Here it is, enjoy:

Any prince to any princess

August is coming
and the goose, I’m afraid,
is getting fat.
There have been
no golden eggs for some months now.
Straw has fallen well below market price
despite my frantic spinning
and the sedge is,
as you rightly point out,
withered.

I can’t imagine how the pea
got under your mattress. I apologize
humbly. The chambermaid has, of course,
been sacked. As for the frog footman,
I understand that, during my recent fact-finding tour of the Golden River,
despite your nightly unavailing efforts,
he remained obstinately
froggish.

I hope that the Three Wishes granted by the General Assembly
will go some way towards redressing
this unfortunate sequence of events.
The fall in output from the shoe-factory, for example:
no one could have foreseen the work-to-rule
by the National Union of Elves. Not to mention the fact
that the court has been fast asleep
for the last six and a half years.

The matter of the poisoned apple has been taken up
by the Board of Trade: I think I can assure you
the incident will not be
repeated.

I can quite understand, in the circumstances,
your reluctance to let down
your golden tresses. However
I feel I must point out
that the weather isn’t getting any better
and I already have a nasty chill
from waiting at the base
of the White Tower. You must see the absurdity of the situation.
Some of the courtiers are beginning to talk,
not to mention the humble villagers.
It’s been three weeks now, and not even
a word.

Princess,
a cold, black wind
howls through our empty palace.
Dead leaves litter the bedchamber;
the mirror on the wall hasn’t said a thing
since you left. I can only ask,
bearing all this in mind,
that you think again,

let down your hair,

reconsider.

- Adrian Henri

Bad Luck Betty

BLB's streak continues this week with a broken dishwasher. Matt and I were putzing around the kitchen yesterday after work, me cleaning, he cooking something... I start the dish cycle and immediately notice that waves of sudsy frothy water are pouring from the door hinge area. You know... pouring out like some ridiculous sitcom episode where the idiot babysitter puts the wrong soap in the laundry machine or something and Haley Mills saves the day or Alice appears with a shake of her head to scold one of the Brady kids.

Pretty awesome.

You know what is awesome? Clean sheets. I'm totally high on fabric softener fumes right now and it is fantastic. Best day of the week.

Stuck going to the dentist tomorrow morning. Normally I am really excited about dental cleanings, for several reasons. Love of oral hygience and a non-sexual crush on my dentist are the main two... plus I get to catch up on my domestic magazine reading, like Midwest Living or Rachel Ray or Good Housekeeping. Plus, I owe my entire knowledge of how-to-cook-salmon-in-the-dishwasher to my dentist as well. Always fascinating what he tells me. Pretty damn good time, especially if they are offering novacaine and/or happy gas. Best. High. Ever.

Anyway, my misfortune comes because I had mistakenly thought that the appointment was not until Thursday morning, thus allowing me tomrorrow to sleep in (desperately needed, esp. before race weekend). But no, I will but up-and-at-'em bright and early tomorrow for speedy trip home, then back for full closing shift until 10. Oy. Bring on the caffeine, vyvanse, and any number of showtunes for the drive to keep me peppy. I'm not kidding, I'ma goin' blast me some serious broadway all the way there and back. ONE. SINGULAR SENSATION. EVERY LITTLE MOVE SHE MAKES.

Expect full-blast Jesus Christ Superstar in the mix too.

It's going to be such a long day.

Watched The Ten tonight (while I ironed, believe it or not). Maybe I'm a horrible person for admitting this, but I really liked it. Yes, the humor was off-color and certainly lacking in the politically-correct department... but it was great. Although I admit it is probably intended for a much much much less sober audience... trust me, it would have been better under the influence of something. I also have a feeling that it gets funnier with repetition. The last segment was my absolute favorite... it involved a gaggle of naked men getting together on the sabbath in secret to celebrate life, nudity, maleness... and Roberta Flack. YES. That is my kind of religious experience.

Nocturne

People underestimate the beauty of a lullaby.

I'm listening to a recording of my best friend, years since it was originally recorded, and it is the most lovely sound I could imagine for the dark hours of night. I'll admit, it was better when she would sing to me in person, nights when we couldn't sleep in college, long midnights when we were the only two people awake in a house of 140 girls, months when we were absolute disasters and battling demons we couldn't identify and certainly never understood (always worse at night).

It's easy to forget the talents of friends, glance hurriedly over these unique gifts that often drew one to them in the first place.

Oh it sounds so beautiful to listen to her now.

I love when people sing to me. Is there anything more wonderful?

[Today was a good day.]

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream

I woke up smiling, content and refreshed from a dream that seemed to resolve all my admittedly insignificant dilemmas that just won't seem to leave my thoughts. One of those nights filled with images of people I love... everyone came together and 'met' for the first time, I actually remember introducing different circles of friends/family/lovers at long last... even my family was involved, the lake, my childhood bed covers, holding someone's hand and sharing a pillow at the cottage.

I don't need Carl Jung to tell me that it was textbook fantasy sequence, that I mentally sculpted a perfect reunion/romance/Hallmark scenario, everything my life in reality is not at the moment.

God, it was a great dream though. A great dream.
_________________________________________

A Birthday

Something continues and I don’t know what to call it
though the language is full of suggestions
in the way of language
but they are all anonymous
and it’s almost your birthday music next to my bones

these nights we hear the horses running in the rain
it stops and the moon comes out and we are still here
the leaks in the roof go on dripping after the rain has passed
smell of ginger flowers slips through the dark house
down near the sea the slow heart of the beacon flashes

the long way to you is still tied to me but it brought me to you
I keep wanting to give you what is already yours
it is the morning of the mornings together
breath of summer oh my found one
the sleep in the same current and each waking to you

when I open my eyes you are what I wanted to see

- W.S. Merwin

[a favorite: hung next to my bed]

In Retrospect...

In the past two weeks...

I have begun a new job with responsibilities that frighten me, newfound authority that secretly thrills me, and the terrifying album of changes that always accompany these things. It's not as easy as I had hoped to keep my optimism and faith in myself. I feel at last as though something is really at risk and don't know if I'll measure up, don't know if I'll let myself down (let everyone down)...

I have been inches away from a musical legend, shaken the hand of a presidential candidate, and VIP'd my way around a political rally... all within four blocks of my place downtown. In the rain no less. No better way to celebrate Cinco de Mayo.

I have partied like it's 1999. I have more digital photos than actual memories of certain nights and several encounters that would make my mother weep in shame.

I have strolled naked through the moonlight and accidentally flashed one of my best friends. Walking in the altogether down a staircase at five in the morning carries such risk, it seems.

I don't regret any of those nights.

I have laughed with best friends, created an entirely new encyclopedia of tongue-in-cheek inside jokes and nicknames, confided secrets and for once not left anything out. Hello world, this is me... I'm still afraid of these confessions, still somehow naturally tend toward the privacy and safety of keeping things locked within... but I said them anyway. I think I'm getting better.

