quiet thoughts on a quiet evening

Closing the weekend at home and listening to simple breezes and a new generation of crickets just beginning to sing summer's songs in the fresh grass... much on my mind. Some semblance of the peace that passes understanding creeps slowly across my thoughts, admittedly, as I silently keep watch over the darkened house that has watched me grow these past 15 years or so... A day not without its tearfalls and emerald eyeshine that can only come with the redness of grief, but a day... another day to be thankful for and appreciate in whatever mystery it managed to unfold. I come now to seek the wisdom of poets that seem as real as friends on these dark evenings alone, words I cling to for answers, comfort, solace, insight... strange how the thoughts of strangers are ultimately the kindest and most gentle springs of hope amidst the strange tragedies of life. Home without that trusted lifeboat of a library that anchors my life in my own flat, I rely on the resources of my computer files, lovingly accumulated throughout the years and painstakingly organized... It seems as if I hope to find some sort of emotional Holy Grail locked away in the sonnets and quatrains of the Masters and truthfully I should better resolve to seek my own enlightenment, but alas tonight I haven't the energy. In my younger days I kept journals of my joys and sorrows, determined in my naivety to capture each glorious moment in black ink and blank sketchbooks, as if permanence could be secured by immortalizing memories in spiral-bound records. Several of those old sketchbooks litter my shelves, gathering dust perhaps or just waiting in lonely repose for me to renew interest in my own past... Perhaps that wasn't such a terrible habit... if nothing else to hear from your own thoughts those innumerable aspects of life for which you are grateful seem a small comfort.

At any rate, words secured from poets far and near...

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

- e e cummings

____________________

Nothing is Lost

Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.

- Noel Coward

_____________________________

(... and my old favorite)

From Blossoms

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

- Li-Young Lee

laughter and apple blossoms

Have been within the evil clutches of illness for an entire week now. What a lovely spring this is rapidly becoming. Shakespeare claimed that sorrow came not in spies, but in battalions... and I must agree with the Bard considering the tragedies that have rippled through my week.

I lost a friend. He was found on Sunday morning, cause of death not exactly clear, a medical enigma explained only partially by the fact that his uncle had died just as suddenly at the age of 44. Brian was only 28. I cannot do any justice to grief through words - those who have first-hand experience with death can perhaps relate. I must simply acknowledge that our lives are not our own, and that we exist merely as fragile property of the universe itself, come what may. But my heart aches in places I cannot even identify and I find myself in tears more frequently than not. Me, the Girl Who Doesn't Cry. Unfortunately this is no time for irony, just the sorrow of the world being robbed of yet another of its best men. His smile could stop a rainstorm. I am blessed to remember him with that glorious smile, lucky to have been within his world if only for so brief a time as 28 years will allow. 28. Just short of three decades yet a life rich with happiness and love and family. Brian, you were extraordinary. You've left a void in this world no one will ever fill.

If only the candles we light in memory of departed friends could signify our sorrow, could truly light the darkness of our saddened souls. If only that flickering light could travel and be seen by those we mourn. I think of the grief of Virginia tonight, holding its candlelight vigils to honor the tragedy of the Virginia Tech massacre. We are so unique a generation now to remember these events that shape our lives: each that passes seems to be the worst depth to which humanity can sink, and yet the continued chain of happenings only proves otherwise, from Columbine to 9/11 to this... What world is it that we will create based upon this knowledge of grief and horror? Where do we look to find our hope?

I am old enough to remember all of these things, from the day of the Oklahoma City bombing (the worst terrorist act on American soil) to wearing running shoes to calculus class after the Columbine shootings to waking up one day during my first month of college to discover the twin towers in flames and the world forever altered. The plague of cynicism is swallowing us whole. Loneliness and aggression seem to fuel the worst impulses in human nature, swallowing men like a forest fire does trees. I thank God for my friends - without loving relationships to keep me afloat in these dark times I would be lost myself, drowned in the dark ocean of men's evil.

I was speaking with just such a friend earlier this evening and we were sharing our reactions to the world in all its terrible beauty and cruelty alike. I diagnosed us both as having a case of the "Kurt Cobains," a sensitivity to life alluded to by his legendary suicide note. And yet I don't want to chose Kurt's answer to the problem. As tempting as suicide has been over the years - and believe me when I say it has remained an all-too-alluring offer that I have not always been able to refuse - I still yearn for the optimism of faith. The world is just beginning to blossom again with the fresh springtime promise of new life and sweet green growth. Just outside my window are a row of blooming crabapple trees, my favorites, and their delicate scent is intoxicating even to my stubborn sinuses. It would be easy to fall back on the cliche that children are our hope for the future, easy to look to the innocence of youth for an answer... but I don't believe that such an answer is that right path. It remains in our hands, this future we speak of... if little can be done than so be it but little we shall do if that is an option.

Tonight I leave my window open. I want the night air to soothe me and fill my lungs with its sweetness as I drift off to sleep. I want to let the world in and let the sorrow out. Let us all grieve together on this beautiful April evening, breathing in each other's pain and exhaling it gently to nature. No one is alone: we must seek out the lonely among us and wrap loving arms around them, reassuring both them and ourselves that unity has strength beyond anything else. We deserve no less, any of us. Let us remember... and honor those lost to us... by loving those who are left behind.

Because we miss you. Because we will always miss you.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W. H. Auden

Tussinex

Hanging suspended within a reality I don't quite recognize and haven't the resources to properly investigate - think am having some sort of adverse reaction to the meds I'm taking to cure The Cough of 2007, as am now labelling it. You better believe it's capitalized. This beast of a virus/microbe/bacteria invader has left tornadic destruction in its wake (upon surveying my clutter-dotted carpet landscape I see this has an all too depressing literal significance) and I'm stuck in hallucinogenic hell, 9th circle.

For reasons unknown the meds seem to have gone to battle not against the disease that's robbed me of a decent week of school work (oh god oh god oh god) but in a feud against one another. Fun symptoms currently include inability to focus, mild hallucinations (mistook snow shovel for an alley cat), small colored spots everywhere (think rainbow sprinkles meets psych test), tremors, dry mouth (oh for god's sake), nausea, dizziness, weird taste in my mouth?

I can only imagine how pleasurable this list will be to read later. Haven't been able to construct a proper sentence aloud in past several hours and fear this will be no exception to rule. Keep drinking water in hopes that, as often happens with murderously stormy hangovers, these symptoms will quietly vanish and I may roll my eyes and chalk this up to "dehydration" or "low blood sugar" or one of my moons being stuck in the wrong house somewhere. Damnit. Except I am at least smart enough not to drink with this elixir in my system. Because there are no ways to salvage anything once the fine line has been crossed and it is a hideous, hideous site to behold.

I don't feel like myself: quite frankly I feel stoned. Which excepting for the possibility of Immaculate High (loosely based on Immaculate Conception - well honestly if virgins are birthing offspring there leaves little else to cherish with cynicism - and for all I know Indianapolis may be pumping the sewers full of narcotic gases in a desperate ploy to boost downtown business), that is not a possibility. I can't explain any better though. Dizzy and lightheaded and cross-eyed and dry mouth... ok about this dry mouth, never had it before and am definitely casting my vote "against." I feel like a swallowed a tube sock. How I pity asthmatics.

Trying to keep awake by any means possible for at least 15 more minutes to imbibe enough water to fill a Malibu swimming pool. Am so damn tired. And this self-imposed sleep strike is not conducive to my need to pass the hell out, drool merrily on my pillow, and pray for uncomplicated dreams.

Am boycotting the Tussinex tomorrow. Whatever pills I gulped down today were clearly most disavantageously (shit that looks funny) forced into a disastrous relationship. Am running out of patience and metaphors. My eyes are sore. Here's a tasty bit of irony from my afternoon: windy day, contacts irritated, I take to the rewetting drops like a temp actress in a daytime soap opera funeral scene. Eyes don't improve, start to burn, damn they sting like holy hell - Clear Eyes to the rescue again. Picture me at this moment. I have spent 45 minutes removing my lenses to be cleaned and scrubbed and cleaned and placed back in my now Bride-of-Chucky red eyeballs which have not ceased to water (complete with sniffles, that oh-so-sexy watercolor streak of ruined mascara, and the realization after being in such close proximity to the mirror that my eyebrows have decided to go the way of Ugly Betty) when suddenly I realize that the goddamn Clear Eyes drops are actually the entire problem. Whether I'm allergic to the formula or I just got a shitty toxic bottle, it couldn't be more obvious that I have spent most of an hour systematically poisoning each of my poor, defenseless eyes. Motherfucker. If I ever get my hands on that damn Ben Stein I'll kill him for endorsing such a dangerous biological agent. My God it's domestic terrorism. Call the President. No, let's ummm... not. Times like these require heavy artillery. ("Who you gonna call... Ghostbusters?") JACK BAUER! He will seek our freedom-loving nation's revenge against the evil mastermind Stein and America will applaud the demise of a man of only one word, "Bueller?"

6 more minutes. Don't know if I'll actually have the courage to post this... well courage is perhaps the wrong term. Have doubtlessly managed to produce nothing more spectacular or original than a long-winded burst of incoherent nonsense. And I haven't even a Jabberwocky to set a proper mood. 'Twas brillig, though. Rest assured of that.

