Liberty is the Soul's Right to Breathe|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 15 most recent journal entries recorded in
Signorina blitz-Creegz's LiveJournal:
|Tuesday, January 13th, 2009|
|On Moving to the Land of Eternal Summer
My dad always hated the winter cold. Every year, he fights the gloomy seasonal depression. When I was younger, he always talked about moving to Florida, and I was always dead set against it. It's easier to be happier when it's sunny. It's a fact. You'd think I'd be on board. I've always had trouble being happy. I gave all the regular reasons not to go. It's too hot, it's a swamp, it's so far from Ohio, it's where the aged of this country go to die, etc. etc. The slick thick line of irony built into my existence should have, by now, made the reality of my decision to move to Florida less of a surprise, and yet, months after I decided to go and just two weeks before the big move, I still cannot believe I'll have a Floridian address. It's like when we used to go to Myrtle Beach when we were growing up and wondered why we lived where we did when you could live by the beach, but we always came home to the Ohio Valley. It was always just talk. Part of it was the roots, but part of it was also the loss of illusion. Lots of places can be paradise until your sun rises there morning after morning, until your reality finds you and settles back in your chest, until you have to work there, buy groceries, do dishes. Maybe we were afraid to lose the luster and the magic of the faraway places in the sun.
I was always also against internet dating. It was fine for other people, but I'm much too old fashioned. I've read too many novels. I'm too romantic. I wanted the chance meeting, that first glance. A feeling. But the days of social gatherings with available respectable young people are over. Dance cards are a thing of the past, and the shallow hunting grounds of bars grow increasingly unappealing with every sizing glance and fondling young intoxicated fool. So, again, I shouldn't have been surprised when a relationship bloomed out of the dark with very little help from me like the flower opening only in moonlight. I fought it. I was so independent, so headstrong, so not able to let someone take such tender care of me. Looking back over this last year, I thank God that I got over myself and took the time to get to know such a good person, to set down my pretenses and let love wash where it may in us both.
I was alone. So lost. Just drifting. He heard my sad song in the night and prayed right then to be the creature whose purpose it was to dispel such lonely tears and plant hope, and he has not wavered from this path ever since, and this amazes me. I know I am not selfless enough of a person to save another in such a way. I wasn't even selfless enough to let someone else try.
And so I pack. So much more than my books and clothes. I pack my hope and meager dreams and head south. To whatever end. I've always thought of my life like a story. Some things are penned in blood that I cannot change, but I still hold a pen.
I will miss everyone and everything. The day to day that make up a person and a place. I will miss my mom's mussed hair in the mornings. The reassurance that dad is sitting in the kitchen at four in the morning in swirls of smoke and fresh ground coffee. My brother's voice and jokes and the glorious pained beauty of his big brown eyes. All of my friends who are so beautiful and diverse and unique and have made me better in billions of inexplicable ways. But they all understand. Because they all are on their paths and understand the hard and necessary decisions. Everyone is chasing their own suns for those few chances at happiness. I have faith that the heavens connect us all wherever we go, and I will never stop praying to that heaven. My heart stretches the distance over us. No where will ever be too far for my love for you.
Come visit when you need to get away. I'll keep the kettle on, no matter how bloody hot it gets down there.
|Saturday, February 23rd, 2008|
|A Lesson in Theatre Etiquette
Maybe some people have no problem going to a movie by themselves. For me, it was always this ultimate test of my strength. Going to the movies is this deeply social act. It's on the list of eating in a restaurant alone, which I've found almost impossible to do without a journal to write in or a newspaper to hide behind. Not that I couldn't sit and watch people all day. I certainly could. People are eternally interesting. It's how much we hide of ourselves. It's all that we keep hidden that I like to catch glimpses of that you let slip when you think no one is looking. Eternally interesting.
I almost have to force myself across the parking lot and through the door like the gym at rush hour or church when I haven't been confessed. I fight the urge not to tell the young blonde in the glass booth that I'm meeting a friend or a man inside after I say, "one please." I have to go in after the previews have started and slip into a back row seat. I deliberately chose this theatre over the other closer one because you enter from the back instead of anywhere near the front where everyone who is already seated can get a good look at you.