I have said goodbye to two friends, both embarking on extended journeys toward lands far away. I don't think it has entirely become a reality in my mind just how long and far apart we really are now... I don't know what it will feel like when I do face the temporary finality, look at a map and gage the miles between all of us... what a wonderfully miraculous time we inhabit that we still remain connected, still communicate over land and sea, hill and dale, war and peace. It frightens me, the very thought, so much I don't understand...

Tonight...

I have laughed and danced and run through a rainstorm.

I have soberly chanted lyrics to songs I don't really know and brazenly sung those I do. The dance floors at the wee odd hours of the morning would not be the same without Journey's 'Don't Stop Believing,' now would they?

I have doubted myself.

I have been reunited with a man who regaled E and I with tales of seeing Frank Sinatra live in concert. He was wearing a hat. It was magnificent.

I have been somewhat forced to acknowledge that just because I want something doesn't mean it is destined for me...

... and by 'something' I of course mean 'someone.'

Ouch.

Humility amid raindrops and 80's music isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I'm sleeping alone. [Common knowledge: I hate that].

Kissing you was all I could think about.

I don't know where to go from here and am struggling to remember to let life find its own path, let my life take its course as it will. There are days of sunshine ahead, I keep telling myself... Long beautiful sun-kissed days toppling into my lap one after the other like a row of glowing dominoes, promising light and luck and joy and love.

I am loved... and lucky to be loved so unconditionally, so fully, so genuinely...

Something about tonight is so unsettling nevertheless and I still can't find the pulse-point of it all... so disorienting, so out of place... I feel like I'm walking into a silent test and don't have the answer key.

It's a slow fall down the rabbit hole this time.

I cannot let my thoughts veer toward the land of the woulda-coulda-shouldas. I cannot. I cannot. I cannot.

I need guidance... I must remember the power of the everyday miracle, the pleasure in mystery, the ability to wait, the patience to be still, the serenity to listen...

... to whatever may whisper in the night.

_________________________________________

Seeker of Truth

seeker of truth

follow no path
all paths lead where
truth is here

e.e. cummings

___________________________________________

Did I actually reach out my arms
toward it, toward paradise falling, like
the fading of the dearest, wildest hope ---
the dark heart of the story that is all
the reason for its telling?

Mary Oliver

____________________________________________

To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.
To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight,
and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings,
and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.

Wendell Berry

_____________________________________________

The Tree, the Lamp

The tree grows old in the tree, it is summer.
The bird leaps beyond birdsong and is gone.
The red of the dress illuminates and scatters
Away, in the sky, the lading of old sorrow.

O fragile country,
Like the flame of a lamp carried out-of-doors,
Sleep being close in the world’s sap,
Simple the beating of the shared soul.

You too love the moment when the light of lamps
Fades and dreams into daylight.
You know it’s the darkness of your own heart healing,
The boat that reaches the shore and falls.

Yves Bonnefoy

A Song For You

So today I wrote a song for you
Cause a day can get so long
And I know it's hard to make it through
When you say there's something wrong

So I'm trying to put it right
Cause I want to love you with my heart
All this trying has made me tight
And I don't know even where to start

Maybe that's a start

Cause you know it's a simple game
That you play filling up your head with rain
And you know you are hiding from your pain
In the way, in the way you say your name

And I see you
Hiding your face in your hands
Flying so you won't land
You think no one understands
No one understands

So you hunch your shoulders and you shake your head
And your throat is aching but you swear
No one hurts you, nothing could be sad
Anyway you're not here enough to care

And you're so tired you don't sleep at night
As your heart is trying to mend
You keep it quiet but you think you might
Disappear before the end

And it's strange that you cannot find
Any strength to even try
To find a voice to speak your mind
When you do, all you wanna do is cry

Well maybe you should cry

And I see you hiding your face in your hands
Talking 'bout far-away lands
You think no one understands
Listen to my hands

And all of this life
Moves around you
For all that you claim
You're standing still
You are moving too
You are moving too
You are moving too
I will move you

- Alexi Murdoch

She never was a fighter
until he lay beside her,
and gently whispered,
'hope.'

Foy Vance

Had definitely already taken a sleeping pill when I wrote that yesterday.

At least the main objective was accomplished - slept for a 12 blissfully uninterrupted hours.

It. Was. Amazing.

at last, she sleeps.

Perhaps it is the changing seasons, the barometric dips in spring's pool, the stars aligning, some pervading air of unrest... have not slept for many days... and apparently I am not alone (for once), but seem to be learning of many friends who share this current nocturnal unrest, this series of waking nights woven with bizarre dreamscapes and the scrolling demiconscious thoughts.

Tonight, however, I will sleep under the protective wing of Night. I crumple weakly and wearily and dazedly into her feathery bosom, sink into her 1000 thread ct embrace, and pray that I dissolve seamlessly into slumbers beneath the ambien veil...



Thus, my favorite poem... a beautiful beautiful beautiful dream of a poem:

Variation On The Word Sleep

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and as you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

- Margaret Atwood

____________________________________

... and perhaps another vivid glimpse, the images the images the images...


The Top of the World (excerpts)

V

I go out.
I dream that I am going out into the snowy night.
I dream that I am carrying
With me, far, outside, there is no turning back,
The mirror from the upstairs bedroom, the mirror from
Summers past, the boat at whose prow
We, simple, pushed forward, questioning,
Deep in the sleep of summers that were brief, as life is.

In those days

It was through the sky gleaming in the mirror's waters
That the magi of our sleep, as they withdrew,
Would spread out their treasures in the darkened room.

VI

And in the rustling of the night sky
The beauty of the world bent down
To see her body reflected in the closed water
Of the sleepers, which branches out among the stones.
She brought trusting mouth and breath
Close to their lightless eyes. She would have wanted
Her brighter breast to appear beneath the shoulder
In the folds of her still closed robes,
Then day was rising around you,
Our earth the mirror, and the sunlight
Hemmed your bare neck with a red band of mist.

But here I am now
Standing outside the house; everything is motionless
Since it is only a dream. And so I go on, leaving,
It hardly matters where, against a wall, beneath the stars,
This mirror, our life. And may night's dew
Condense and flow, over the images.

- Yves Bonnefoy,
from 'The Top of the World'

Slice of heaven.

Today is a day of promises and bargains made with sunshine, quiet joy in a bright day, sweet grassy breezes, wide-eyed optimism...

It is so beautiful, so fresh and vivid here...

Simple pleasures:
Sapphire skies.
Converse All-stars. (Pink)
Sunglasses.
Cold drinks.
Hope.
Friends.
New chances.
Love.
Raspberries.
Open-air balconies.
Clean sheets.
Feeling healthy (or getting there, at least).
The city skyline.
Long walks downtown.
Driving with the windows/sunroof open.
Love... real love... savoring it where I can find it, where it will always be.

_______________

"The desert is beautiful," the little prince added.

And that was true. I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs, and gleams...

"What makes the desert beautiful," said the little prince, "is that somewhere it hides a well..."