3 minutes. I'll brush my teeth to kill time (and germs and hopefully this delightful fruit-of-the-loom taste that won't seem to go away) and try not to remember details about brain tumors and tasting metal. (Is it pennies? No matter. Think Aquafresh).

This would be an opportune moment for a Juanita-ism: "Hallelujah! Praise Jesus!"

Anyone not acquainted with the Sordid Lives reference has two options. First option is to hasten (with the speed of oh say a bullet train or perhaps the stampede to the open bar at a wedding reception... haha or a sorority formal in the Windy City where certain morally bankrupt couples smuggled entire bottles of whiskey out of sight of the depressingly unaware barkeep and chugged the contents in record-breaking time whilst "hiding" inconspicuously in a goddamn cactus I mean hypothetically speaking of course this is merely a fictitious anecdote used to illustrate and the story is not without a moral as this band of thieves really was only granted temporary custody of the alcohol and promptly returned said alcohol to the city itself though such varied collection sites as hotel toilets, dumpsters, trashcans, gutters, of course, yes, and a cyclone of bedlinens that - in a glorious display of my incomparable good fortune in life - actually greeted my cheerless face the next morning... that is to say... hypothetically...) nearest rental store/pawnshop/Delta Burke fan club headquarters and procuring a copy (by any means necessary) to be watched immediately and without pause or may hereafter be considered demoted to rank of "serf." No, lower than that. Even serfs would rent the damn movie. Anyone not willing to sacrifice a mere 2.5 hours for mandatory learning purposes will be stuck cleaning up after serf dogs, which considering standard of living in medieval serf peasantry will probably imply scrawny packs of mangy, wild-eyed, flea-infested canines who are likely ravenous... and incontinent.

Definitely not posting this. Saving as draft. Sweet Jesus if some freak-of-nature event actually does occur and I am struck by lightening tonight or smashed because a plane drops an engine on my building or hell if I just trip on my way to the bathroom and land at the pearly gates like 'ole Peggy herself, well damn it all to hell I do not want this to represent my final earthly thoughts. Can't even read the screen. Shit and just thought of something, wasn't it chloroform that leaves the taste of copper on your tongue? Hmmm. So we're down to fatigue, poison by choloroform (however the hizzle you spell that damn thihng), adverse drug interaction, dehydration, and oh whatever the hell else. Am having an inkling that tomorrow's shift will be absolutely tragic. If such be the will of the fates, I say let it rain. Bring on the weeping.
And the "lamentations of the women and children"
[CONAN THE BARBARIAN: ultimate wisdom beyond all imagination.... well his at least.]

Zen for Breakfast

Have greeted the morning sunshine with alarming cheer, especially considering the state of my influenza/chest cold/haggard body. am apparently still paying my dues for being so incredibly drunk in church on Easter morning. What can I tell you... at least I wasn't the one who threw up the sacrament and traumatized some innocently pious elderly woman in the downstairs ladies' room. Now that's some good sin work. (Nicely done, Miss Shrock. I am, as ever, your biggest admirer).

Thanks to a most direly needed script for Tussinex (a rather potent psychotropic cough substance whose origin I am convinced has some roots in the dark arts) and a whopping 36 hour nap between Tuesday and Thursday, am actually feeling most refreshed. Although my voice is still locked in "transgendered male" pitch and the hacking cough is reminiscent of the whooping jaybird, I truly can't complain. The worst is over. AND I finally finished reading Liz Gilbert. Am now eagerly devouring the entire AK Press* collection.

*Note: AK Press is a SF, CA based publishing co with strident anarchist ideals whose anthology includes works as varied as "Dispatches From Hell: A Vegan's Guide to Love, Sex, Relationships, and Other Suicidal Tendencies" to Marx's Communist Manifesto to a library's worth of Noam Chomsky to my personal favorite title, "Orgasms of History: 3000 Years of Spontaneous Insurrection." Love that. Reminds me of that scene in Amelie when our favorite little gamine heroine announces sweetly that 15 people are currently having orgasms at that precise moment in time. Brilliant.

Amazing how I have so rapidly transformed myself from the compassionate, provocative thinker whose steps were feeling more sure-footed than ever on this little tightrope walk of life (me, last night, finishing Gilbert's Indonesian stories) to this daytime yuppie slut who keeps giggling like a schoolgirl at the mention of orgasms and sex in general. My internal clock is a bit troubled by the recent skewered sleep pattern, I suppose. Yet how I longed to hold on to that feeling of contentment, feeling of (dare I speak it?) wisdom that had somehow crept into bed beside me in the night hours... It's moments like these when it suddenly becomes all too clear just exactly what the Yogic masters mean when they declare that desire is the root of all problems. Simply the fact that I wanted something (even just a feeling) to stick around guaranteed that it was about to shag-ass out the metaphorical door. Alas, Louise Gluck had this one right: "Longing, we say, because desire is full of endless distances." Well, perhaps she said that, I honestly don't remember to whom to attribute the quote but oh I do love the idea...

It's always so fascinating to discover the historical/lingual (lingual? is that correct?) roots of words. It's as if you discover an entirely new language or decipher a hidden code that has been staring you face-to-face the entire time... For example, paradise originates from ancient Persian and literally means "walled garden." (thank you liz gilbert, your painstaking research is now mine to fully appreciate and exploit at lackluster dinner parties - hurrah!)

Spoke with my parents this morning. Realized that I had best leave my mother a message so she wouldn't panic at the shocking site of my name on her caller ID at seven in the morning. And then proceeded to wake my slumbering brother at Purdue. Conversation went a little som'n like this:

Peter: [groan/grunt sounds] h... hello?
Me: Oh hey! What's... wait... hey, man, did I just wake you up??
Peter: ummm... [more groaning... and probably scratching, let's be honest] yeah. you. did.
Me: Oh wow, man, I totally thought you'd be up already... don't you have class now?
Peter: Allison. It's. Friday.

Hmmm. Whoopsie-daisies. Probably serves him right for taking such pleasure in torturing me awake all those childhood years, years of waking to a glass of ice water being poured on my face or my sheets stripped or a rousing human percussion instrument involving my head and Peter's fists. Hmmm. Don't feel so bad now that I think about it. Karma's a bitch, eh bro?

Anyway, will close with this (Liz Gilbert of course, page 260 of Eat Pray Love):

As I focus on Diligent Joy, I also keep remembering a simple idea my friend Darcey told me once - that all the sorrow and trouble of this world is caused by unhappy people. Not only in the big global Hitler-'n'-Stalin picture, but also on the smallest personal level. Even in my own life, I can see exactly where my episodes of unhappiness have brought suffering or distress or (at the very least) inconvenience to those around me. The search for contentment is, therefore, not merely a self-preserving and self-breeding act, but also a generous gift to the world. Clearing out all your misery gets you out of the way. You cease being an obstacle, not only to yourself but to anyone else. Only then are you truly free to serve and enjoy other people.

Pascoa

Just learned that my best friend is headed to Lisbon for Easter weekend. My favorite place. In my excitement, have dug out photos and journals from my trip and have blissfully slipped into reverie as I turn the glossy pages and decipher my scrawling handwriting.

Fitting that I had just read this excerpt from Liz Gilbert, reminding me of both that trip and another enchanting summer on the Riviera:

"Every once in a while I recall that I used to live in Rome and spend my leisurely mornings eating pastries and drinking cappuccino and reading the newspaper.
That sure was nice.
Though it seems very far away now."

found something online

Behind the cold glass doors of a supermarket display case,
dozens of roses perform a silent botanical ballet.
Supported by a chorus of baby's breath and calendula,
these prima donnas pose for shoppers,
seductively promising passion and tenderness,
possibly even forgiveness,
to the lucky few.

I glance dismally from the grocery line,
wondering in whose home they will eventually wilt.
Perhaps one or two elegant bouquets
that now proudly arabesque in their green plastic buckets
will briefly cheer someone’s kitchen or bedroom.
I know their bitter end will come regardless.
It always does.
Even the most beautifully fragrant blossom finds its final repose in the trash bin.

As I drive home through the suburban twilight,
My hand lingers on the car window ledge.
Narrowing my eyes at the sunset’s glare,
I wish for sunglasses and light a cigarette,
recalling the way those roses seemed to dance.

I once had a lover who called me his “little flower petal” during lusty moments.
Like the rose bouquets, our relationship also ended in the trash.
We were nothing special as far as romantic couples went,
and the affair’s end was admittedly a relief on my part.
My ability to feign happiness had long expired by that time.
In those days I hid behind scarlet lips and heady clouds of perfume
as if a glamorous ruse would mask the loneliness,
hide the darkness that came to match my bedroom eyes.
He thought he had somehow discovered an enigmatic screen siren,
A modern Marlena Dietrich with mysterious eyes and blonde tresses.
I knew better.
It wasn’t even his fault, that past love.
He was as charming and attentive as any handsome twenty-something,
eager to please and irresistibly arrogant.
My sadness appealed to him. He thought he could save me,
sweep me onto a white horse and ride to our distant lovers’ kingdom.

We used to talk about suicide, lying in bed with limbs entwined.
Whenever I described my three attempts he would kiss me and stroke my face
as if I were an injured bird.
We were so proud of my recovery, looking at my old life as a separate entity
that had been forever locked in the past.
We’d joke about the arsenal of medication in the linen closet,
counting out my “crazy pills” as if they were vitamins – a “happiness cocktail.”
He laughed at my collection of self-help literature and called me beautiful.
A beautiful blonde rose.

