because it's late, I have insomnia, and I don't like to sleep by myself

the Ephiphany

because some days you just need to squirm on the ground on national television and flash your pink drawers to the world.

because today is Sunday, the holy day of the evangelical network week.

because I really wish I could get my hair to do that.

because Lola reminds me of Juanita from Sordid Lives. ("Amen. Praise Jesus.")

because I am always the Edina of this situation with my head stuck sin-deep in the calorie goddess should such frightening events head my way.

because I like Hindus. And Allah, for that matter.

and, of course, because Elise and I are obsessed to the point of losing ourselves into our characters completely.

gross

So one other note was also perched lecherously in my myspace inbox.

Sender name: 'Rick James'
[which obviously leads only to the mental image of dave chappelle, duh]
email title: 'want 2 hookup?'
[oh yeah, had to use the "2" on that one, did ya?]

The note itself was only one word: 'Lonely?'

What the hell is this, I ask you? Oh and some link to a singles site. Come on, man. Spring is a shitty season anyway, don't be zipping around the internet with your little 15-yr-old boy text message vocabulary and expect to fall into the happily waiting arms of some tart with thoughts of the birds and the bees dancing in her head. Most of us are busy upping our antidepressants and trying to adjust to the newfound sunshine after the Addams Family/Munster winter landscape [read: black, white, bleak, kindof creepy].

Jerk.

just. can't. help. myself.

So I'm a little out of control with the post-my-own-correspondence habit. whatever. like I care. I only care to entertain myself when it all shakes out, and this is a quality glimpse into my mind at the height of insomnia.

below is a sample of some myspace email between me and a good friend who just celebrated her birthday.


----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Allison
Date: May 10, 2007 11:25 PM


the title of this message is intended to be your birthday kiss/smooch/smacker. I always feel like a jackass sending a birthday myspace comment and am probably justified in assuming that you (or any person celebrating the anniversary of their existence) probably won't bother reading them anyway. Call me cynical, call me a heartless bitch with no soul, some people call me maurice. it's fine.

anyway, wanted to send you love and (believe it or not, considering the last paragraph) many many many happy wishes... sunshine/sparkle/rainbows, that kind of thing. Like Lisa Frank. She always managed to capture the right vibe on those unicorn trapper-keepers everybody used to have. Okay fine, it was MY unicorn trapper-keeper but damnit my New Kids binder had just broken and I needed a pick-me-up... second grade can be really tough.

Am admittedly a bit nostalgic for those good old 105 N Jordan days when we (well fine you/me/chonster/suze) lounged around with nothing better to do than watch Family Guy. Okay fine soft-core porn on Skinemax. Either way... I miss that.

And you.

all my love, sweetcakes.

Mitchell

----------------------------------------------------
Her response:

Crazy old Maurice, hmmm? Craaazy old Maurice, hmmm?
I loved those unicorn binders and I think I had one too.
Thanks for the birthday wishes! Hope all is well with you.
xoxoxo

Rachel

contente

Les Choristes, c'est parfait.

Simplement parfait.

La musique de les enfants nottament... angélique.

damnit I can't help myself

So I just sent a certain Brooklyn babe this note and I really think it's something marvelous. I really don't care if I look smug/self-important/vain for posting it. Bitch, please.

It reads:

1. Phone numbers are like doggie leashes. Sometimes you just need to hit the park and run free without 'em, I say. Let's go with the 'freedom from technological shackles' concept and make you not having my mobile number a very avant-garde thing.

2. The timing for me getting this note could not have been more perfect since MY BROTHER JUST GAVE ME A POLAROID CAMERA! He found it when he moved out of the frat house (oh yes, the FRAT) for the summer and gave it to me with a shrug and the remark, "yeah... you seemed like someone who would be into that."

mwahahaha.

Anyway, I'm home for a couple days to see the fam and my older brother who's in town from Shanghai. woot woot. So let's catch up little mamacita! (I do not actually know how to spell 'mamacita' so if that is horribly wrong please do not take it as an anti-Hispanic slur, mearly evidence that I took the rather useless road of French class in high school, not Spanish. Just saying).