It's dark and there aren't many people. As soon as I sit, I think: This is ridiculous. I'm 25, pretty, interesting and single...what the hell am I doing here alone? I should have made some guy take me out tonight. But the thought of all the tense formality of a date makes me remember why I came alone. I can really get into the movie and enjoy it without the distraction of he brushed my leg...I think he wants to hold my hand...do I want to hold his hand...I don't want him to see me crying...is he crying?!? And that's just in the theatre. Don't get me started on the awkward horror of the "drop off".
I didn't get any popcorn, soda or treats. I made myself a large plate of cheese ravioli for dinner not an hour before I left. I called my mom just before I left in a moment of lonliness. It didn't help that her and Poppi were at a party. She was eating lovely cake, he was playing euchre and they were getting ready to go bowling and then out to eat. Needless to say, that call did not help my cause.
Of course I chose the most romantically tragic movie available. In my defense, I really wanted to see it in theatres long before I knew I would be seeing it alone.
An older male comes in and sits in the row in front of me and to my left. I thought he was alone and I was just wishing I had the courage to ask if I could join him when his wife rambled in and took the seat beside him. I'm glad she did. He had coughing fits and made an abominable amount of noise with his treats wrappers. They also whispered throughout most of it. I caught enough to realize they were the kind that needed everything spelled out for them.
I cried only one tear and hurried out as the lights were coming on. I stood just out of sight to listen to the credits music, holding onto the magic for as many moments as possible before the freezing night air and awful blarring radio smashed it. I was so cold in my car I had to talk to myself, and dastardly annoyed that I didn't have my heavy coat, gloves and cloves.
Surprisingly, I was hungry when I got back to my empty, dark apartment. My roomates are also bowling and then going out to a bar for a few rounds. I quickly make myself a turkey sandwich and a large very hot mug of tea. And so you find me sitting on the floor of my very untidy tiny room listening to opera, taking long drags of clove ciggies I'm tapping into my seashell shaped soap dish and sipping tea trying to not eat the girl scout cookies knowing they would compliment the tea. Oh sod it. I am alone afterall.
|Sunday, November 4th, 2007|
|Just for Future Reference
Just for future reference, if an attractive girl asks you for drinks on a Friday night...you fucking go. A perfect example of what you DON'T say: weeeellll, Friday is kinda my night to just chill...but you can come over here if you want.
Let's just let that sink in.
And then I say: Wow. Um. It's no wonder you're still fucking single. Not that I need you to do back flips, but at least put some pants on, come pick me up, and head for a few drinks and laughs. But I certainly wouldn't want to upset you're important routine of loneliness and ass sitting. Peace out, douche bag. First impressions are a bitch to fix.
On to the next thing.
|Though I Already Feel Grown and Cheated
I guess I didn’t expect to find myself liking Cleveland. It took me by surprise. It was mostly the setting right on the water. Stopping at the park on the way home from work with the sun descending to its watery sleep making the clouds cotton candy and the perfect dream-like sailboats’ white sails fuzzy. I wish one of them would make its way over to me and ask me aboard. Scoop me up. I’d gladly sail off with a stranger. Take me right off these rocks. The waves are crashing and it drowns and smooths the jagged thoughts. I watch the old fishermen pull in fish. The fat cats that smartly live along this edge carry the catches off. A young boy whose father is fishing makes his way over to me. We get to talking about many serious things and end up gobbling ice cream cones.