Our relationship wilted and was discarded.
I triumphantly snared others with my alluring sexual mystique
And kept the loneliness hidden like a family secret.

To be so skilled at deception is a dangerous gift,
and so frequently insisting that one’s life is normal and cheery and successful –
whatever that means –
leads one eventually to believe it.
Is it possible to lie to onself?
I prove it so, spiraling through an inner galaxy of turmoil and anxiety
while I maintain my beauty pageant smile.
“World Peace,” I grin.

Yet the darkness consumes without permission.
I managed to bury that blackness this white winter
by pretending the snowy fairyland that sparkled like crystal
was my chance for a clean slate.
Instead the March melt has revealed barren tundra.
So quickly it returns, this madness.
Today was a postcard for springtime itself,
with sunlight and birdsong and green buds peeking out shyly from the soil.
Unfortunately I let these small miracles pass unnoticed
and hid beneath the bed linens wearing yesterday’s clothes.

Sleep is again an all-consuming event, and I hole up in misery,
Cursing my own inactivity.
“Why?” echoes in my hollow head, “Why?”
I’m drowning in what Holly Golightly called the “mean reds”
and wishing I could laugh at the irony.

Perhaps my life is destined to be brief and starlit.
Like the market roses, my skin is soft and flushed with youth
And my beauty has yet to fade.
Yet I dance behind glass doors as well, it seems,
And will perhaps never last beyond my first bloom.

you can fly, you can fly...

Have just returned from marathon St. P weekend in the Windy City and enjoyed what seemed like the most glorious shower of my life. As yesterday's festivities ran from 8 in the morning until 3 in the morning, am quite spent. And mildly disgusted that I managed to spend so much money with nothing to show for it but several bar receipts and a series of suggestive text messages from my latest Random Bar Boyfriend who shall remain nameless. Suffice it to say that his first name is the same as Arnold Palmer's last, that's all I'm willing to divulge.

Spent the holiday dressed in what can only be described as Lost Boy Chic. Yes, I looked (quite unintentionally) just like Peter Pan in my hunter green tunic and belt, both of which spent a good portion of the day being doused in beer and are likely to burst into flames in my overnight bag due to such direct contact with SIN and REVELRY and MERRIMAKING.

Too exhausted to provide further details. An amazing weekend with amazing people.

miracle medicine

so it's just one of those afternoons when I feel that my life has completely gone to shit and I'm situated betwixt the scylla/charibdis of despair and the need to burst into screaming hysterics. I've taken an unnecessarily long and water-wasting shower and emerged to find the sun radiating through the closed blinds and have burrowed myself into bed and my laptop in quest of something to smile about. Although embarrassed to admit this, have been most delighted with the myriad of bullshit on people.com. Yes, I was on that god-forsaken website that purports all things I despise, mainly celebrity stalking (our tabloidtastic society needs CPR; 200 magazines in the grocery line with glossy stalkerazzi snapshots is not helping). But, to quote something Andre 3000, "Fuck that. I liked it."

Anyway, as Little Miss Sunshine is hands-down my favorite film of 2K6-7, let's honor this moment brilliantly provided by the aforementioned people.com, shall we?



"Sound editing is very much like sex. It's usually done alone, late at night, surrounded by electronic gadgets."
– Steve Carell, presenting Best Sound Editing with Little Miss Sunshine costar Greg Kinnear

Romance 2K7

The notion and omnipresence of Valentine's Day conjures up many a response from lovelorn and schmoopy folk alike. Here is my favorite synopsis, courtesy of a random bulletin:

It's also the day the single women seem to be pretty amiable to the idea of hooking up so they aren't alone. If your only positive trait is that you occupy space, and technically a hottie wouldn't be 'alone" if you were spooning her, this is the holiday for you.

Preach on, brother. Kisses to all, Stay out of snow drifts. XOXO

Round Two

One would think I am fabricating my vehicular challenges, but alas, no.

Today, upon rolling out of bed (always delightful after a Thursday night of too many cocktails) and pulling it together for work, what to my wondering eyes did appear?

A flat tire. Another flat tire (please recall that is my second... of the week).

I am progressing so far into my affair with AAA Motor Club that I may as well call it a serious relationship, buy a ring, and pick out my china pattern. Is ridiculous. And this ill-begotten snow (no, I shan't complain. read: New York, seven feet... shudder) has every towing company in the city run ragged. Typically AAA tells you an estimate of about 60 minutes for help to arrive, maybe 120 if things are crazy. Well, today the reply was, "Well, honey, we're running on about 4 hours waiting time for these things." Apparently everyone has decided to forgo traffic traditions and drive themselves straight off every road, over every hill, dale, and overpass and straight into eagerly awaiting ditches. Even the police are forcing AAA to supply assistance to those they claim to need it so direly. (What? Like having no heat and being stranded in the center lane of 465 is really so hazardous.)

Anyway, either I was charming or just damn lucky because no sooner had I tried some alternate businesses ("Sorry, 4 hours."), I get the call and my new friend arrives. Poor man. A locksmith by trade, his entire week has found him rescuing the likes of me with his knees in the slush and defibrolating (that spelling must be atrocious) batteries, most of whom have decided to unionize and go on strike during the cold season. 20 hour days ever since the blizzard hit, he tells me.

At any rate, just so happened that today I decided to spiff myself up in sleek pencil skirt and heels*, which I want you to know is not advisable when one's car is buried in a drift and ice-picking is an all-consuming 15 minute ordeal before the windshield is rediscovered.

*side note: beware of women who suddenly reignite the flame of fashion/sex-appeal. usually a compensation for feeling like shit and not wishing to be exposed as such. a disguise, more often than not.

home now and picking a fight with the cat, who is a monster and complete miscreant. no wonder she's mine.

Snow

Indiana seems to have walked itself into a Robert Frost poetic landscape, white and crisp and glazed with frozen slushes and bare treescapes. Drifts cascade from cars and assemble themselves peacefully along curbs and boot-tracked sidewalks. Life assumes a state of temporal
pause, as if everything is hovering, suspended like the cloudy snowshowers that arabesque through the wind. A cold day, yet providing a strange insulation from life outside the little bubble of my bedroom walls and steaming teacup.

You’ll wait a long time for anything much
To happen in heaven beyond the floats of cloud
And the Northern Lights that run like tingling nerves.
The sun and moon get crossed, but they never touch,
Nor strike out fire from each other, nor crash out loud.
The planets seem to interfere in their curves,
But nothing ever happens, no harm is done.
We may as well go patiently on with our life,
And look elsewhere than to stars and moon and sun
For the shocks and changes we need to keep us sane.

(excerpt, "On Looking Up By Chance At The Constellations")

love it.

because that rain that saturated the evening just wasn't enough.

team of young male horses wins SB XLI

Just goes to show that it really is all about the pink underwear. (Never watch a game without some). Hopefully will be able to sleep tonight despite the chorus of car horns serenading the downtown streets.

Side Note: Connectile Dysfunction. Brilliant.
Side Note #2: Prince for President. Loved the hair.
Side Note #3: Did anyone else interpret that halftime show shadow-behind-the-waving-silk moment in an inappropriate way? That guitar silhouette was rather... suggestive, n'est-ce pas?

Oy Vey

Since I apparently can't sleep and have thus turned to the internet for mind-numbing drift...

have discovered yet another reason why myspace is the force of the age and thus incredibly creepy. in that it is home to creeps. and tragedies masqerading themselves as people. and lonely hearts. and this guy.

my latest "message" reads thus:

Have you heard about Mutual Sympathy? It is very cool site.The thing is, they show you a pic of a boy and ask if you like him. You answer Yes or No. If you do they send him your pic and ask the same.If u both like eachother you can get in-touch and meet up. Mutual Sympathy

sent by someone whose myspace name included the term "Thug" (yes capitalized for formality's sake)and whose picture featured large sunglasses. left wondering: is this an attempt to invite me to said website, which if you would like my opinion is a cheaters' haven for those ducking out of the ball-busting world of internet matchmaking sites... is sender some sort of admirer (euphemism for stalker, of course). but seriously? is this elementary school all over again? DO YOU LIKE ME? CHECK YES OR NO

I did not visit the link nor the sender's profile. though it appears that the hyperlink has posted here if someone else wishes to pursue this to a lengthier end. but really, when a web hook-up site has the term "sympathy" in it's title, whatever can one conclude but that it is not home to anything I wish to associate myself with, as a general point. nor shall I willingly converse with anyone who spells the word "you" with only one letter. call me crazy. call me snobbish. call me judgmental. some people call me maurice. it's fine.

Fernando Pessoa

This my madness, accept it, those who can,
Dare whatever it needs.
What, without madness, is a man
More than a beast after feeding,
A corpse adjourned, the half-alive breeding?

Face That She Keeps in a Jar by the Door

I HAVE THE:

... dirtiest car in the world. this damn salt is out of control.
I JUST VACUUMED IT, DAMNIT.

... most bloodshot eyes you can imagine.
all-nighter, dry winter air, tu sais.

... sassiest new tire. full of air and shiny jet-black.
she's a-sparklin', don't you worry.

... clothes on that I wore yesterday... still wearing them,
it's totally sexy. all the kids are doing it.

... biggest pile of clothes to donate. hurrah!
reduce-reuse-recycle! de-clutter! out with the old!