I was astonished by a sudden understanding of that mysterious radiation of the sands. When I was a little boy I lived in an old house, and legend told us that a treasure was buried there. To be sure, no one had ever known how to find it, perhaps no one had ever even looked for it. But it cast an enchantment over that house. My home was hiding a secret in the depths of its heart...

"Yes," I said to the little prince. "The house, the stars, the desert - what gives them their beauty is something that is invisible!"

"I am glad," he said, "that you agree with my fox."

- Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Oh, Bluegrass...

502 Single's (Nick Gerlach, Matt Niehoff, Ivan Arnold)


Bonus: My best friend dated Guy #1 (Cletus). I was there when they met. And today she sends me this video he made. Totally. Worth. It.

Especially since I'm living off a diet of Airborne, saltine crackers, cough syrup, vitamins, and herbal tea. So incredibly miserable. And I sound like Peter Brady when I talk... you know, in the episode where his voice changes and they all sing that horrible horrible song about it. It's incredibly sexy, let me tell you.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may...

In my opinion, one of the most incredibly seductive poems she ever wrote... reminds me of "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time," in a way... a sexosensual carpe noctum, no?

*God do I hate sleeping alone.

Blossom

In April
the ponds open
like black blossoms,
the moon
swims in every one;
there’s fire
everywhere: frogs shouting
their desire,
their satisfaction. What
we know: that time
chops at us all like an iron
hoe, that death
is a state of paralysis. What
we long for: joy
before death, nights
in the swale - everything else
can wait but not
this thrust
from the root
of the body. What
we know: we are more
than blood - we are more
than our hunger and yet
we belong
to the moon and when the ponds
open, when the burning
begins the most
thoughtful among us dreams
of hurrying down
into the black petals
into the fire,
into the night where time lies shattered
into the body of another.

- Mary Oliver

April: Month of Epiphanies

Spring is naturally a time for growth, the return of roots and fresh blossoms. A time when the barren winter landscape slowly dons its green summer sundress and the birds return north to reclaim their arboreal homes.

I've grown suddenly aware of the effect of six months of freeze... for me a temporal pause in my own evolution, a reckless abandonment of my identity and escape into a trial version of myself... like a Mardi Gras mask I wore six weeks too long or a Halloween costume that I forgot to put back into the closet.

At first I thought it was myself I didn't recognize in the mirror. Now I'm thinking otherwise.

Tonight I had an incredibly important conversation with someone who has been like a grafted tree attached to me since I was yet in the flush of early youth, a slip of a teenage girl tentatively walking seaside along those island shores... someone who is unmistakably an integral part of me. Someone I love dearly. For me, family. Someone whose infinite love for me in return I don't feel I have fully acknowledged during this period of exploration mentioned above... I should not have taken that for granted, but I am sure that I did. And that hurts too... but in a way that is necessary. Good, even. I need to feel this brand of regret, this particular shame associated with facing my actions and choices and not really... liking much of what I see.

These past few days I have been agonizing over things, many things... thinking that I was surrounded by people I didn't recognize, people I really didn't know in truth. People whose actions shocked me, hurt my feelings... and yet... now... maybe it's actually the opposite of that. Maybe it's me that they don't fully know. Maybe I'm not the person they think I am.

He said to me that it wasn't me who had changed. That it wasn't me who was unrecognizable. That I am still the same, still the one he loves as his own blood. Still bonded at the soul to him for what dreams may come.

That nothing I can do will make him question that fact.

(We're family, after all.)

That I'm not the same person with him that I am around this other environment, this other circle I have so deeply ingrained myself within, a world that brings to surface different aspects of myself.

I have known this in some locked-away page of my inner dialog for a while now, known something like a whisper in the dark before I fell asleep, something I couldn't quite make out in the night's blackness. But it was there. I know it was there.

In my desperation to forget the painful reality of home, the blurred lines between sadness and anger and resentment and confusion and paralyzing fear, I've flung myself headlong into a bizarre alternate dimension where everybody has something to hide... something to forget.

We're really just a cliche country-western song lyric. Drowning our sorrows. Numbing the hurt. Dancing and spinning so fast we hardly remember our bearings... except... really aren't we just drilling a deeper hole? Has any of us truly moved past that original sin? The root problem?

It seems not.

The only anti-venom to poison in this case is love...

...and how I managed to keep it, I'll never know. These are the people who stick, like barnacles attached to the hull of a ship even as it's sinking. These are the people who grab their instruments and serenade the doomed passengers even as they refuse to abandon the doomed vessel. And these are the angels of mercy who are still here to help me piece myself back together now that I finally hear the S.O.S. signal on the intercom.

I don't know what I am that I deserve this blind love. I don't.

And so much is changing in my life - like Mary Poppins I'm riding the wind as it changes directions, grabbing my umbrella and flying into the horizon, the next phase of my life.

I just realized tonight also that I owe a debt of gratitude to another someone in particular for first striking the flint that lit the candle by which I now read my life's hieroglyphs. He was perhaps the only person in whom I truly saw reflected the reality of now, saw not only the 'me' of today in his eyes but the 'me' of yesterday, figuratively speaking. And it certainly was unexpected, this clarity. And maybe I'll never get the chance to tell him about it, to thank him for it. Because I didn't like the fact that the two reflections were so polar, so dichotomous... I don't think I was alone in my disappointment. Which was an awakening, a moment in which the two universes were jarred just enough to slightly shift on their axes... and then I knew. 'The curtain rolled back'... something had to change. Somewhere in that mysterious no-man's land between new and old lies a balance of the two, a soul whose path has given rise to priceless lessons in life and some minute bit of wisdom, understanding, peace.

And it's not about apologizing... I know that. It's not about pitying myself or hating myself or cursing the gods for my stupidity or flinging myself onto the flames of the funeral pyre... those are all still just selfish actions that focus on me, and me alone. And that's exactly what I must turn away from... I don't know how the hell I am going to rectify certain scenarios or relationships... some things are still so raw I don't even know how to approach the wound without risking gangrene. And dear god I don't want to amputate. And I need serious help along the way... the family tree is withered and weather-beaten to say the least. We're all suffering. Some of us silently, some not. Like the tides, we always return to the same place in our rhythmic pull toward one another.

What I can do, however, is take care of myself. 'Get myself out of the way,' as Liz Gilbert writes, that others can be the focus of healing and love.

Time to grab the garden shears and prune away the weeds so that sunlight can reach the seedlings below, that there can again be a revival of growth. Strip it down to the basics. Take the first steps along the path to atonement... because it's long and uphill and littered with obstacles and surprises and temptations. My life has become a series of Chaucer tales.

I don't know where to start, and I know it's going to be damn difficult to keep myself from overcompensating, overwhelming my loved ones with apologies rammed down throats, overly verbalized pleas for forgiveness.