I guess I also wasn’t ready for the level of pretention that comes with higher education. I have the urge to throw them into a life threatening situation, preferrably with lions, and as death approaches and fear grips them, shout: “Where’s your PhD now? You mean it’s not coming to save you?” Because I can’t understand using acquired knowledge as something to lord over another person to feel superior. It’s small minded. And when it comes to what you’re doing for mankind, a person with no schooling can fill the mouth of a starving child just as well as one holding a PhD. Maybe more so. I worked so hard to save the money to come here, and I feel like when it’s over, they will have pushed me so far from wanting to be a part of the academic community, I’ll end up in some jungle or some desert or some mountain range far away from “scholarly” everything and end up learning so much more than they can teach. It’s yet another thing that shows me what I do not want to grow up to be. Current Mood: frustrated
|The Great Escape
I plow down my chosen path. Calming strolls are rare. I’m one of those out of breath, heart racing, blood full of anxiety and fear, tears streaming, brambles and branches clawing, root tripping tragedies where everything works to hold you back. I’m running. And I’m running away only to get to the end hoping someone will be there to run their knowing fingers through my hair and say, “Just say the word, and I’ll put you in a car and take you far away from here.” They would be my escape. That rush of hope and thanksgiving would crash through me, and I would enthusiastically throw my arms open to it knowing it will hurt, but wanting to feel something other than this thing. We’d drive up some coast drinking champagne and swim naked in stress free moon bathed waters. I’d be free. Of all the many things that choke the life out of me little by little every day. I’d dance for you for the first time in a glade. And you’d fall in love with me right then. If someone were watching, they’d see it flit across your features. That shift to me. But as it is, I’m in a dark room on a bare dirty mattress, coming to the realization that no one is coming to save me. So many things are working against me still believing until being awake, being alive hurts. I had forgotten I had ever wished for death, but that deep wounded part of me remembers. That kind of wound occurs on the same spot every time.
Hum me a lullaby. Let me sing you a sad song in the night. “Let me touch you for a while.” There is still a part of me that is real and true and laughs out loud. I’m not all the way dead yet. I’m just lost, so I’ll stop. Standing in my torn clothes, fresh scratches, tear stained face, bruised everything…I’ll take a few deep breaths and look around…and see nothing is a mistake. “You are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here.” Current Mood: sad
|"Fiercely the Red Sun Descending"
"There is no universal definition of life." Why does this not surprise me? Life is defined as all of the following:
- A condition that distinguishes organisms from inorganic objects, i.e. non-life, and dead organisms, being manifested by growth through metabolism, reproduction, and the power of adaptation to environment through changes originating internally.
Through changes originating internally. Wow. Yeah.
- The sequence of physical and mental experiences that make up the existence of an individual
- Spiritual existence transcending physical death
- The period from birth to death
- Specific phase of earthly existence
- A sentence of imprisonment for the remainder of a convict's life
- An animating and shaping force or principle: spirit, animation
- The form or pattern of something existing in reality: i.e. painted from life
- The period of duration, usefulness, or popularity of something
- Human activities
- The activities of a given sphere, area, or time
- One providing interest and vigor: i.e. the life of the party
- An opportunity for continued viability: i.e. gave the patient new life
A physical characteristic of life is that it feeds on negative entropy or "negentropy" which is defined or used as a measure of distance to normality. So this is why life is so ambiguous. This is why we can't nail it down or why we struggle our whole lives to find its beginning or its meaning after its physical end. This is why we fear feeling like we haven't done it, haven't lived. Why we end up on our deathbeds with regret.
You get to a point where you scream at the sun and the moon: what the fuck is it all about?!? And you assess your life or the lack thereof and maybe have a panic attack or a mental breakdown. In our culture this is commonly referred to as a midlife crisis. I've been having mini ones my whole life…or lack thereof.
For me, I guess its been about finding balance between fears. The fear of not living and living in the fear of God. Not wanting to die with regrets or sins, and finding it tough between the two.
I get drunk to feel freedom and find truth, but the closer you are to truth the less inclined you will be to drunkeness.
I read Dickinson and relate – alone, contradictory – obsessing about salvation and eternity. I understand her as I have understood many. It never surprised me that I was attracted to and related to those who heard voices or committed suicide or were martyred for their beliefs.
What I can't find answers for, what I feel is missed or misunderstood is that 99% of the time, it's not your personal demons, but yourself. It's when they're one and the same that you can't find release or absolution, because you're sure there is no escape from yourself…in life.
|Tuesday, July 3rd, 2007|
|Applications are Toilet Paper
Watching the people I love the most on this whole damn planet getting smaller and smaller in the rear view. A coyote like cry and tears for 20 miles. A sliver of a moon growing ever more blood red with doubt, but the stars are crisp and white hot.
A new city. A new place to live. On the hunt for a new job. I haven't been without one since I was 15. I wake up and there's no office to go to. There's no friends to have lunch with. I hit up the bookstores one by one for apps. Do you have to be a souless bia to work in a bookstore?! I'm not going to be. I spaced out at the red light and got honked at. I pointed out the typo on the app at the Cracker Barrel. I made a giant pot of chili and watched Blow. Waiting for my roomies to get home.