... messiest pile of assimilated crap all over my bed,
mostly articles for school, some poetry books, several black ink pens,
a few random tins of lip balm... you'll have that.

... urge to watch a chick-flick (yep, I said it) and (undoubtedly)
pass out. Meg Ryan (pre-plastic surgery) is great for that.

... twinge of guilt that I should watch CSPAN instead.

... song Eleanor Rigby stuck in my head... since yesterday.

... need to shower but not the motivation. give me a couple of hours.

... smug satisfaction that can only come after you clean out
your text message in/out boxes. ERASE ERASE ERASE.

... greatest bed, ever.

Yokohama, AAA, and the usual catastrophe

Basic Tuesday fare: shrilled into consciousness by a couple of alarm clocks (who invented those? Sadists, no doubt), classes, libraries, things to read, skim, "learn," etc. Excellent debate re: Harlem Renaissance early in the evening. Drive home (thankfully a ridiculously short trip) and realize things are not as they should be, vehicle-wise.

Rear passenger tire has apparently given up on life and committed some sort of hara-kiri. Beyond flat. Such a joy on a snowy winter's night with the raging temperatures sinking somewhere below 10-15 degrees fahrenheit (sp?).

Oh, and I (quite) obviously don't know how to change a tire myself. Thus AAA is summoned.

Here I play the part of Damsel in Distress.

Decide that despite late evening hour and hostile weather, should not put off calling until morning when undoubtedly every poor soul in Indy is begging to have their frost-ridden batteries jumped before the morning commute. Thus, Aaron pleasantly dispatches a rescue. Pretty routine for me, considering the horrific karma (which I half-jokingly have taken to spelling with a "c") that surrounds my poor automobile.

Tire eventually fixed, though some "genius" German engineering makes said spare replacement as tedious as possible. Sent my Knight In Shining Armour (read: man in full firefighter suit driving white AAA truck) off with a handful of cash tip and the instructions to get himself some hot cocoa at the Starbucks down the block. Do not wish bad carma to begin affecting me personally.

Next dilemna? Finding local retailer that sells my particular style of Yokohama tire. A thrilling enterprise to be undertaken tomorrow morning, of course. Just another day in the life...

Quote of the Hour

Translating Christianity to Judaism
re: Virgin Mary

"I don't get it. I'm sorry, but when Jews get pregnant, there's usually some dick involved. Basically. That's how it works."

Thirsty Thursdays

What a day. I mean it, WHAT A DAY.

Funeral. Cemetery. Reception. Family. Best friends. Hangin' with the priest. Mahi Mahi (hell yes).

Awkward confessions from Diana. Dr. Shitty MIA for the first time in at least a year. Hilarity via cell phone to my brother, who swears to "get me back... GOOD." Also told me I was "such an asshole." LOVE IT.

Indy downtown. Elbow Room. More best friends. Lip gloss... don't worry, thanks to the Allison Mitchell Xmas Endowment, all of my folks are sporting what a certain foxy Brooklyn blogger refers to as "lip crack," indicating its addictive quality. Ummm... hot. we totally took a photo of me, wes, elise all glossing up at the bar simultaneously. Don't worry about it, it's fine: we all sport our own individual hues (tint #'s 1136, 1137, 1138... SICK!)

New friend. Who is foxy (love it). Who (damn him) also noted that my gas cap was not attached to my car. Embarrassing? Mmmhmm. Doesn't even begin to cover it. Don't fret: I drove for an entire hour with my hinged gas door in place and the cap itself hanging over the side, dangling in the 12 degree Indiana breeze. That is completely mortifying, I'll have you know, especially when said new friend has Wes phone me to inform me of my sadly/pathetically waving/misplaced fuel thing. Oh God. It never stops.

I am "an asshole," what can I tell you?

p.s. that last sentence is totally a Kevin Kline movie line. Thus: a) he is my favorite actor of all time. I mean it. b) he went to IU (woot woot) c) is he gay? (Not to impose stereotype/judgment. To be honest, that would get him at least another 25 points in my book... but how is it that I have no idea, only vague heated speculation?) d) ran out of ideas. fuck that. KEVIN KLINE FOR PRESIDENT.

... and don't worry, aforementioned film quote is from none other than French Kiss. love it. know it by heart, damn right I do.

Oh my God. I need to go to sleep.

Damn Damn Damn

Irony: fighting with my computer/printer in order to print article (for tomorrow's class) about people who hate machines/industrialization. [No wonder those bastards founded nudist colonies.]

Am not amused.

"C'est drole, la vie..."

Current Fantasy, aka What I Wish I Was Doing Right Now:

1. Beach, preferably Riviera. Yacht, even better.
2. Topless
3. Gelato
4. Very Large Hat and Sunglasses
5. Cocktail
6. Poetry

Instead I Am:

1. Indiana
2. Winter
3. Homework
4. Bills
5. Sweatpants/T/White Socks (gross... white athletic socks unacceptable unless one is actually participating in athletic event)

**Not complaining. Well... not exactly. But imagine, just imagine that Mediterranean seascape, sun-warmed and salt-crusted... and so... so... perfect.

Good Things

1. therapy
2. teaching Drew how to drive in icy conditions
3. Drew admitting that I am "way more fun to drive with than Mom"
4. best friends who love to sing
5. singing
6. finding our favorite Broadway songbook... and Simon/Garfunkle* sheet music that I didn't even know we had
7. life discussions fueled by Jane Austen
8. my electric blanket
9. Lee Radziwill
10. this month's W cover (hot)
11. finally (finally) refilling my washer fluid... and again experiencing a clean windshield
12. breaking out of my "pasta is for peasants" rule and eating spaghetti... which was awesome

*Favorite Musicians Of All Time

Post-It Collection

It is hard to imagine a civilization without onions. (Julia Childs)

For the taste of the fruit
is the tongue's dream,
& the apple's red
is the passion of the eye. (Erica Jong)

The shadow is bluest when the body that cast it has vanished. (Rafael Alberti)

The notion of emptiness generates passion. (Theodore Roethke)

Evidence of life:
that we could meet for the first time,
open our scars & stitches to each other,
weave our legs around
each other's patchwork dreams
& try to salve each other's wounds
with love -
if it was love. (Erica Jong)

(She died of internal weeping.) (Eleanor Ross Taylor)

Two habits have taught me how to keep back my tears: the habit of concealing my thoughts, and that of darkening my lashes with mascara. (Colette)

I sing of autumn and the falling fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion.
The apples falling like great drops of dew
to bruise themselves an exit from themselves. (D.H. Lawrence)

... melancholia is about as happy a state as any other, I suppose. (Zelda Fitzgerald)

TRUTH HAS VERY FEW FRIENDS AND THOSE FEW ARE SUICIDES. (Antonio Porchia)

I am writing this from the end of the world. (Henri Michaux)

She had forgotten how the August night
Was level as a lake beneath the moon,
In which she swam a little, losing sight
Of shore; and how the boy, who was at noon
Simple enough, not different from the rest,
Wore now a pleasant mystery as he went,
Which seemed to her an honest enough test
Whether she loved him, and she was content.
So loud, so loud the million crickets' choir...
So sweet the night, so long-drawn-out and late...
And if the man were not her spirit's mate,
Why was her body sluggish with desire?
Stark on the open field the moonlight fell,
But the oak tree's shadow was deep and black and secret as a well. (Edna St. Vincent Millay)

I shall create! If not a note, a hole. If not an overture, a desecration. (Gwendolyn Brooks)

And the wind lifting the song, and interrupting it,
Tossing it up under the clouds. (Ezra Pound)

I tug at life by its leaf hem:
will it stop for me, just once,
momentarily forgetting
to what end it runs and runs? (Wislawa Szymborska)

I swayed like a wave between the life I dreamed and the changing dream I lived. (Adonis)

O grasses of sleep, bitterly sweet grasses of oblivion... (Nijole Milauskaite)

Who knows what true loneliness is - not the conventional word but the naked terror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or some illusion. (Joseph Conrad)

Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows, and of lending existence to nothing. (Edmund Burke)

Strangers' faces hold no secrets because the imagination does not invest them with any. But the face of a lover is an unknown precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment. (James Baldwin)

Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight in the friendship of fools? (Lord Byron)

Oh my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, ina dawn of cornflowers. (Sylvia Plath)

I shall call myself Alice and play croquet with the flamigoes. In Wonderland everyone cheats and love is Wonderland isn't it? (Jeanette Winterson)

I will not talk to my own darkness, I promised myself, closing the door to the Other. A fall from the third floor hurts as much as a fall from the hundredth. If I have to fall, may it be from a high place. (Paulo Coehlo)

then I shall need wings. only wings. (Joan Kaplinski)

What's writing really about? It's about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life. (Ted Hughes)

Since he did not know the bar he felt an unaccustomed uneasiness and wondered what the faces around him hid. (James Baldwin)

Am now spending all of 10 minutes a day at home. Room is a wreck, or (more specifically) what I am dubbing a "shit-sty." Laundry heaping in gargantuan mound. Bed unmade, which is horrific and were I still in elementary school, I would be forced to pay my mother a quarter. Per day. (Diana, as ever, a scheming businesswoman).