Ironic, really... a couple days ago I decided that I was going to try and stop talking so much. Decided I needed to listen more thoughtfully, listen like I did before, back when I was more of a vessel for helping others, providing audience to fears and tears that weren't my own. And you know what? Yesterday that became a literal reality for me. Today is my second day with a serious (and painful) case of laryngitis. Truly, I have no voice. Speaking in this state is almost out of the question, physically at least.

It's truly all connected, isn't it?

When life sends a message... it really sends a message.

[And I'm listening... I'm listening...]

moving on up...

Wild day at work. And thus a terrific opportunity for me to completely lose my voice and resort to using a tone that can only be defined as part cabaret telephone actress (read: breathy), part hollywood slasher monologue (read: 'the call is coming from inside the house!' or, more accurately... 'RED RUM RED RUM RED RUM'). Yikes.

Had a date with myself at Barnes/Noble. Spent half an hour trying to find two specific things... found neither of them... but did manage to find a fantastic Donald Hall collection (excerpts soon to be featured here, I am certain) and this marvelous little number called Other People's Love Letters. Think found.com meets postsecret with a little more organization and author permission slips.

I.
Am.
Obsessed.

Am most impressed by the variety of 'letters' featured, from the syrupy honeymoon sap to the raging break-up emails to the dear-johns to the sign-the-divorce-papers-already to the sext messages to the elementary doodles to the letters to deceased lovers. I'm telling you, this is completely engrossing.

That hopelessly dangerously devastatingly romantic side of me (the one I don't like to admit I have) is going wild with the creative possibilities behind these mysterious and essentially anonymous pieces. Who are these people? What happened to them? Under what spell or constellation did these events occur?

I'm completely inspired... both as compulsive letter-writer and dreamy letter-recipient. I'll end with a few shared stolen thoughts...

_________________________________

What I Want

Tonight, there are two things I want.

The first thing I want is a park bench.
Wooden, weathered, solid, comfortable.
And with a view. Doesn't have to be of the
ocean. Could be a simple garden.
Or a squirrel in a tree.
Would you sit next to me, on my park bench?
Would you take my hand and help me
watch that squirrel?

The last thing I want tonight: you.
You and me. You, me, and an entire day
for us to spend together,
any way we choose.

____________________________________

The man of your dreams,
perhaps not
maybe just one of the
many that have fallen
but for now I am
ridiculously happy
to be the one who
curls himself around you.

____________________________________

Dear Lindsey,

I am so hating men right now.
Mart dumped me, because I lost my mind and had a weak flashback moment with Miles. Then I dumped Jim for Aquaman. And then, Aquaman dumped me for his beach house (not kidding!). He actually said "I only wish I had met you after the summer." ????? What's that supposed to mean?!!????

My feelings are so fucking hurt. I feel it in my arms and legs. It's like my blood is sad. I feel so stupid for having hope, for letting myself feel things for him, for calling when he wasn't calling back. Total humiliation.
I hate feeling so weak and so vulnerable.
I hate that I miss him, that I miss Mart. I hate that I am alone.
I hate that I made him into a superhero he was not (He dives for ship wrecks and he has a delicious body, but he is NO aqua man.)
I hate that I bought him jumbo bags of peanut M&Ms because they were his favorite.
I hate that I want to sleep all the time.
I hate that I even thought for a second about not moving to new york because
of this.
i hate that i will see him in the gym.
i hate that he doesn't want to kiss me.
i hate that i called mart this morning just to hear his voice, just to hear
him say he misses me.
i hate that all i want to do is read lame magazines and watch daytime tv.
i hate that every time i cry over one boy it is like crying over all of
them again.

________________________________________

Can't Stop Thinking 'Bout You...

Keepin' my eyes on the road this time around
Keepin' my hands pressed to the wheel
Something so strange as a woman has got me down
Ain't gonna be your damn fool again

Drivin' tonight just to ease my mind
A man in this mood is a most dangerous kind
Then there was the time my head went blind
Couldn't see the sign at the time
Years would go by before I wondered who
Or where or what or why

Lovin' you was like lovin' a house on fire
Burning and learning when the damage was done

Now I'm tired and I'm scared and wide open
To the rest of my life
And I almost had it all
I'm sick and tired but I'm hoping
That a cure will be found
Cause I can't stop thinking bout you
I can't stop thinking bout you

Here face to face with what I've been running from all these years
Hangs a dark cloud over the moon
Pull off to this roadside dive and maybe test my sobriety
Order a tall cool ginger ale

Lovin' you was sort of like lovin' a fifth of the finest bourbon
Was it your quality or high quantity that's put me in the shape I'm in

Now I'm tired and I'm scared and wide open to the rest of my life
And I almost had it all
I'm fooling myself by thinking
That a cure will be found
Cause I can't stop thinking bout you
I can't stop thinking bout you

- Martin Sexton

[one of the absolute finest songs for melancholy hours like these... if you ever have the chance to hear him live... GO.]

It's time to start being a better friend... and stop talking about myself so much. When did I turn into such a raging narcissist? Maybe I spend too much time alone with my thoughts, too many late sleepless hours with nothing but my own spinning microcosm of a life to distract me.

... in the words of my college darlings OK GO, "get get get get get over it."

Time to get back to the roots... back to a higher circle, a world that loves me back... back to a lifestyle where I respect myself in the morning, don't allow pettiness in others to poison my nights... I refuse to allow them to determine my perception of myself. Damnit! Don't make me defend my actions, dismiss me for calling you out on your own patchwork morals, leave me bruised and labeled an unkind term. I won't be pigeon-holed into that role anymore. Get somebody else to do the dirty work, take on the role of 'bad cop' and face the brunt of the backlash. Or try it yourself for once.

I can't believe you called me that. After all this... everything...

What is wrong with me? How could I have been so blind to who you really were to me? Why did I think we were on emotionally equal levels with each other? When it was so obvious all this time...

I really don't want to sleep by myself tonight... but I need to get over that too. In the end, I shouldn't require anyone else to complete me or hold me steady, right? But... is it wrong to just want somebody to hold me anyway?

Ugh. Get it together, Mitchell.

Enough, I say. Enough.

"The Curse of the Liberal"

A long and difficult 24 hours. A reminder that in the midst of every storm is an eye, a center, a Halcyon of tranquility absolutely untouched by the ravaging destructive force surrounding it... that is where I need to go.

Was talking to E about it... our 'happy' places, tangibly speaking. Mine is in front of the Harrison windows at the IMA or in the Lilly Gardens... E prefers the Baroque wing. It has to do with the light, for both of us... E and her Caravaggio, me and my blue-dazzled gold atrium. (I love the Chagall windows in Chicago for the same reason). It's our romantic dispositions, our need to highlight beauty or brush things unwanted into shadow, filter the world into multi-colored kaleidoscopes... take what exists in plain and make it bloom in rich jewel-tones.

On a more figurative level, I have decided I need to get back to a place where I am happy, happier with myself. Lose some of this guilt. Disassociate myself from scenarios that bring me little more than regret, bruised feelings, the sense of compromise... I know who I am. I know what I am. Lately though I don't seem to know what I'm doing.