I don't know these streets. These faces don't recognize mine. My cell rings. Everyone keeps telling me I'm going to be fine. Sure I am. Days are long when you've got nowhere to go and nothing to do. I put my clothes away. I can hear birds chirping, trucks rumbling and the Asian kids from downstairs yelling at each other in tongues. I drink carbonated white grape flavored water and fill in the last 10 years of my life. Over and over. In tiny little spaces. The sun sinks. Someone hire me. Classes please start. It won't be long before I sink into oblivion myself. I'm going to go flip through a magazine and watch cable. Later I'll try to find the Church of the Guardian Angel and send up some prayers. Transition is a whore I keep coming back to. "I long for transformation." Current Mood: tired
|Wednesday, May 23rd, 2007|
Lately I’ve been memorizing William Blake poems. I’ve heard that you can’t fully appreciate a poem until you memorize it. I’ve found this to be very true. In the memorizing and the repetition, I take fully the weight of the individually unique words into my mouth. I roll them around and really taste them. I feel the rhythm and cadence and rhyme in my breath and steps and heartbeat.
What I found very interesting is his thoughts on opposites. He found that opposites are not really opposites at all, but similar to each other, like two banks of the same river running parallel. Of course opposites attract. They recognize each other. Innocence and experience. We live in-between opposites.
The duality of nature has long caused me anxiety. My all or nothing personality has caused me a lot of grief in a world where paradox is the norm. We are to be our own best friend and yet die to self, find true innocence through experience, trust in God who helps those who help themselves. How are peace and balance to be had when we’re an immortal soul in a dying body that inherently battles each other?
I’m guessing this is where faith comes in. The hardest thing on the planet. Letting go. Being comfortable with not having control. It seems in opposition to human nature itself. In the end, we have control only over our little choices. We have enough trouble with those. Current Mood: contemplative
|Monday, April 30th, 2007|
|A Cinci Night
Our superior great uncle’s ordination as a deacon has brought us all to this “kids table” where we throw back free drinks from the open bar and talk about sex and madness with quiet swear words. Pre-gaming before our night out in the city. Back to the hotel room and we’re ready. A guy we graduated high school with six years prior migrated across the state for college and never left. He’s taking us to his favorite bar. I don’t remember much from high school. I recall his face and sly sideways glances.
We pile into his jeep with my brother in the trunk hatch and grab a booth at a Steelers bar. Five dollar cover charge and free Bud Light all night. Pitcher after pitcher mixed with shots to old friends, to Steelers fans in Bengal territory and to free beers. I remember his fingers. Long and thinner with oddly large oval thumb nails.
Soon we’re unaware of anyone else in the room but us. We throw our heads back and laugh, yell to be heard talking, and sing along to the strangely wonderful mix of music. After breaking the seal, my cousin Jenny Pickle and I make our way to the bathroom again and again. Luckily her fake ID got her in here tonight. She’s a beautiful sorority girl and she’s matched me drink for drink. We’re both pretty well happy drunk. Just as we finished up in the bathroom for maybe the tenth time, a girl busts in as vomit starts spewing involuntarily out of her face. Pickle and I stare in speechless wonder as she voms on the tiles between us on her way to the one working toilet left in the joint. I look at Pickle. Time to go, I say, and I grab her hand and pull her back into the pool table room. On our way back to our booth, a tall thin boy in a backwards hat grabs me and begins spinning me around dancing and singing whatever song was on. He sits back down and pulls me to him. Let me guess, I say, you go to the University of Cincinnati? Yea, he smiles. And how old are you? I ask. Nineteen, he says. You’re just a baby! I yell with a laugh. His friends who have all been watching begin to laugh. How old are you? He asks. I’m bout to be twenty-five, I say. You’re a young twenty-five then, he says. It would look that way, I said grabbing Pickle’s hand again and pulling her back towards our booth.