Long night at Starbucks, where (as ever) I was the fortunate eavesdropper to a slew of strange conversations... including a lengthy chat with two 7-yr-old girls who just saw High School the Musical (the concert, which apparently only includes the songs, not the actual play). I was informed not only of the girls' progress in gymastics class but also of the "cuteness" of the lead singer/actor while his signature dance moves were demonstrated. Mom #1 informed me that he is the "John Travolta" of her daughter's generation. Wow.

Oh, and here's a fun little bit of ebay entertainment, courtesy of my brother and roommate:
http://cgi.ebay.com/ebaymotors/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=250073931155&ssPageName=ADME:B:EF:US:11

Hope to God that Todd (see above link) is single. I like 'em intellectual, built Ford Tough... or whatever Toyota says.

Be Here to Love Me

A cold evening, a warm bed. Dr. MLK Jr. Day. Wool socks. A sweatshirt bearing the name of the summer camp I credit for giving me a relentless love of group song-and-dance revelry. Norah Jones faintly murmuring in the background. The first snow of the year.

Torn between the idea of a warm shower (admittedly lazy despite sporting the hairstyle equivalent of a certain zoo species, cockatoo perhaps) and further lounging. Vague plans for Board Game Night, somewhat doubtful as person with whom BGN is planned was under the influence of a significant inhalation of nameless narcotic substance when plans were discussed... a couple hours ago. Not exactly waiting by the phone.

Spent the morning flying high on nitrous oxide during a lengthy dentistry experience. Lots of needles, which I didn't really notice after slipping into absolute bliss with my bright pink gas mask perched cheerily on my nose. Best way to start the day, especially a Monday.

Free as a Bird

It's raining, it's pouring, I spent the afternoon snoring. Well, not really. But I did enjoy and luxurious 5 hour nap. A little slice of paradise between 1000 thread ct sheets. Love it.

Revisited the age old Bloomington tradition of sake bombing last evening. A sea of brash/arrogant colts fans collided with hordes of out-of-place, out-of-luck chiefs supporters following the game, and downtown was bathed by the tide of drunken spectators. An excellent time to herd into Mikado and order shots. Round after round of them, in fact. Note: this is the beauty of these early games - afternoon dedicated to beer and the mesmerizing passing ability of a certain Mr. Manning to be followed by an early sushi attack. Top it off with a visit to our most notorious (and often frequented) watering hole, and you've got the recipe for one entertaining Saturday night.

A brigade of Chicagoans heralding from Kansas City made said game the reason for a brief, alcohol saturated road trip... their spunky poutiness somehow charming once their team was completely desolated by those in the blue and white. A makeshift slumber party went underway chez moi, with a certain female Chiefs superfan passed out betwixt my sheets and two stowaways dozing in my basement. My early morning efforts went completely unnoticed by all as I slipped away to my 8 am shift at the ATL. What can I say, God favors the hungover.

Oh my god, and I made cucumber sandwiches today. Mmmmm. Amazing.

Oh, and had classic run-in with anonymous (never caught his name. thank god.) douchebag at the bar who insisted we were some sort of destined/star-crossed lovers. (my words, not his) Grabs my hand as I search for my coat and drags me 3 yds away to insist, "You have to dance with me. I came here for you, baby" or some such blithering nonsense. Asshole. For once in my life, I did not simply smile/give the demure brush-off. I told him a) he was rude; b) a stranger - the audacity of physically yanking someone's arm before any sort of even remote introduction has taken place!; c) does that kind of thing normally get him any results? A sexy, healthy confidence is one thing, aggression is another. Or, to quote French Kiss, "Rude and interesting are not the same thing."

Interesting day-after roll-call to assess the damage of the night before. Lots of moaning and swearing off of alcohol... "at least for a while." Everyone else's misery only fueled my glorious superiority complex, as I realized that I was the only one out of 15 or so people who didn't have the need to guzzle a glacier and suck down a bottle of Advil. Bless these hangover-free Sundays - they are so rare.

finished the book. excellent.

Lucy wanted to have the life of a fictional character and her constant whiplash between champagne and tap water amde her seem straight out of a Fitzgerald novel.

We went to the Krispy Kreme doughtnut factory where the Hot Doughnuts Now sign was burning its pink neon light. From the other side of a glass window we watched the doughnuts rolldown the conveyer belt and then drop into the boiling channel of oil where they bobbed, little doughy life preservers, and then were scooped up and rolled through the wall of liquid sugar. They came steadily, in a slow and orderly fashion, sailing off ona higher belt, rounding the corner out of sight. The life cycle of doughnuts was enormously comforting. We watched them for about half an hour.
"God," Lucy said with a sort of reverence, "imagine how great this would be if you were stoned."

It takes a certain amount of effort to be miserable and another kind of effort to be happy, and I was willing to do the work of happiness.

I wanted to keep her as much for myself as for her. We had a wonderful time that visit. Even when Lucy was devastated or difficult, she was the person I knew best in the world, the person I was the most comfortable with. Whenever I saw her, I felt like I had been living in another country, doing moderately well in another language, and then she showed up speaking English and suddenly I could speak with all the complexity and nuance that I hadn't even realized was gone. With Lucy I was a native speaker.

Ice Cream

It was a spring day, the sort that gives people hope: all soft winds and delicate smells of warm earth. Suicide weather. Daisy had killed herself the week before. They probably thought we needed distraction. Without Daisy, the staff-to-patient ration was higher than usual: five patients, three nurses.

Down the hill, past the magnolia already losing its fleshy blossoms, the pink turning brown and rotten along the edge, past the paper-dry daffodils, past the sticky laurel that could crown you or poison you. The nurses were less nervous on the street that day, spring fever making them careless - or perhaps the staff-to-patient ratio was a more comfortable one for them.

The floor of the ice cream parlor bothered me. It was black-and-white checkerboard tile, bigger than supermarket checkerboard. If I looked only at a white square, I would be all right, but it was hard to ignore the black squares that surrounded the white ones. The contrast got under my skin. I always felt itchy in the ice cream parlor. The floor meant Yes, No, This, That, Up, Down, Day, Night - all the indecisions and opposites that were bad enough in life without having them spelled out for you on the floor.

A new boy was dishing out cones. We approached him in a phalanx.

"We want eight ice cream cones," said one of the nurses.

"Okay," he said. He had a friendly, pimply face.

It took a long time to decide what flavors we wanted. It always did.

"Peppermint stick," said the Martian's girlfriend.

"It's just called 'peppermint,'" said Georgina.

"Peppermint dick."

"Honestly." Georgina was revving up for a compliment.

"Peppermint clit."

The Martian's girlfriend got a nurse nip for that.

There were no other takers for peppermint, chocolate was a big favorite. For spring they had a new flavor, peach melba. I ordered that.

"You gonna want nuts on these?" the new boy asked.

We looked at one another. Should we say it? The nurses held their breath. Outside, the birds were singing.

"I don't think we need them," said Georgina.

Susanna Kaysen

Cheers

Like any good sitcom, we have a group of "regulars," a cluster of immediately identifiable (sp? fuck. used to be good at this.) characters with signature hairstyles and, admittedly, lots of black turtlenecks (ginsberg lives!)... everyone knows our names. Any day now, I'm convinced, either Woody Allen or perhaps Rhea Perlman will come prancing in and make a predictable, albeit comical comment. You'll have that.

It's been home to discussions of life goals, sketchpads and wrinkled cocktail napkins littered with scrawled dreams, and the best and juiciest gossip sessions. Meaningless flirtations, drinks bought and accepted across the room from strangers, uncomfortable encounters with a drunk or twelve (and, inevitably, all of his lackluster friends. who should know better.)

We never get carded, which is still somewhat of an honor at this phase in our lives. It's the after-work watering hole, the ESPN dream zone, and the beer flows like ambrosia from Mt. Olympus itself. Have never been someone who enjoys repetition or predictability, but something about this place, "our place," has its comforts.

Was writing my holiday thank you cards today in Starbucks, in a much different part of town, enjoying a warm cafe with others who share a similar appreciation for muted music and a good read. [Side note: Despite popular belief, some people in Indianapolis are, in fact, quite literate.] Was a relaxing break, a respite from laundry, work, humdrum details that so often clutter my life and clog my mind with their endless frustrations, those "small things," as some put it.

Am reading Truth and Beauty, the most recent (I believe) work of writer Ann Patchett of Bel Canto fame. Not a fiction work, surprisingly, but a memoir in memory of her beloved friend and fellow writer (poet) Lucy Grealy. Am often reminded, as I plunge through the chapters, of my relationships with my nearest and dearest... Patchett describes a life so familiar (in a distant, somewhat surreal way) of my college days, that moveable feast of my past life... every day I watch it receding from my immediate existence, friends succumbing to "normalcy" and men and engagement rings and professional ladders to god-knows-where. Lives I do not myself lead, nor wish to at this point... the cheese stands alone, I say.

Fatigued. And weary of the time tomorrow when I again say goodbye to a dear companion and bid her farewell halfway across the world.

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

Bienvenue

Began my day with intent of penning something witty, something fitting of the black-out drunk front that ushered in the new year, a glitzy tale of self-deprecating anecdotes and mischeviously unkind observations... something to give voice to the garden variety New Year's Eve soiree: champagne, hors d'oevres, "sink the biz," someone pouring champagne out the second story window... tu sais.

Walk home this morning amidst some sort of run/walk/5K/who knows with friendly police officers waving runners through intersections and me in my slutty leftovers parading home in the drizzle. You'll have that. The streets were empty, bereft of the revelrous merrimakers of the night before and not without their own sense of dreary loneliness. I passed one girl walking, wearing (unlike me) an outfit she had specially selected for her morning tasks. I smiled at her and she bashfully glanced the other direction. I must have been a sight.