At all.

My world is filled with decisions that seem to been cataclysmic... I put my faith and time and energy into the wrong things, wrong people even... and along that path of choosing and prioritizing other people - people who, in hindsight, deserved some priority themselves - I seem to be crushing innocents under my wheels like that monstrous tree-eater in Fern Gully.

Still working on why exactly my judgment has been so terribly wrong, how I seem to be swept into this pattern... what I need to change. Was speaking to M up north this afternoon while I waited on my brakes to be repaired (replaced, it turns out), literally shaking my fists at the sky in a mock display of rage against the fates that had led me so astray... "It's just the curse of the liberal, you know?" he said. "We want to believe that everyone is inherently good and noble at heart."

... and worthy of second chances, I thought to myself. Worthy of me trying to save them, coaxing their better selves into the open, dismissing transgressions again and again and again in the name of forgiveness and love. It's who I am and one of the greatest gifts I can offer... but unfortunately I become so blindly loyal to the ideal inner soul of a person I often fail to recognize the actual person before me, refuse to 'leave a man behind' (in the military sense)... my stubbornness is hardly a secret. My pride too.

At what point will I allow myself to throw in the towel in the name of self-preservation? In the name of my own integrity? Why do people keep taking advantage of my trustworthiness? I'm trustworthy out of principle, a firm (very firm) belief in the right of privacy, need to respect others, honor them with space as they so require, a desperate attempt at keeping relationships cordial and kind and removed from the hurtful childish cyclone of gossip or pettiness... it's worth trying, damnit. Of course this is a failed mission from the start, I know that as well as anyone... hell, I like to gossip too. And I watch E! news far more than I should. But I hold bonds of trust sacred. I really do... and it's a lonely lonely road. Keeping secrets for others is taking liability for them yourself, submitting to the burden of the weight of words. Confidentiality... necessary but often agonizing (as E so painfully knows)...

Should I consider this spring - still just hoping to survive it - my trial by fire? Of natural cleansing perhaps, like when forests burn down and regrow anew from the charred ashes of previous generations of seeds? Is it time to start planting? Cultivating new life? New relationships? Do I even remember what it is that truly fulfills me? The real me?

What sort of labyrinth have I gotten myself into?

And where is my Daedalus to show me the blueprints to freedom?
________________________________

In spite of everything, I still believe
that people are really good at heart.
I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation
consisting of confusion, misery, and death.
I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness,
I hear the ever-approaching thunder, which will destroy us, too,
I can feel the suffering of millions, and yet,
if I look up into the heavens,
I think that it will all come right,
that this cruelty will end,
and that peace and tranquility will return again.
In the meantime, I must uphold my ideals,
for perhaps the time will come
when I shall be able to carry them out.
- Anne Frank

Ouch. You have no idea. You really don't, do you?

Ice cold.

To what extent is it a good thing...

... to be cynical?
... to be guarded, emotionally?
... to wear one's heart on one's sleeve?
... to remain at arm's length from those who frighten/challenge you?
... to admit that first impressions are clouded by self-doubt/distrust?
... to indulge in snarkiness?
... to admit to being less than yourself?
... to be honest?
... to change?

I'm fairly level-headed, in my opinion. Yet I have a tendency to take the 'bait,' that same pride-singed reaction as during the middle school years of never turning down a 'dare' in games. Sometimes I forget things... like the fact that not everyone knows me well enough to judge me based upon the sum total of my self and not merely the biting comments and asides. Humor is only funny when it's shared, not when it is exclusive to its originator, isn't it?

At what point do I run the risk of turning my heart into the equivalent of Steve McQueen and his baseball in The Great Escape? Thumping, repetitive, rhythmic... and solitary. Untouched by the sunlight of the greater world. Enclosed within a self-erected (in my case) fortress without windows. There comes a time when acting in the name of self-preservation is little more than miserly, callous even. To protect one's feelings at the expense of others'... I fail to see anything noble in that.

And of this I know I am guilty... often.

The time has arrived to evolve past this immaturity, no matter how deserved the tightly furled petals of original heartbreak may have been... Recovery. Forgiveness. Acceptance. Tenderness. Growth. Spring renewal.

Anais Nin once wrote something - her exact phrasing escapes me, surprisingly - to the extent of 'and the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.'

If the earth is renewing herself, so then should I, no?

It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.

- Margaret Atwood, 'Variations on the Word Love'

Her name was Lola...

A glorious Sunday of sunlight, dog walks, brunch, best friends, and a knock-'em-dead hangover.

After a sufficient recovery period (aka nap, ibuprofen, mass ingestion of hydrating liquids), I must try to recount some of the grand adventures that were last night.

Preview, in brief:
1. Marathon bar crawl.
2. Elise scratching phone numbers into the bathroom wall of one of such bars. ('FOR SEXY TIME CALL...'). Don't mess with our family. We defend our own.
3. Impromptu 'no pants party' once we got home.
4. So many cocktails... My. God.
5. Abundance of photographs that seem to resemble the zombies of Shaun of the Dead far more than our actual likenesses... eeks. The crunk eye. It'll getcha.

Oy vey... the madness that is my life.

Tradition.

Wednesdays are kindof a big deal. This has been mentioned before. It remains so.

[Example at right, 2 weeks ago.]

However, in lieu of partaking in typical Wednesday activities tonight, I am staying home, staying sober, and uploading photos of previous Wednesday excursions.

... which is kindof like actually going out, right?

I am in pajamas, a robe, glasses, slippers, and my hair is being held atop my head with a pen I took from work. And shall return, incidentally. I made fresh chamomile tea. I might eat a grapefruit. Or a popsicle. Or I might go crazy and have both. Feeling so healthy I hardly recognize myself.

Additional Potential Activities for Tonight:
- Tackle Iron/Mending pile. Really.
- Fill out app. for job promotion
- Mail electrical bill
- Finish book about Josephine Bonaparte
- Work on birthday gift projects... most of which are far beyond 'belated' at this point
- Clean microwave
- finally watch The Passenger

It's good to be the Queen.

Posse, Party of 3.

Saturday somehow became a petri dish of inspiration.

1. Jack Black on Nickelodeon. That's right, bitches, I saw it. We watched the entire performance of some studio-birthed pre-teen mini-rocker band... whose name I have promptly forgotten, but their catchy chorus of "I don't wanna go to school!" is definitely a memorable stand-out. Hey, sing what you know, sparky. Let the feelings out. Let go of the rage. And this make confirm my spot on the 'going to hell because I am a horrible human' list, but all I could think about while I watched this little lead singer yell and glare and stomp around his rock-n-roll kingdom was, "Psh... good luck keeping this kid off drugs." Is that awful? But honestly, if you don't want all your little starlings to evolve into Pete Dohertys, don't dress them all like him, eh?