Shut the bar down and it’s time to go. Back out in the now chilly night we pile back into the Jeep now with two people crammed in the trunk and make our way to a packed Skyline Chili. The light is too bright for our drunken states and we stare at the unfamiliar menus. Pickle is entirely too friendly with a table of drunken frat boys we’ve crammed next too. Two of them come stumbling out of the restroom next to our table and with arms around each other’s shoulders, they begin to sway and sing. “You’ve lost that lovin feelin! Oh that lovin feelin! You’ve lost that lovin feelin now it’s gone, gone gone, whoa whoa a whoa!” Before he’s half way through the first line, my entire table has tilted their heads back and joined in as loud as they can. It spreads and before the end, the whole restaurant looks like West Side Story. I laugh. Ballads, bars and Skyline Chili. This is a Cincinnati night. Current Mood: better
|Friday, April 27th, 2007|
|I Don't Know Anything
"I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I should any more. This made me sad and tired. Then I wondered why I couldn't go the whole way doing what I shouldn't, the way others did, and this made me even sadder and more tired." The Bell Jar ~Sylvia Plath
Alone and confused.
It’s not ok to be unsure.
Unsure things are devoured,
turned to something else,
Only hope to be used for food
so something beautiful can bloom.
It’s not ok to feel fearful.
Fear equals lack of trust,
a retched thing,
something weak and murderous.
It’s not ok not to fit in.
New things are mistrusted,
deemed crazy and burned at a stake.
It’s not ok to feel despair.
Despair leads to reaching,
for things that do not fit,
and the forcing makes the heart hole bigger.
Sensitive and sad.
It’s not ok to feel.
Life is too short
and long as sorrow.
It’s not ok to get so physical.
Desecrating a temple on loan.
in scorned flesh whisps.
This is where you live.
Building sand castles on dark shores.
Nothing is ever good enough.
Nothing can ever rest.
A place you’ll never visit.
A distant paradise
found only in death.
Vengeance belonging to God.
Forbidden fruit bittersweet.
Something you squander
and keep from yourself.
Buried in a field.
All that life is.
Something pain reminds you of.
Something yearned for
but not known how to do.
Above all else.
Meaning not hedonism.
What I’m always looking for.
I recognize and store and label.
I forget and mangle
and am thankful I have no power
while everyone fashions their own brands.
A box you try to put things in,
that hurts to open every time,
which gets harder and harder to fill.
It’s not ok to wander.
The Shepherd will come looking.
Loss is not a sin.
Hiding in the bushes
because you don’t want to be found…
is. Current Mood: melancholy
|Wednesday, April 25th, 2007|
I wasn’t planning on leaving my office to do any work on the road, and being kept up late by the boy I haven’t gotten around to breaking up with yet, I opted to not wash my hair and wear a t-shirt and jeans to work. My boss paged me around 11:30 am saying they had a package needed to be taken to a closer down state in the area I usually do business. Could I go? I was pretty bored at the office. The weather was gray and making me want to sleep, so I figured I’d head out and do her a favor. It’d be nice to be in her good graces for a bit.
I set the cruise control and popped in the next CD of the book I’d been listening to. The rain was steady. For the next two hours I zoned out watching the pictures in my head the deep voice made from the CD. I didn’t come to until I passed behind a big rig packed with cages packed with chickens. I blinked to make sure I was seeing what I thought I was through the rain. Yellow feathers flapped in rows up and down. Mostly their behinds were facing me probably to avoid the wind, but a few peered with their tiny beady eyes and I wondered how they must be panicked when we couldn’t explain to them what riding in a truck was. Just as well, I figured, someone’s probably going to be eating them soon anyways.
My t-shirt wasn’t enough to keep me warm. I hurried into the Bob Evan’s I was scheduled to make the drop in. The closer was a larger middle-aged man with glasses and an honest face. I walked over to his table and said hello. “Christi?” And though the mispronunciation of my name made me tick a little, I smiled and said yes. I handed him the package. He looked it over and smiled up at me. “Well…it was nice meeting you.” I held my hand out and tried not to be awkward. I wasn’t even out of the parking lot before I regretted not staying for a coffee and a chat. I missed an opportunity for an experience and a convo with a new and nice person. When will I learn?