Anyway, has been a crazy week. Some bastard stole our rent checks from the drop box and is trying to run off with shit-tons of pirate booty. No-good-shithead-bastard-dishonest-mongrel-good-for-nothing-louse. Or my new favorite term, "Balderdouche." (love it!)

kisses kisses kisses,
mitchie

OH MY GOD ALMOST FORGOT TO GIVE YOU THE DAMN NUMBER! HAHAHA! ***.***.**** [oh no you don't, blog-o-sphere-ites at large]

WHAT AN IDIOT! HAHAHA! LOVE YOU!

Weather Report

It's just turned morning, the laptop clock reads 6:30. I haven't slept. Sometimes physical fatigue isn't enough to guarantee a restful night. Just one of those unwanted lessons to come out of the past 6-7 years.

Shallow confession: cannot decide what to wear to work today. About to dash through the morning shower routine and cannot decide if today is one of those days when I'm so exhausted that I go to extremes to disguise it (read: glam glam glam, high heels, makeup to make a drag queen proud) or just show up in some slovenly heap of 'comfy' attire normally reserved for when I run out of clean laundry and have to make do with leftovers. The debate continues.

I think today is going to require a heavy rotation of Elton John. Oh, God it might even be drastic: the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. (Stayin' alive, baby.)

Tonight's forecast: drowsy with a 70% chance of bitchiness and overcast skies.

spirit du jour

Tra la! It's May!
The lusty month of May!
That lovely month when ev'ryone goes
Blissfully astray.

Tra la! It's here!
That shocking time of year
When tons of wicked little thoughts
Merrily appear!

It's May! It's May!
That gorgeous holiday
When ev'ry maiden prays that her lad
Will be a cad!

It's mad! It's gay!
A libelous display!

Those dreary vows that ev'ryone takes,
Ev'ryone breaks.
Ev'ryone makes divine mistakes
The lusty month of May!

- Camelot

OCD OOC

Now that my semester has ended (to a certain extent) and my health has returned (to a certain extent), have realized just how disastrous my physical life has become. As in my house is a flippin' mess and it's re-god-damn-diculous. Especially considering my little thing with being an all-controlling, obsessive, "please pass the windex" clean freak.

Thus, in between bouts of homework and residual paper writing, have managed to complete the following tasks:

1. Have bleached/sanitized every square inch of this place. It involved a lot of scrubbing, being on my knees, and the not-so-subtle fumes of Mr. Clean Antibacterial.
2. Reorganized shoe collection. Managed to get rid of 4 pair of pink heels alone. Frightening, n'est-ce pas? Also switched winter shoes to their summer hibernation and got out the labelmaker (which I adore beyond expression) just for kicks.
3. Organized massive magazine collection by title and chronology. And subject matter. It's gorgeous.
4. Separated bookshelf by topic, frequency of use, non-fiction/fiction, etc. It too is gorgeous.
5. Switched artwork. Needed some variety after the stagnancy/nightmare that has been the past 6-8 months. Pretty refreshing.
6. Laundry. Everything is once again Downy April Fresh, including towels and linens and that pesky pile of "hand wash only" delicates that I've been avoiding for so long. Apparently, and much to my disappointment, if you leave them long enough, they do not in fact clean themselves.
7. Alphabetized and filed piano music that had taken permanent residence atop the piano in two heaps. Aaaahhhh. So much better.

Sadly, this list could continue but I'll leave out the rest of the details (like cleaning my laptop keyboard with q-tips... kindof a tragic "single woman who lives with her cat" moment).

But life is better when it sparkles a bit, eh?

Doppelganger

Joined Elise at the film festival. The most direly needed and fortuitous accident that could possibly occur.

Broken English

(written/directed by Zoe Cassavetes starring Parker Posey/Melvil Poupaud...)

Spent entire evening clutching Elise, gasping with the sensation of watching myself on screen, a la Roberta Flack transfixed by someone "strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his words..." In the spirit of Flaubert himself, I keep gasping, "Nora... c'est moi!"

I have no words to describe the effect or experience that is marrying itself so persistently to my thoughts, merely a galaxy of reflective emotions. Without doubt the best film imaginable, especially at this fulcrum of my life.

Oh, and my new ultimate compliment du jour is "Parker."

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.