Perhaps in a subconcious effort to atone for my evening engagements, I spent most of today catching up on recent cinema releases, all of which, I'll have you know, were absolutely wrenching. Zooey, Tsotsi, and An Inconvenient Truth rounded out the afternoon, and the possibility for V for Vendetta approaches while I turn my attention to my heaping laundry basket. Mmmmhmmm. Lighthearted, delightful fare.

Which brings me to my next thought: those responsible for writing the synopsis/teasers found on the back of dvd cases should be brought to swift and immediate justice for crimes against language. If I read anything along the lines of "triumph of the human heart/courage/compassion" or "a touching tale of redemption/love/sacrifice" again I may lose control and run screaming into the nearest supermarket. I dare someone to write actual truth and leave out any mention of the words "dreams" and "heartwarming." Is completely ridiculous. And insulting.

Left feeling drained, both physically and emotionally. Lack of sleep (awoke this morning at 5 am in my coat, passed out on a couch. Any memories previous to said awakening a complete blur if at all present) certainly a factor. Interesting how I've longed for an opportunity like today for so many months, the liberty of enjoying a hangover and "vegging out," as they say. Slight spin of a headache prevented much reading - oh how that stack is growing! - but fear not, I shall prevail upon it tomorrow. Must enjoy these last few days of freedom before I shackle myself once again to more scholarly commitments and sell my soul to the devil for a research paper or two.

I think this is going to be a good year. There are stars on the rise.

Death by Poinsettia

Mood has ranged from all-encompassing stress/borderline panic to contentedness. Perhaps it's all the coffee. Perhaps it's the emotional see-saw symptomatic of end-of-year/semester issues.

Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming...

Steadying myself with research and poetry. Miss Hawaii. And sunshine. And devil-may-care attitude. December is always difficult. The "holiday cheer" is so chokingly threatening and invasive sometimes.

*Unrelated note: poinsettias are not, in fact, poisonous. Still would not recommend eating said plant. Rather tragic suicide method, especially in light of futility of ingesting giant (and presumably untasty) red leaves.

Will be grateful for January, despite its bleakness and lack of color. Experiencing alarming ostrich-with-its-head-in-the-sand desires.

Conspiracies, Dems, and K-Fed

Michael Ian Black is a god-figure, undoubtedly, whose capricious devilishness creates a terrific web of eerily entertaining fan responses...

Here, a recent to response to his blog "Strep Throat" in which life begins to make sense at last:

What I want to know is what the Democrat's plan for Kevin Federline is. Simple. They don't have one. All they can do is bash Britney and call for a "timetable".

If any one of them had shown any leadership, they would have demanded a quick withdrawal before K-Fed created not one but TWO insurgencies in Britney's womb. Now all we can do is try to find a way to mitigate the obvious threat that Sean Preston and Jayden James pose to our freedom.

All I know is I'm gonna git me some big-ass plastic flags to fly from a huge SUV and strap my children to the top.Otherwise, the Federlines have already won.

P.S. Michael, I have credible British intelligence that proves that your strep throat was contracted by a fake fan letter laced with biological agent from K-Fed's evil mobile bio-terror trailer. I wish you luck in your war on global strep.

*posted 11.15.06 by one "The Naomi Star"

Hot Apple Cider

Headache and listlessness proved the exact recipe for a craving for my favorite fall beverage - cider. (though mulled wine is another list-topper).

Benefit of overcommercialized America? Starbucks is a mere two blocks away. Grabbed my stack of Chinese philosophy and hit the pavement, hate to use the term "brisk" (cliche, really) but that is an appropriate description of our sudden autumnal turn in the weather. A clear November night in Indianapolis, and the sidewalks of my typically downtown/gay scene/urbanite digs are populated with... baby boomers? Pleated khaki-sporting gray-hairs and trophy wives? Gaggles of suburbanite Desp Housewives clones?

A later perusal of the neighborhood newpapers informed me that James Taylor* was tonight's headliner at the theatre next door. Aha. Perhaps that is why the ticket-hawking drones didn't pay me as much attention as usual.

*Note: I love James Taylor. He joins the ranks of Simon/Garfunkle, Dylan, and CSNY in the realm of musical ass-kicking. You've got a friend, indeed.

Filled my head with the Tao for a couple of hours, which led to natural Western sense of unworthiness. Realized the research is going to be heavy for this next paper, and immediately resolved to resume study of the Buddhist meditations. (Seventh Dalai Lama - excellent).

An image reflected in a mirror, a rainbow in the sky, and a painted image

Make their impressions upon the mind,

But in true nature are other than what they seem.

Look deeply in this world, and see

An illusion, a hallucination, a magician's creation.

- Song of the Immaculate Path

Eventually sufficiently distracted to set aside the text in favor of local dish from NUVO and the Urban Times. Extensive articles on local chefs and culinary creations made me realize that I had forgotten to eat today. Never thought that I could possibly fall into that horrific category that I always scornfully classified as being fit for the likes of teen anorexics and bobbleheaded plastics. (You know what they say about assuming). Quelle horreur! Felt like such an ass. And hungry as hell once I came to realize the real cause of my plaguing headache. But really, at 11 pm there just isn't much point, with the obvious exception of drunk eating.

Tomorrow is another day, Scarlet.

Realized today that am only 3 days away from holiday treats and sass at Crunksgiving, the most genius social event of the season. Leave it to my friends to pair a kegger with altruism: price of admission to said soiree is indeed canned nonperishables to be donated to a local food pantry (or the traditional cash, obs). And I don't have to work until 1 pm the next day. Is going to be delightful and shameless. Uber-excited.

Also had the eye-opening revelation that it's almost December, aka the end of the fall semester, aka retail workers' hell. There is already a Santaland set up at Castleton. For the record, Santa is creepy. Under any other context, would you really like to place your cherubic little ones on the lap of an overweight older man in a velvet bodysuit parading around with zoo animals and circus performers, aka "elves?" I think not. Obviously a pedophiliac's dream holiday. I must have inferred the truth at an early age, as there is photographic evidence of me red-faced and screaming on the lap of one department store Santa in Michigan. Or maybe that was my brother. Either way, we were on to something. He's frightening.

Autumn Thoughts

elaborate signings

(for Joy)


"women are the sweetness of life."

poets can build galaxies from pebbles
& breathe the word of life into brief glances,
but one must be careful with the power of creation
so i scribble an obligatory, struggling to keep from
staining the page with the exaggeration of new passion,
unsure if i am simply the writer who lives downstairs,
plays his coltrane too loud & likes thunderstorms

i take a trip one flight up
where your eyes escort me to another country,
your touch becomes a wet kiss on the horizon
of a birthday in a warm july
i travel to your smile to hear stories of
wrecked trains parked in your dining room

but the past is a vulgar thief
it steals the laughter from your eyes,
tosses the broken edges of yesterday's heartache
into this remembrance
i dream of erasing painful memories with lingering
caresses from a steady hand

i rearrange the jagged stars of your past
i am the young boy smiling at you with love letter eyes
i carve your name into the soul of graying trees
i am your first slow dance, a trembling hand teetering on your waist
i replace the melancholy prayers on your lips with urgent kisses
i swear an oath to your beauty, become holy in your embrace

traveling tall miles through years of distance,
i arrive, wet from your tears,
my only tool—a poet’s skill
i mend your smile,
emancipate your eyes,
& together
we ride that wrecked train from your dining room
to the horizon of your birthday in another country.


© Kenneth Carroll 10/2/92

Falling...

Because things are never quite normal.
Because we are defined by our mistakes.
Because our karma ran out.
Because it's us...

Telephone call, early Friday evening. Elise, stranded at work, "I'm so sorry... would you mind picking me up at seven downtown? I'm so sorry!"

a) Elise, stop apologizing. We're family.
b) Of course I'll come get you! See you at seven.

Puttered off around 6:45, the dusk having settled into darkness on the Indianapolis horizon and the weekend hum just starting to kick into the city. Chatting with Reefer on the phone. Winding in a slow spin around Monument Circle, craftily eyeing parking possibilities. Hurrah! Vacant spot directly in front of Hilbert Theatre! Sign: 2 Hour Parking, except between hours of 11 pm and 6 am.

Me: Do you think I can park here?
Reef: Oh, I'm sure it's fine.

Park and strut to salon, the prance of high heels being an operative concept on a Friday night downtown... inspire confidence, set energy, avoid sidewalk cracks. Ascend elevator into fantastic art deco buiding - black marble, gold metallic figurines, oddly comforting "ding" of elevator command button. Enter Studio 2000. Lights dim, array of new age painted walls and mirrors, product, product, and more product. Elise, receptionist extraordinaire, busying the time with end-of-day tasks. Middle aged woman in downy elementary-school-teacher-style winter coat enjoying last of her manicure by stylist with chestnut brown pixie cut. Sounds of final client in hair station just around corner from waiting area, where I am enjoying the vast collection of lady magazines and gossipy hair publications promising celebrity look-alike styles for all.

The time ticks on. Manicurist and client exit. Cash tips dispensed from labelled plastic files as stylists head for home. Drink styrofoam cupful of green tea with honey. Chatty dye-job client remains... and the time ticks on.