I hit one more courthouse and headed back to the office. I wished for a hot coffee like I always do on the road. One of the many things my father engrained in me. He’d make the Pope wait while he pulled into a gas station for a coffee on the way out of town. Up the river and I cut across the bridge. My brother’s making me chicken for dinner. I’ll stop and get him a flask of something amber and we’ll do slow shots together as night comes on. Current Mood: hungry
|Hump Day Cuticle Cutting
I sit on the window seat watching the rain flow heavily into the drain in the middle of the alley. Dreary outside. I feel dreary inside, like I could welcome a hundred-year sleeping spell. It would have to rain for forty days and forty nights to rid this town of all its filth. I’m the kind of cold inside that permeates into bones until no warm clothes or blankets can get to it. I could curl up and go back to sleep in seconds, but I have work. I paint my nails instead. A flashy forty’s red. It’s the only thing classy about me right now. Who knew if you cut a cuticle too deep it spurts and bleeds till I’m sure I’ll bleed to death right there in my living room with only the Discovery Channel as witness. Current Mood: cold
|Tuesday, April 24th, 2007|
|Full - A Reflection
(from last year)
My brother’s room is pristine now that he’s gone north to school. The week after he left mom cleaned every thing that was left out, painting the dark blue walls beige – a color my brother finds uninteresting. My room being a disaster reflecting the mess of my mind and life sends me to the basement in search of simple clean comfort.
In the middle of the night, a few weeks after he’s been gone, I’m dragging my ragged old comforter my grandma died on and my stuffed dog down to the cool beige hole. I lie on my back perfectly still in the silence and look around at the few things he chose to leave behind – a glitter cut out his high school cheerleader girlfriend made him before a big game months before she slashed his heart so bad it bled for nearly a year, a football bean bag chair, a Celtic sword, a couple dozen trophies collected over his young life of football, baseball and soccer.
My mom never thought she’d miss doing so much laundry. I never thought I’d miss piss on the seat.
I have always felt so different from my family, so odd. I was the religious English major in a family worshipping business and football, but in the last year, I realized how similar we are; how at the base of humanity we are all a part of each other. I realized God had wired my youngest brother and myself the same, like twins separated by four years. Our emotions, our reactions, our escape into alcohol – all engineered as if God wanted a male/female mirror image. We joked that the only difference between us was his penis and my Catholicism.
Lying in his room, with his shoes lined up beneath the bed, I feel calm. I feel a mini escape plan accomplished.
It’s been two weeks and I haven’t returned to my bed. I went to the library after work last Wednesday and checked out a stack of fiction and Oprah’s Book Club books. I felt a strong urge to put down my numerous educational reads to lose myself in stories. I go to work, come home and disappear into the basement. My parents have become a bit worried, as always. I’m the one on the edge, the depression battler, the one they have no idea how to help until they stop asking what’s wrong and simply say, “if you want help, I’ll pay for you to go to someone.”
I read for days and weeks, every morning collecting my strewn junk – books, bottles of water, tea cups, candles to haul back upstairs. I want nothing of myself left in this room to ruin the sanctuary, like leaving nothing after a camp, the humanity a taint on God’s perfect worshippers.
I leave my cell phone upstairs, curling up on the bed with a hostess cupcake, a mug of cold milk and a good book; feeling momentarily full and sure. Current Mood: organizing
|The Tree of Knowledge
This was the second time I’d laid in this man’s arms and thought of another, a military man and not my first. With my normal shoddy luck I met him on his two-week leave before he shipped back to the dangerous deserts of a country I could barely imagine to do things I wouldn’t want to. In the darkness of our first night, we sat by the hearth. Being nothing to one another gave us freedom, and we spoke honestly of deep things. In moments I can conjure the cold cabin bedroom we ended up in. All the other rooms were full and we were the last ones left by the dying embers. My hand rested in his above my head and my lips fell and stayed in a smile he could still see in the darkness. A lonely military man and a hopeless virgin felt happiness spreading hot through their chests in a freezing wooden room.
We talked and giggled and played for hours before the dawn began to creep. Sleep took him for a while and left me lying against him listening to his breathing, watching the beginning of day stealing in through the thick curtains. He showered. I cleaned up the paper plates and empty cups from our full night of drinking and card playing, and settled down at the long wooden table to try to write out on a napkin some of the things that had happened before the scent of him left my skin. I felt mostly numb. I couldn’t seem to remember who I was, like this cabin in these woods was a void.
