Tuesday, April 21, 2009

The Possibility in Brief Moments of Sunshine.

Life relaxes itself into slow tunes and open windows.

The cat perched on the window sill, catches birds with his eyes
and breathes in air not stifled by cigarette smoke and air freshener.

A quiet morning, blue hued wakings, cluttered rooms.

Instead of tension that glues my being to what needs to
be accomplished, what needs to be addressed,
the smells and the light and the air's soft breath
move my body into the slow progression of mindful
execution of those things that need today, no other day,
to unfold.

Monday, March 16, 2009

The revisitation of things.

I am notorious for the following personality flaws:

1. Being exceptionally flaky in regards to plans.
2. Completing one out of every hundred projects I begin.
3. Starting laundry, but not finishing.
4. Not letting go.
5. Forgetting to pee.
6. Taking at least an hour to wake up.
7. Keeping contact.
8. Microwaving coffee about 10 times before I finish drinking it.

I dawdle and I drawl.

Sometimes I blame things on how I was raised - my mother doing my laundry for years. When I began doing my own, I would always leave it in the washer, then she would put it in the dryer days later for me. I never cleaned my room except in two am bouts of insomnia in which I would rearrange my entire room to angry knocks from my father telling me to stop. Even in this two time a week obsession, my room never was cleaned, never finished.

Right now, I'm cataloging books for The Hobbit Hole Library, opening in Shannon & I's house this month. A friend built a huge, awesome bookshelf (I tried to help, but am rather inept at things) which has provided inspiration and motivation to actually complete this project, push it to beautiful fruitition.

And The Canary, the only thing in life I've ever completed, but still have to make many more copies and mail them out like I promised to over the last year.

I take forever in things. I have the best of intentions, but the worst of energy.

I wouldn't necessarily label myself lazy. Just - easily distracted by the day to day happenings of human interaction. And absent minded. I have to write things down three times to remember them.

I don't understand sacrifice well enough any longer.

I don't even know why I wrote this.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Solidity and solidarity. Depression and inspiration. The intersection of things.

"So when do lives and repercussions stop being just abstractions?"

From the armchair, from the bench, sittin' on the sidelines of the motion filled world, legs crossed, wrists tied, flickers of thought, stacks of books that cry, that plead, that express for change, for a sense of hope in the devastation, for a bit of attention.

Easily, I sit, easily I theorize, hum over, dilute each word with the next in an endless pursuit of the follow the leader until I say no, no let's not talk about this, until I lose the ability to declare an opinion because how can I possibly declare an opinion with out enough evidence to back it up?

In my younger years, I relied heavily upon my emotional senses to mold my morals, my ethics, my actions, my views. In an uproar of a bit of information, in the uproar of the smallest event, my ears rang, my heart pulsed with the rage and the hope of change. Things felt right. Now, after four years of munching theory and criticism and the constant need to question and to answer with cold, hard wrought facts, I no longer make choice. Emotions silenced by the awakening of rationality.

How to balance the two? Where do they meet? Where do they shake hands and agree to disagree or find solace in companionship with one and other?

And in those wild outbursts of feelings, I felt alive, no matter how ravaged by depression my brain would be, I told myself, every second, I would rather experience this ultimate darkness than sacrifice the strength these feelings possess. I would never sacrifice this wild sense of being, these dreams of endless inspiration, endless imagination, endless mood sacrifice.

After hours of intensive therapy, boxed in by walls and cameras and hungry, investigative eyes for too many nights, my eyes sewn shut by controlled illusions and my limbs tightened to paralysis, by enforcement of no movements, my mind drilled dry for crazy oil, the wildness of existence, the wildness of thought, the wildness of emotion was willed from me by me under the heavy influence of those "who aren't sick", by those utterly rational beings.

My sense of self masked by the medicinal creation of solid things - medications, diagnoses, worksheets, hand outs, routines, all without a sense of counterbalance - the complementary nature of black and white marred by a thick boundary.

I have absorbed the benefits, the drastic stability, but now realize the sacrifice of intersection, the necessity of overlap, the power of internal, individual being.

The constraints of these seemingly abstract systems of being lose their ferocity as they grow more and more in their tangibility.

Lives and beings evolve into the temporal physicality of the every day and with that I gain awareness of the strength of emotion. Instead of anger and rage displaced, manipulated, silenced by acts of personal violence or the treatises of the modern social machinery, I am slowly discovering balance and solace in the reality of what may be touched and through that connection, through that intersection gain a sense of trust in change, a sense of trust in myself to push forth that change, to create the space in which that change may blossom.

Like poison ivy that protects the boundaries of nature created by man, my will and my sense of self may be the fence that guards the boundaries of change.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009


I don't understand in the toss and turn of the days how people with the world on a string, with the light in their eyes, with their flexible tongues that let loose conversation of the utmost of importance and interest, who's bodies exude the most concentrated of light remain blinded to all their great integrity.

These souls fail to recognize. Thus the pain of seeming perfection, the inability to cope, the inability to accept, the ability to push until dismal depths of depression, push and push beyond one's own happiness into someone else's that will never occur.

I understand, but want to throw my hands up in non-understanding while I sit alone and important conversation unfolds below.

(Wouldn't it be ironic if I could never unfold? Today someone told me I needed to have my tattoo touched up. But who can remove a scar like that? Goddamned Snoopy bandaid and skin glue.)

Self worth becomes marred by outer deprecation.