What had promised to be a 10-15 minute ordeal has now stretched beyond 8 pm and I have read the bulk of the nearest magazine stack, including several glossy manuals for how to create the best blow-out or shine treatment. Finally left in peace with Elise approx quarter past eight. Sigh of relief. We exit the building, nodding vaguely to the silent doorwoman who has not yet taken her eye off her reading.

Chatting, laughing, bitching, judging... 50 yard walk to car. Stare along line of vehicles for recognition of blue beem. Absentmindedly realize do not see it anywhere.

Me: Elise, I parked it right here.

Jaunty young police officer happens to stroll past.

Me: Excuse me, sir, but I can't find my car... I parked right here?
Officer: Oh yes ma'am, that's because I towed it. I waited as long as I could, really dragged my feet, but this was a permit area only. I wrote you the cheapest ticket I could find, but you'll have to go down to the city building and get it released. Do you know how to get there?
Elise: Oh yes, I've been there before.

4 block walk down East Market, the click of our heeled boots not quite matching the somewhat canine howl of the wind rushing round us. Series of "oh my god's" and "this is so funny" and "only us" complete most of the conversation.

[Side Note: East Market is not an entirely lovely street at such an hour. Esp. for two twenty-something ladies (one in fishnets, no less).]

Enter building, get in line for metal detector. Which I set off a total of 6 times before dismantling my ensemble enough to realize that my stilettos were causing the problem. Reach mealy gray corridor of auto office, stand in front of speaker window and watch the ladies working idling themselves between desks and filing cabinets, as if on permanent reverie in which time/space/tow trucks do not exist.

Informed I am not allowed to retrieve my car without the express consent of the title holder (my father, it happens). Given blank consent form to be signed, documented, notarized and returned before car may be released. Time is now 9 pm.

Return to lobby to find Elise and inform her that we are stranded.

[Background: Elise was unable to drive her own car because her starter died... while she was parked on Butler's campus in a 24 hr tow zone. Thanks to the connections of an ex-bf, the football team managed to push her car home for her.]

Begin calling any friend within driving distance. Realize that all of our friends are drinking (it is Friday night, after all). Also realize that should we get picked up we still are lost without automobiles and possibly in need of getting home to Kokomo to retrieve Elise's now-fixed car.

Which we realized was still locked up at the repair place. Also realized that we could in fact walk home to my place with little trouble other than miserably cold weather and sketchy downtown path crossing all manner of bail bondsmen, the jail, and several dark and lurky alleys.

Head for home. "If our parents ask," we proclaim, "we tell them that we took a cab." Managed to get home relatively hassle-free, all things considered.

Burst into flat, filled with the nervous sense of dread that only a phone call home with bad news can create. Hello, Mom? Ummm, well let me just say that everyone is fine, we're safe... but ummm... my car got towed and we can't get it back.

Needless to say, Diana was not pleased. Lengthy debate ensued over just how, exactly, we would remedy this situation with the notarized statement and my father's signature. Diana: you have to get to Kokomo. Me/Elise: that is a bad idea/we still won't have the car/it is late/we can't get anything notarized until tomorrow. Diana: you have to get to Kokomo.

Decide that this cannot continue without a gloriously large chalice of red wine. (thank you, Charles Simic).

Come to the conclusion that a) we are ridiculous and cannot be trusted amongst the real world and its perils and b) within 24 hours were are going to be the butt of every joke in every church/country club/doctor/lawyer circle... again. Also realize that we are not going out and might as well make the most of staying in and enjoying the fact that we can share clothes (miracle). As it is clear that we cannot drive to work in the morning, I make a frantic call to the store and manage to switch for the noon shift instead of the 8 am opener.

Lots of giggling. And photographs of Elise in her black bodysuit/my patent leather belt/blue stilettos holding the auto release form provocatively. Inspired future caption: How Elise and Allison Really Got the Car Back.

Giddily forced to explain situation several times, as the calls trickle back from everyone we had originally contacted. Pajamas. Red Wine. Decide to watch Reality Bites. Late night cravings kick in, yet sadly my pantry yeilds little more than a few boxes of instant soup and some canned tomato sauce. Discover frozen spring rolls in freezer. Yesssss.

Heat has by now been turned off, as the furnace has the same personality as the one in the basement of Home Alone. It rattles, it furies, it vibrates and shakes the walls. Thus it is turned off at night.

Temperature drops steadily, despite Elise and I wearing sweatpants, hooded sweatshirts/fleeces, and several layers of down feather blankets (which, unfortunately, Elise is naturally allergic to). Drowsing through movie, decide to call it a night. Huddle together for warmth under covers. Spoon. Shiver. Swear loudly. Shiver.

Elise: If Matt turns that goddamn heat off next time I'm here, I'm going to fucking kill him; I don't care if he vibrates into the next century!

A sleepless night. Elise in agony over mix of allergies and repiratory infection, littering the room with used kleenex (well, ok, toilet paper. Like I fucking have real kleenex). Neither of us rested, the dawn breaks and we realize it's time to arise and walk back downtown to work, where it is the plan that I fax the form to Kokomo, where my father with sign and have it notarized and faxed back.

Don't worry, the salon fax was broken. So I traipse off to Kinko's. Within little more than an hour, things are settled. [Apparently the bank notary wasn't working, yet Bob/Diana managed to have her make a special trip to work for her services. Community First Bank, I love you. You have no idea.]

Return to salon with enormous black coffees for Elise/me. Then retrace path to city buildling, where the credit card machine was broken and I was forced to withdraw from ATM using an account whose PIN I didn't know. Managed to remember, miraculously. Then walked what seemed like miles across East Market to Last Chance Towing, where the beem was once again restored to my custody.

And that was only the beginning of what was to be a most interesting and memorable Saturday...

It's Cold

Colder than the frost on a champagne glass
Colder than the hair on a polar bear's ass
Colder than the nipple on a witch's tit
Colder than a pile of penguin shit

*Thanks, Grandpa. What a lovely song to learn at age 4.

In My Defense

Sleep is still most perfect, in spite of hygienists, when it is shared with a beloved. The warmth, the security and peace of mind, the utter comfort from the touch of others, knits the sleep so that it takes the body and soul completely in its healing.

- D.H. Lawrence, Sons and Lovers

Girls

Some drab myspace stalking has resulted in the discovery of certain things:

1. Most girls use this as a giant slutfest. [Not that there is anything wrong with that. Hurrah sexual freedom.] But honestly, how many thongtastic profile photos are really necessary? And if you do post such a display, please do not ask to be my friend merely to clog the internet with "bulletins" about free ringtones, concert tickets, or subway sandwiches. I am not interested.

2. Teenage girls' fantasies have not changed. Found this comment on a teen idol site:

I just wanted to let you know...Your music gives me a reason to wake up everday. <3>

Thank you for giving me these amazing privileges to be content/happy every day. I will most definitely remember you ten years from now and remember that you and your music kept me from nervous breakdowns when I was close to them, and that you and your music give me reason to have that extra spring in my step.Thank you.

<3

~*Ashleigh*~

Ummm... right. Ashleigh, honey, you are rapidly approaching a rather pathetic territory of teen idolatry that includes all of the TRL audience. Don't be that girl, Ashleigh. Pop music is not the answer to the problems you encounter between "school and drama." I should know: I had a New Kids on the Block trapper keeper. Age: 7. First concert. Hell, first cd. Mmmhmmm, you know it.

Testosterone!

LOS ANGELES, California (AP) -- George Clooney is the No. 1 man's man, according to a list compiled by AskMen.com.

The Oscar winner tops the Web site's list of what it calls the 49 best representatives of the male gender. Rap mogul Jay-Z, adventurer-entrepreneur Richard Branson, cyclist Lance Armstrong and designer Tom Ford make up the rest of the top five, in order.

The list was culled from nominations submitted by readers of the online magazine, who were asked to name the top "ambassadors of male-kind." Voters were asked to look for traits such as integrity, charisma and intelligence.

The list will be posted Tuesday.

Bill Clinton ranked 10th and Tiger Woods 13th. Travel-show host Anthony Bourdain was 19th on the list.

"I shall be sure to spend the week shooting things, barbecuing, drinking manly drinks to excess and high-fiving loudly while watching organized athletics," Bourdain said.

Rocker Bono was 27th, Apple co-founder Steve Jobs was 29th and director Martin Scorsese was 46th. "Entourage" star Jeremy Piven ranked 49th.

Passion

What was the use of conquering the world if they could not drink and murder and love as the spirit moved them?

Bertrand Russell

Baby It's Cold Outside

Sometimes (forgive me for wandering into cliche territory) time really does pass you by... how have 3 days passed so quickly, so many events and circumstances filling the weekend as the leaves fall...

It's cold in Indiana. Our glorious autumn has vanished in favor of the brittle climate typical of year's end. Snow tomorrow, it seems.

I have opened every day this weekend - either 7 or 8 am - and been wickedly surprised with my own cheerfulness. And utter lack of sleep. Too many friends in town unexpectedly to possibly consider an early night's rest as an option. (Bed or beer, that is the question). God, it was fantastic. The familiarity of old friends is such a warm blanket, something cozy and comforting, something real. I miss us.

Rather terrified of the next two days. Overwhelmed.