We drove up to the lodge and talked for many more hours while the rest of our party slept off their hangovers. He was not the type I am usually attracted to. Tall, yes, but with blondish hair and bluer eyes, traits that rarely attract me. But it was his eyes that I could not stop searching. They were deeper set more from pain than genetics. And maybe it’s because I am in love with my suffering that I could so clearly see his in seeming bottomless pools in his face. He was fractured inside, and the ache of it flowed out of every part of him filling up the room. Like sorrow I knew how to swim. Drowning tasted sweet.
It was easy to start loving him and damn near impossible to stop. I locked myself in the study, listened to sad slow country songs and cried as much as I wanted without reasoning reasons to stop. I was always so careful, always so analytical and I was tired. I let myself feel this loss without the guilt of how silly it may be after such a short time of knowing him. The tears and sobs cleansed me so I could think on him and smile again. He was like a shooting star in my darkness. A brilliant light unknown to itself of how special it is. Momentarily blinded, I made a wish.
I read you can love many people with your one heart while remaining faithful to all. I feel fondness at the most for the boy who holds me now. When sleep took him and my hand rested in his above my head, a hot sob shot through me as I was reminded of another and the ludicrisity of their comparison, for this one is just a boy, and now that I’ve tasted the complex beauty of a real man, it is impossible to go back to the small unripened fruit at the bottom of the tree. Current Mood: nothing
|Monday, April 23rd, 2007|
|Maybe Eyes Say Too Much
The lighted fan above my cubicle has five bulbs in it. Four are currently burned out. They went one at a time over the last few weeks till only the center one was left lonely and sad and not good enough. That, and the storm clouds that came rolling in stealing the sun that just showed up make my small space look even dingier than the monotony of it. Files are stacked on the floor in haphazard piles that could go at any time. When I’m through with this job and I tell them all to piss off I never want to see another file again. They’re just feigning organization anyways. They’re like the Pharisees of an office.
Hunger rumbles my belly. Wanting any excuse to escape even for a few minutes, I say I’m heading out for a sandwich and spin gravel in the parking lot, but with no cash on me and driving losing all of its fun but what can be had on hot summer full mooned nights through the country, I head up a few blocks through the neighborhoods and park in another gravel lot by some picnic tables and a playground. Almost immediately a cop swings around the bend. He slows by my car. I pull some papers from my bag and fumble with them trying to look busy, like I just pulled over for a minute to sort some things out, thankful to be wearing big sunglasses that cover my entire eye area. Though I do have sensitive pupils, I opt for pairs that can’t be seen into more for the ability to have my head turned one way so my eyes can roam freely with no one the wiser. Eyes say too much.
I checked out Kerouac’s infamous On The Road on CD from the library yesterday, and sitting there I let the rich voice full of places I’d never seen roll over me as small rain drops begin lightly dropping on my forearm hanging out the window. I worry that I’ll never see or do the things I always dreamed of and then wonder why when the only thing ever holding me back from life, salvation and the pursuit of happiness is myself. I wonder again what I’ve always wondered: why I’m self-destructive. Maybe I’m just human, but I’m too tired to psycho analyze myself right now plus I have to pee, so I head back to the office.
I check the calendar for the fourth time today. Just a few more weeks and I start a new chapter in my life. A move north to grad school, a nice new expensive apartment and a city where I don’t know a soul and a soul doesn’t know me. I guess I’ll have to make new friends, which always came easy to me, but which seems to get harder as you get older. The more you live and experience, the less you want to explain yourself to someone new. You’re complicated and it’s exhausting. Maybe I’ll just stay a ghost, waking up forgetting who or where I am. Maybe the loss of the restraints of who I’ve been will feel a bit like freedom.
An hour and twenty minutes till I can go home. Maybe I’ll see the guy I’ve been half-ass dating. It’s probably a sin to go on seeing him when I know I’ll have to break it off when I move or even before that because he’s a man-boy who can’t feed even half of my levels. Every time I go to break it off something comes up that stops me. Either he’s not sober or I’m tired or every country love song ever made comes on the radio and he sings them to me in his off voice in-between him telling me how lucky he is to have me, how much he cares about me and would do anything for me until all I can see is his still pulsing heart dripping in my hand after I rip it out as my indifferent eyes look for something more interesting to hold their attention. Current Mood: blank