I digress. Ben, Eddy and I had just had our daily fill of Parker Posey (goddess) and were channel-skipping and happened upon the Jack Attack hosting the Nickelodeon kid's choice awards night. And allow me to insert my very strong belief that Mr. Black was wicked blazed during that opening number. Did anybody else see the whites of his eyes? No? Really? Me neither. Party on, Jackie-baby. Party on.

Anyway, some giant fuzzy sea creature costume wearing sunglasses (... at night) that was 'jamming' onstage with Jack is the basis for our next party venture/group identity.

The Rocktopus.

We are now calling ourselves 'THE ROCKTOPUSSY POSSE.'

This is one of our proposed costumes. [note that they are referred to as 'jumpin jammerz'... with a z. Like Liza.] Ben had the great idea to get us all the electric guitar printed sets and (drumroll) BEDAZZLE strets onto the guitars in the fabric. Ummm... hello fabulous!

We must host a whopping ballyhoo of a party based upon this theme.

Side note: Am I the only person in the 'under 30ish female' demographic who hasn't listened to these Jonas Brothers? Really? What is going on with that? Apparently I am tragically behind when it comes to what's 'in' with the youth of America. Which makes me really nostalgic for the primordial soup of grunge band culture that I emerged from during the early nineties. And based upon the coiffures of said jonas brothers, I feel that a more appropriate and entertaining band name for them could be Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail. Yes, even after watching all of 12 or so minutes of Nickelodeon, I can verify with all certainty that there exists only one truly trendy boy-cut... and not everybody is making the pseudo-skater-side-sweep-flippy-shag-thing work. Sorry, fellas.

2. Patsy and Eddie watched our favorite episode of AbFab - season one, ep. 3: "France." Watch it. Love it. Embrace the madness.

3. While I'm thinking of fashionable outrageousness, am delighted to report grand progress with the seasonal wardrobe switch. I have removed all things woolly and thermal from current main closet and folded them neatly in the corner of the room. (Obviously if I take the time to package, seal, and store them in their summer home above the luggage closet it will snow. With a vengeance.) So they remain stacked and colorized by the window... at least for a few days until my OCD gets the better of me.

And I had forgotten how fun summery clothes are! Anything to which the word 'diaphanous' may be applied is definitely my absolute favorite. Well, that and black turtlenecks. I guess I go from looking like some busty beatnik Sprocket all winter to a mix of the New Look and the costumes from A Midsummer Night's Dream. What can I tell you... if the shoe fits, buy two pair.

Exciting to see a visual manifestation of the changing weather and charged atmosphere that accompanies these first weeks of spring renewal. Ahh! Time for some greenery! Blossom, damnit, blossom! Besides, spring vintage dresses are always better than autumn/winter varieties. And definitely less likely to reek of mothballs or horrid fermaldehyde-esque granny closet. Bleh. Gross.

Oh and managed to evict yet another three bags of unncessary/unloved wardrobe rejects. To the glue farm for the lot of them. And by 'glue farm' I mean the family shelter on Allisonville. Very excited. Decluttering my life, one ugly sweater at a time.

this too.

A Little Fall Of Rain

I love rainstorms. When I was growing up we would sit in the sunroom during night tempests with the lights off and the ceiling fan on high speed. Not only did we have a breathtaking panoramic view of the stunning miracle of rainfall and thunder, but we also had the pseudo-natural strobe effect that lightening bolts had on the whirling fan blades. Yes, I grew up in the country. And it was beautiful. And green. And fresh. And wondrous.

Every time I catch myself in bitter spirits about the weather or complaining about the inconvenience of mudpuddles, deflated hairstyles, or general depressive anxiety from cloud-laden skies, I cannot help but marvel at my own blind cynicism and selfishness. Rain used to brighten my days, so to speak. I have photos documenting some of my finest rain dances, spinning in rain-drunk circles in the emerald grass and leaping giddily like a forest sprite, careless and soaked and incandescently happy. It's rejuvenating - literally, figuratively, spiritually, metaphorically.

"And rain will make the flowers grow."

I'm waiting for tulips. And daffodils. And irises.

If I were a maker of perfumes, I would make one and call it 'Spring,' and it would smell like this cool, sweet, early-morning air. - Ann Petry

You Had Me At Hello.

Ten Most Historically Inaccurate Movies: Films That Make Your High School History Teacher Cry.

Obviously I had to read this, based on tag-line alone.

And let's face it, history is much more palatable with beautiful people. I don't really want to know what Queen Elizabeth really looked like astride a horse at age 52. I do prefer my Spartans in 'leather speedos' (great line!). William Wallace deserves his skirt-sporting, lady-romancing legacy to remain unblemished by 'truth.' And here in America we certainly reserve bragger's rights regarding our military record. Let's just consider our 'winning' the Battle of Guilford Court House an original version of 'Mission Accomplished.'

Lastly, props awarded to Mel Gibson for his astonishing representation on the list (involved in at least 30% of the films). It's official, Mel. When I want somebody to give history a makeover, I'm calling you.

[Oh, Hollywood.]

Superstar.

me: yeah I can't really admit that kind of shit to anybody else, huh

me: "I have a crush on a 65 yr old dude that makes a living playing rock star jesus"

everybody else: "you = loser psychopath looney tune"

Chona: hahaha

me = "i want to have a crush on a guy like that"

me: totally

bless you, my child



I mean seriously! And Corey Glover as Judas! Yes! That show was fierce!

Ooohhh la la 1938!

Run out and go see Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day! Immediately! Simply marvelous, dahling.

Reasons I'm excited:
1. caught the matinee with jules. Aka cheap tickets. We were without a doubt the youngest in the theatre by 35 years minimum. Love the early birds!
2. Love that despite our being 35 years younger than the rest of the film-goers... we were absolutely exactly at home. The little-old-lady set? Totally our people. We're all Miss Pettigrews, it seems.
3. Painting my nails crimson red in honor of the film. Those costumes... ahhhh... simply gorgeous!! I want to exist in a divine jazz and cocktail rhinestone-dazzled cabaret paradise. Clearly I was born a few generations too late for my own good. Damnit.
4. Well-behaved and getting my coiffure styled tomorrow at lunch. Very Elizabeth Arden. Hoping to emerge with some semblance of Catherine Deneuve-esque chic.
5. Booknerd paradise tomorrow afternoon with jules. Love library dates!
6. Home with Death at a Funeral for a lovely sober evening of girly manicure, perhaps an art project or two, and pjs. And I do so utterly adore this film. Hysterical.

A great day.

Wide Awake.

Read Venus in Furs this week and have been having the most incredibly bizarre dreams as a result. My thoughts have been overtaken with a peculiar brand of sadomasochism, it seems. Have just woken up with a start only to see that it's barely 5 in the morning and I'm parched... a result no doubt of drinking 3 bourbons earlier. Yikes.