And fuck you for the attempts of flattery, of redemption, of let's-make-do because you don't see the wheels and the levers and the pulleys that adjust this state of mind in each intricate moment. Jealousy, envy, easily assumed, the truth behind the feelings rests beyond textbooks and grade school mentalities, instead, in the details and the stitches of environment and treatment, in the binding and the understanding, in the recesses of closed eyes and sheltered minds that suddenly become illuminated.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Out of state, out of time...

On the ride down, the bus went through numerous old Pennsylvania mining towns. Aside from the large steel contraptions plunging their sticky fingers into the ground, beautiful houses resided in back roads, a sense of country charm.

I thought about my favorite therapist (out of quite a few) who spent much time growin' up in minin' Pennsylvania. He goes to the Jersey Shore every year with his family and every year stops at Victory Pig, a staple to one of these towns that once served BBQ during WWII, but now a semi-deep-fried pizza place. Beautiful.

I hope to one day go there, the Oregon Vortex, House on a Rock, The Winchester Mansion and Dinosaur World. For now, I spent today at Edgar Allen Poe's house in Philadelphia. Apparently the only structure that still stands that can be connected directly to Poe. The experience was fantastic, the walk, the 8-minute video presentation, the company, the tour guide and security guides, all of it. This isn't what I wanted to talk about.

Anyhow, the weather was gorgeous and when we returned from our historical trip and sushi digesting, I read a book André gifted yesterday, Skibber Bee-Bye by Ron Rege Jr. It's a beautiful, disturbing, perplexing, fantastical, whimsical, horrifying little book of images for eyes to devour. You should read it. I plan on reading it again tomorrow. Or tonight even. I suddenly just crave books and knowledge and words and images.

I had some other observations on nostalgia, the state of things, the state of being, whereabouts, how life moves and swirls in all these interesting, intricate patterns, sometimes with reason, sometimes without. And when I think change is most imminent, most plausible, most possible...it's not.

Suddenly, after months of thinking everyone else and their lives had greatly changed, it was, in fact, me who changed, my life which changed and I'm okay with it. I'll be happy.

In other news, go join goodreads. I signed up tonight, but am slowly working on my account, check it: http://www.goodreads.com/likeaship.

Oh, and I would like a Fassbinder movie night. Just sayin'. Ali: Fear Eats the Soul. I think I may have a minimal obsession with films about old women and young men hookin' up.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

A quick quote before bed...

"And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped inside you so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship - but the loneliness of the soul in it's appalling self-conciousness, is horrible and overpowering-" Sylvia Plath

This quotation held strong in my youth and I've been trying to dig it up recently. I had the book on my shelf and found it dog-eared. In this moment, in all moments as of late, it has fit perfectly, snuggly.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

Premenstrual syndrome...

Once I dated a young gentleman who informed me I could not possibly suffer from PMS. A bulk of my life has been spent in belief of those I shouldn't and in disbelief of those I should believe most. Though it may be undiagnosed, I know my body and my reactions well enough to know that I am currently experiencing yet another monthly round of PMS. I have been diagnosed with much tougher labels than this one. There. I said it. Maybe that will be another entry.

Last night, Shannon and I thought about how long we had been menstruating for - thirteen years. That's right. I always thought I would get a late period and early menopause like my mother - a miracle, really.

Anyhow, I've been largely depressed, bloated, tired, greasy-food-or-candy-bar craving, irritable, moody, achey and tired. Given, many of these things plague me all four weeks of the month, but in particular strength right before my period.

So, here I am, a Sunday night. Utterly bored without reason. I could clean, I could rearrange my room as I've been planning, I could read, I could work on The Canary, I could send online messages to people I care about, I could make telephone calls I've been meaning to, go for a run even, knit perhaps.

Instead, I sit here, a bloated, sad faced mess of a young lady who still hasn't coped with these dysfunctions of mood after thirteen years of repetition. An estimated one-hundred and fifty six (156!) periods, not to mention the time in my life I got a period every other week.

I will continue to watch awful fictional crime television, look up information on PMS and think about how much my vagina has contributed to this growing landfill issue of ours. Or pick up the game of Pokemon Blue I've been working on for at least six months.

I hope quite honestly no one took the time to read this.
I do love womanhood.
I do love my period, most times.
And when it comes, it it always relieving to know either:
1. I'm not pregnant.
2. There is a semi-logical reason why I was fucking out of mind for the last week.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

Once I read life described as a...

monumental grotesque joke. My state of mind at the time clung too heavily to the description, but in the very slightly jaded aftermath, the cold, humorous reality of it elicits a morning smile. Within the first fifteen minutes of wake up, life invariably trips:

my foot knocks over a week old glass of juice, my cigarette pack is empty, no coffee maker exists within the kitchen despite the new whole coffee beans and discovered coffee grinder, the toilet clogs, my hair looks ill despite any pressing and pulling and pinning. All these things that when they occur, it's a minute blip in mood, when they don't occur, it's a minute stabilization of my mood in the day to follow. Given, my morning usually starts at 12 pm.

Lately, the monumental grotesque joke has taken form and shape in my every day, the small things, separately, inconsequential, lumped together, a monument of going-wrong's, bad karma in a haphazard race for my mind's deconstruction. Yet, it ends with a joke. Laughter. A chuckle. A smile. A roll of the eyes sighing "of course".

And when the joke chokes harder, the grotesque tries to take precedence, I think about a future road trip here:


And the joke resumes.

Laughter remains the foremost effective coping mechanism.