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.