A fascinating Thursday night it was. Spontaneously hopped over to my favorite bar in the city, a jazz dive a mere block and a half down the street from me. Live jazz every night of the week and a delicious bohemian patronage reminiscent of the beatnik scene. I love it. Can't help but meet a colorful cast of characters each time I go, this time being no exception. Also happened upon two friends I hadn't seen since high school - a good many years, which seems both odd and somewhat gratifying. Aha... we have all moved on at last. I love those unexpected reunions, am genuinely thrilled and interested to catch up, rediscover a fantastic personality, sense that unspoken bond of having grown up together in our little midwestern hometown bubble... which seems so far away but really... isn't, I guess.

Can already sense the bourbon headache, though. Paired with the strange dream that I can only vaguely recall.

And you can dance... for inspiration.

1. Listened to Madonna's Immaculate Collection this afternoon whilst in the shower, etc. Seemed to capture the glorious downtown saturday vibe... and definitely a sign that I'm having dancing withdrawal.

Gah! Madonna = Love. The woman is a goddess.

2. Flipped on the television for weather status check (hello mid-march snow!) and delightedly discover that Married to the Mob is on. Well, final scene anyway. Ummmm... hello 80's Madonna fashion at it's Jersey finest!

Rar. Corkscrew curls, oversized headband, and a totally rad turquoise/purple tunic combo. I'm not kidding, I ab-fab-solutely love it.

3. Immediately following? The Birdcage. Hell yes - queens, clubs, manpris, cabana boys, parasols, and South Beach. It's like... the promised land.

Coincidence? I doubt it. The stars are aligned... and all signs point toward drag queens and limousines. (an excellent song, by the by)

Soooo.... just might need to follow our tapas/sangria plans with a heavy dose of gay bar fabulousness, cocktails, and dancing.

Must divine some jazzy retro madge ensemble to wear! Viva 80's chic!

Proof that sometimes, there just is no sex in the champagne room

Brilliant Insight as revealed between two of my most fabulous college girlfriends:

R: what the crap?!

C: i know

it's always the circumstances

oh, i live elsewhere...i might move in the future...i have a girlfriend..

..i like guys...

R: If it's not one thing, it's another dude**

C: haha

quote of the century



**Story of our lives. No. Seriously. You have no idea. Went to the theatre tonight with my mother and as we were waiting to pull out of the parking lot swarm I kept noticing the schmoopy artsy/hipster young couples gallavanting along the sidewalk on their just-saw-a-musical-and-about-to-go-home-and-get-laid love swoons. I sighed and told my mother, "You know, I just really want someone to want to go to the theatre with me." My mother turns to me wide-eyed and says, "Well... I'll always go to the theatre with you! I'm here right now, aren't I? I love Broadway!" "Mother," I calmly exhaled, "I was talking about heterosexual males."**

I could have danced all night.

Tonight! Theatre tickets with the momma! Hurrah!

Fin.

I confessed to Jack that the toughest thing for me was to decide to be with someone for good. The idea that this is it, this is the man I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. To decide that I will make the effort to stay and work things out and not run off the minute there is a problem is very difficult for me. I told him I could not be with just one man for the rest of my life, which was a lie but I said it anyway. He asked me if I thought I was a squirrel, collecting men like nuts to put away for cold winters. I thought it was quite funny. Then he said something that hurt my feelings. The tone changed drastically. Then I misunderstood what he was saying. I thought he meant that he didn't love me anymore and that he wanted to break up. It always fascinates me how people go from loving you madly to nothing at all. It hurts so much.
When I feel someone is going to leave me I have a tendency to break up first before I hear the whole thing. Here it is, one more, one less. Another wasted love story. I really loved this one.
When I think that it's over, that I'll never see him again like this... well yes, I'll bump into him, we'll meet our new boyfriend and girlfriend, act as if we had never been together... Then we'll slowly begin to think of each other less and less 'til we forget each other completely... almost.
Always the same with me: break up, break down, drink up, fool around. Meet one guy then another, fuck around to forget the one and only. Then after a few months of total emptiness, start again to look for true love. Desperately look everywhere, then after two years of loneliness, meet a new love and swear it is The One, until that One is gone as well.
There's a moment in life where you can't recover anymore from another break-up. And even if this person bugs you 60 percent of the time, or you still can't live without him... And even if he wakes you up every day by sneezing right in your face, well... you love his sneezes more than anyone else's kisses.

Julie Delpy
2 Days in Paris

Influenza, take two.

Second day in a row home sick, bedridden, shivering between menopausal hot flashes and feverish cold spells, feel like I'm starting to ferment from having been in bed for so long. Lovely lovely start to the week.

At any rate, just received this as a forward email and it might just be the greatest bit of my (admittedly terrible) day.

Enjoy.

_______________________________

This is an actual letter from an Austin woman sent to American company
Proctor and Gamble regarding their feminine products. She really gets
rolling after the first paragraph. It's PC Magazine's 2007 editors' choice
for best webmail-award-winning letter.


Dear Mr. Thatcher,

I have been a loyal user of your 'Always' maxi pads for over 20 years and I
appreciate many of their features. Why, without the LeakGuard Core or
Dri-Weave absorbency, I'd probably never go horseback riding or salsa
dancing, and I'd certainly steer clear of running up and down the beach in
tight, white shorts. But my favorite feature has to be your revolutionary
Flexi-Wings. Kudos on being the only company smart enough to realize how
crucial it is that maxi pads be aerodynamic. I can't tell you how safe and
secure I feel each month knowing there's a little F-16 in my pants.

Have you ever had a menstrual period, Mr. Thatcher? Ever suffered from
thecurse'? I'm guessing you haven't. Well, my time of the month is starting
right now. As I type, I can already feel hormonal forces violently surging
through my body. Just a few minutes from now, my body will adjust and I'll
be transformed into what my husband likes to call 'an inbred hillbilly with
knife skills.' Isn't the human body amazing?

As Brand Manager in the Feminine-Hygiene Division, you've no doubt seen
quite a bit of research on what exactly happens during your customers
monthly visits from 'Aunt Flo'. Therefore, you must know about the bloating,
puffiness, and cramping we endure, and about our intense mood swings, crying
jags, and out-of-control behavior. You surely realize it's a tough time for
most women. In fact, only last week, my friend Jenifer fought the violent
urge to shove her boyfriend's testicles into a George Foreman Grill just
because he told her he thought Grey's Anatomy was written by drunken chimps.
Crazy!

The point is, sir, you of all people must realize that America is just
crawling with homicidal maniacs in Capri pants... Which brings me to the
reason for my letter. Last month, while in the throes of cramping so painful
I wanted to reach inside my body and yank out my uterus, I opened an Always
maxi-pad, and there, printed on the adhesive backing, were these words:

'Have a Happy Period.'

Are you fucking kidding me? What I mean is, does any part of your tiny
middle-manager brain really think happiness - actual smiling, laughing
happiness is possible during a menstrual period? Did anything mentioned
above sound the least bit pleasurable? Well, did it, James? FYI, unless
you're some kind of sick S&M freak, there will never be anything 'happy'
about a day in which you have to jack yourself up on Motrin and Kahlua and
lock yourself in your house just so you don't march down to the local
Walgreen's armed with a hunting rifle and a sketchy plan to end your life in
a blaze of glory.