The List:

1. Laundry (all of my clothes smell like bar - it's repulsive)
2. Philosophy midterm (any insight on the subject of Aristotle vs. Hindu v. much appreciated)
3. Class (have to go, obviously)
4. End of month bills due (responsibility bites the big one)
5. Almost out of soy milk (no!)

Anyway, waxing nostalgic on old friends... and Bloomington. We all are, it seems. Was discussing Cafe Django tonight. Mmmmmmm...

Kentucky Waterfalls and other Indiana landmarks

Saturday, it was decided, was an opportunity to break out of pattern and "try something new." Translation: same friends, different bar. We're crazy like that.

Obviously endured insanity at work the entire weekend - is it Christmas already? Why the fuck is everyone shopping? And no, we do not have that goddamn sweater in a medium. Go away.

So on a whim we chose this fantastic downtown dive noted for its blues and beer scene. Amazing how one can transform instantly into another dimension simply by coughing up a measly $5 cover and filing into a bar. Yes, there were beer posters and reggae albums and John Belushi/Dan Ackroyd memorabilia. Yes, there were multicolored strands of twinkle lights... everywhere. Yes, we were outnumbered tenfold by middle aged Hoosiers.

So remember how awkward wedding receptions always are at first? Especially family weddings (before everyone gets good and smashed, that is)... You're there, stuffed into some "appropriate" dress/gown/tux/suit/tie and uncomfortable shoes, bitching about being hungry, glaring at the wedding party, flirting with the servers to see if you can get alcohol earlier than everyone else, and praying to God your relatives don't ask you to dance right away. And then people do start to dance. Get down. Boogie. Only it's your mom and the Village People are playing or Uncle Harold is doing the twist despite his arthritis or (and this is my favorite) the unfortunate DJ has decided to "liven things up" with modern hip-hop and the bewildered baby boomers are sullenly taking their seats and praying for more 70's rock or hell, even some goobery love ballad (when they will of course grab their spouse and shuffle around in that stoically fond, asexual "married 35 years" way).

Anyway, combine all of those awkward sights and feelings for a taste of Saturday night's entertainment. There were at least two live bands - the kind where the musicians wear spats and cowboy hats and handlebar mustaches and Wrangler jeans - and of course everybody was getting busy on the dance floor. Oh my god. People over the age of 45 (with the exception of those agelessly glamourous/nimble people like Cher or Madonna) should not... NOT... be allowed to bump and grind. It was like a traffic accident that you couldn't tear your eyes away from... Must. Look. Away. Indiscriminately awkward.

So this is my best introduction to a) America and b) Indiana for my roommate. And that morning during a grand outing to the grocery store, we were confronted with a 50-something woman in a full-body camo jumpsuit plundering the produce section and gabbing about being late for her manicure appointment. Can't a girl catch a break?

Reconnected

Sitting on floor of my lower level. In a corner. Typing and simultaneously glaring at CNN. Yes, friends, once again I not only have the internet but also america's favorite pasttime (baseball? oh no, dear.) TELEVISION. liberating. My boyfriends are back: Anderson Cooper, Larry King, Jon Stewart, the "Can you hear me now" guy. (ok, not him.)

Fantastic.

Feeling v. refreshed. Brief trip home last evening to see everyone. Good to be back, strangely... Zadie Smith captured it perfectly, but of course I've forgotten her words, at any rate noting how adolescence grants one such passionate desire to flee, to seek out those greener pastures and escape the claustrophobia of home (for a Brit, she seems v. insightful about thoughts of a Midwestern misfit). And yet... things soften over the years and nostalgia creeps in with those rose-colored glasses. 'Tis too true, Ms. Smith.

Dragged an unsuspecting Matt with me, poor man. Less than one week in this country and he is subjected to my entire family. Handled it well.

Weekly catastrophes:

- chipped nail polish. (so unrefined/unladylike/tacky)
- missed Grey's Anatomy (dumbass. forgot.)
- still living in the wilderness, aka no internet or television. (I ache for Jon Stewart. Is an addiction. Withdrawal symptoms include serious lack of world news knowledge/witticisms hence bitchy/defensive attitude to make up for it. damnit.)
- no sleep. (replaced with Tab Energy.)
- drank too much. (as usual)

Weekly highlights:

- crush on my philosophy professor. (seriously.)
- salsa dancing. (am entirely without talent yet high in enthusiasm.)
- Notre Dame/Michigan State game. (awesome.)
- Jyl at Fox and Hound. (after work cocktails. brilliant I tell you.)
- drank too much. (woooo college)

Chock Full

Strange week has just passed. Bout with influenza occupied most of the early days, leaving me bedridden, shivering and overcome with that dull ache and hum of illness. Everyone is falling prey it seems. Am dosed up on zinc/sudafed/Airborne/vitamins/ambien... the place is feeling like some sort of immunity defense bunker. and lysol, god the lysol. I am such a predictable creature when it comes to these things: disinfect, clean, bleach, purge, scrub, etc.

Have come to realize the extent of my own obsessive cleanliness, appreciating it only as conversation has allowed me reflected glimpse of myself. (Example: "Allison, what did you do today?" "Oh, I spent 4 hours disinfecting my walls.") Not something many find the ability to comprehend or even sympathize. Imagine.

Extensive four-day stretch of work shifts. Have emerged in encouragingly sunny frame of mind.

Spent most of Friday evening pondering the wonders of America, esp. as compared with a)Europe and b)everybody else. God, felt like such a snob. Was trying to make a decent "first impression" and wound up (in my opinion) painting myself as little more than an overly verbal lush/floozie/flake/eccentric. Hrumph. Was hoping to appear "charming" or at least give that impression of having some sort of "je ne sais quoi." Instead relayed endless stories about my social escapades these past few years, all of which could certainly begin, "so I was drunk this one time..." Puts the "college years" in a certain perspective, I suppose, but then again I have adopted a new philosophy on life, courtesy of certain unnamed Zen lectures as told to me by an amazing co-worker.

NOBODY LIKES YOU ANYWAY, SO JUST BE YOURSELF.

That needs to be embroidered on a pillow if you want my humble opinion. I have embraced it as a new mantra for this phase in my life and plan to allow it to trickle into all facets of my relationships. Honesty, as anyone could guess, is of vital importance to me... and yet I sense in myself a degree of insincerity incongruous with my own values. No thank you. Be off. Be gone. Henceforth I shall dedicate much more effort to remain more parallelled with truth, love, life, spirituality, joy.

Last minute decision to join friends to see The Last Kiss tonight. Fantastic. Was honestly blown away by Blythe Danner. God the woman was nuanced, incredibly in tune. And Zach Braff. Mmmm. Man does have good taste, doesn't he? Has evolved into some miraculous sort of King Midas, gold in his wake. I love it. Love to come home from a film with the taste of it still lingering, the weight of words ringing. Thought-provoking, that would be the generic way to phrase it. Mmmm.

Fear of Flying

"I knew that the women who got most out of life (and out of men) were the ones who demanded most, that if you acted as if you were valuable and desirable, men found you valuable and desirable, that if you refused to be a doormat, nobody could tread on you. I knew that servile women got walked on and women who acted like queens got treated that way."

Erica Jong

Inferno

If I do not survive the night, we can all thank the following: Metro bar, jacuzzi-induced wine consumption, red wine vineyards everywhere, the Anheiser-Busch corporation, Howl at the Moon piano bar, and my own idiocy.

Am living in Dante's ninth circle of hell. Every part of my body is somehow palsic, quivering in post-alcohol terror as my heart races and joins the rhythm of pounding in my head. Was actually sent home from work today. Must have been turning green; my manager took one look at my face and just said, "Allison, go home. We can handle this." Was very good timing as I was terrified of passing out and was barely able to stand. Longest drive home of my life.

Does not make me feel v. proud of myself. Have been using move downtown as catalyst for positive life changes, ie quit smoking, get up earlier, seize the day. This is definitely a slight backtrack.

the forsaken times

quiet evening, distracted by the hums and clanks and sirens of the new flat and its downtown wonders. had entirely forgotten this site/blog until stumbled onto jessica's for kicks - js you are fantastical, hurrah - and thought, why not?

cannot keep up with these addictive sites... something so thrilling and indulgent about keeping personal sites dedicated to... oneself. thoughts, tandems, memories, queries, life lessons, random BS to fill the cosmos... no wonder we're the blog generation. my mother was telling me that even president clinton has a myspace page - i keep meaning to check on that - so there you have it. i mean the man plays the goddamn sax, we always knew he was cool.

listening to tom waits and feeling intellectual in that berkley/ginsberg/dylan sort of way. also drinking port (you know i am obsessed with all things portuguese) and basking in its crimson smoothness. sometimes a girl just needs a glass of wine.

have enormous new place and lots of empty space... well that's what happens when you don't own furniture. but hell's bells, i have a sauna. so there you have it. sauna + wine + poetry + city air = heaven. will be interesting when add roommate to the mix (cross fingers). eager to entertain, play hostess. have obviously evolved into a moderately exact replica of my mother, hostess/entertainer extraordinaire.

would love to be at the lake tonight. annual labor day party, lots of hobnobbing and a steady stream of alcohol with the cool sweetness of the september air ushering out the summer season. sigh. cannot get enough of that place.

fantastic weekend. IU reunion + wild piano bar + "buckets" of bud light = great night. sang myself hoarse ("singing" being relative, mostly shouting lyrics to classic billy joel, journey, 70's anthems). love living so close to the buzz of nightlife.