For the love of God, pull your head out, man! If you just have to slap a
moronic message on a maxi pad, wouldn't it make more sense to say something
that's actually pertinent, like 'Put down the Hammer' or 'Vehicular
Manslaughter is Wrong', or are you just picking on us?

Sir, please inform your Accounting Department that, effective immediately,
there will be an $8 drop in monthly profits, for I have chosen to take my
maxi-pad business elsewhere. And though I will certainly miss your
Flex-Wings, I will not for one minute miss your brand of condescending
bullshit. And that's a promise I will keep. Always.

Best,
Wendi Aarons
Austin , TX

It descends.

Spent the afternoon trying to remember that feeling so lost is something to appreciate, savor even. Part of the journey. A chance to awaken to a myriad of opportunities and chance gifts from the unknown that is life.

Trying, at least, to remember that, to believe it. It's something.

Just returned home from a screening of The Other Boleyn Girl. Beautifully crafted and visually stunning... but let me just say it is not what I would recommend for viewing on a day already darkened by personal shadows and doubts. My God so dark, so vividly and achingly dark. I crave the sleep that seems to come only with the aid of medication, unmarred by dream or thought or any such consciousness. The kind that seems to come after several glasses (bottles?) of deep crimson wine, that hollow detachment and deceiving liberation from reality.

It has been a day of clouds, dark thoughts. That strange and unfamiliar urge to let go of tears and fling myself head-on into a cathartic emotional breakdown. Not by nature a cryer, emotional certainly but only internally. That physical release that is so often characterized as feminine is just not... me. Nobody seems to think this is healthy but alas that is another issue for another day... or another therapy session at least.

So much is collecting in my mind, weighing my thoughts like lead anchors. So much has happened of late and I cannot seem to process anything. I don't know what to do, how to respond, where to go, what to consider.

I'm so overwhelmed. So... paralyzed.

I just hope that each day that I get out of bed and carry myself on through my daily pattern and routine will be one day closer to aligning myself with the rainfall of change that seems constantly to drizzle around me.

The balance of my life depends upon my ability to interpret my world, contemplate and analyze and categorize and solve and understand. Without that... I'm just floating aimlessly along an unidentified tide.

It's difficult these days. I don't understand myself, don't recognize the revolving masks of those I love, don't know up from down. And it hurts, I'm feeling the hurt so intensely for the first time in months, really feeling those emotions I have for so long buried and cast out, denied, distracted myself from in so many different ways.

I am a happy person, a joyful soul, according to my healer. And I believed her then as she spoke, heard those words fall as truth, and I believe her still. I am a happy person. I do think I'm meant to reflect the glory and light of life, destined to illuminate, radiate, emit my own personal incandescence somehow.

But not today.

Not today.

Ouch I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found,
Yeah I think that I might break
I've lost myself again and I feel unsafe

Be my friend
Hold me, wrap me up
Unfold me
I am small
I'm needy
Warm me up
And breathe me

At last, she sleeps.

Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved. The warmth, the security and peace of soul, the utter comfort from the touch of the other, knits the sleep, so that it takes the body and soul completely in its healing. Paul lay against her and slept; whilst she, always a bad sleeper, fell later on into a profound sleep that seemed to give her faith.

- D.H. Lawrence,
Sons and Lovers

oh god. I sent it.

... and now I'm about to go desperately gulp down a bottle of red wine. Fast.

Prodigal Daughter.

I've never seen the blackest of nights emerge so luminous as Wednesday did. Missed the pinnacle of the eclipse by half and hour, but was shocked to gaze upon the snow-glazed hills behind the house as they radiated the moonglow hours later... so bright and crystalline, so illuminated in the night. The kind of world one imagines the Masters were envisioning in their nocturnes, quiet and serene. Alive but hushed in that ethereal pause of night. A rare moment of appreciation, reward for sleeplessness.

This week has been the second half of the boomerang effect, a return to origin, home, status quo to a degree. That which goes up must, inevitably, fall back to earth again. Being home - for the first time since the new year - was refreshing. Complicated, even through my whiskey-colored glasses. Troubling on an internal level, like some small undercurrent of hysteria bubbling just below the surface. We stand on the brink of change, and for the first time none of us is certain of what will happen next. So many unknowns, so many long-buried secrets and repressed feelings... spring has undoubtedly become our season of 'airing out the laundry,' 'spring cleaning,' what have you.

It has been a long and difficult three years.

[I don't know what to write to him.]

This is further compounded by a relentless headache and desire to escape into the beckoning arms of fantasy - a book, a movie, a poem, the piano, something. I feel paralyzed by reality, frozen in the high-beams. How much longer can I postpone my life?, I keep demanding of myself. What catalyst will finally end my inertia? For god's sake, what must I do to overcome this irrational, self-defeating fear? What changes are necessary? What sacrifices?

I must clean something. 'Dirty house, dirty life,' I always say. Frustratingly, just one week ago I did the same thing and have returned after so many days away to a home in the same state of perpetual messiness as before I devoted so many a long hour eradicating the dust of winter life.

I think today is a day to dig the Xanax out of the cabinet. This hostility is ridiculous. I cannot let this affect me, I must be positive and clear and open to the world... the February sun is making a rare appearance, after all.

Not going out tonight. Not. Not. Not.

"Love him and let him love you. Do you think anything else under heaven really matters?" - James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room

_____________________________

The Moment

It was a day in June, all lawn and sky,
the kind that gives you no choice
but to unbutton your shirt
and sit outside in a rough wooden chair.

And if a glass of ice tea and an anthology
of seventeenth-century devotional poetry
with a dark blue cover are available,
then the picture can hardly be improved.

I remember a fly kept landing on my wrist,
and two black butterflies
with white and red wing-dots
bobbed around my head in the bright air.

I could feel the day offering itself to me,
and I wanted nothing more
than to be in the moment - but which moment?
Not that one, or that one, or that one,

or any of those that were scuttling by
seemed perfectly right for me.
Plus, I was too knotted up with questions
about the past and his tall, evasive sister, the future.

What churchyard held the bones of George Herbert?
Why did John Donne's wife die so young?
And more pressingly,
what could we serve the vegetarian twins

we had invited for dinner that evening
not knowing then that they travel with their own grapes?
And who was the driver of that pickup
flying down the road toward the single railroad track?

And so the priceless moments of the day
were squandered one by one -
or more likely several thousand at a time -
with quandary and pointless interrogation.

All I wanted was to be a pea of being
at rest inside the pod of time,
but that was not going to happen today,
I had to admit to myself

as I closed the blue book on the face
of Thomas Traherne and returned to the house
where I lit a flame under a pot
full of water where some eggs were afloat,

and, while they were cooking,
stared into a little oval mirror by the sink
just to see if that crazy glass
had anything particular to say to me today.

- Billy Collins