the crux

"The person who loves you has picked you out of the great mass of uncreated clay which is humanity to make something out of, and the poor lumpish clay which is you wants to find out what it has been made into.

"But at the same time, you, in the act of loving somebody, become real, cease to be part of the continuum of the uncreated clay and get the breath of life in you and rise up.

"So you create yourself by creating another person, who, however, has also created you, picked up the you-chunk of clay out of the mass. So there are two you's, the one you yourself create by loving and the one the beloved creates by loving you.

"The farther those two you's are apart the more the world grinds and grudges on its axis. But if you loved and were loved perfectly then there wouldn't be any difference between the two you's or any distance between them.

"They would coincide perfectly, there would be a perfect focus, as when a stereoscope gets the twin images on the card into perfect alignment."

All The King's Men by Robert Penn Warren

the eulogy you want more than anything

[It's been a week. I've let the words fall beside me, let them land on me, I've stepped out of the way for some. You're here, ish. Is this what you're looking for? Is this what you're here for?]

The other day, I was in a place that played that song. The one that so captured the feeling it was for me to know you. The one with a metaphor for a title. The one that eventually all the words came true, and then suddenly none of it mattered.

I keep hearing you wonder (not that I heard you, but your voice is as solid in text as in the air): I hope you never hate me.

I never thought I could. I trotted out a simple phrase to assure you through all your doubts and predictions of the way it would be between us, and I believed in that phrase; that generous phrase.

[I wish I could've assured myself]

I never imagined the machinery of my mind could turn in the opposite direction. I could not foresee any instances of grief between us, given that nothing but discreet intellectual discourse and polite admiration had passed between us. I suppose I thought we were better than this.

"just like an angel off the page, you have appeared to my life..."

Your entrance was mythic, like manna raining down from the skies, your words were full and heavy with promise, fascinating, glittery;

Yet it was you, your grandiose ideas, your opinions, your feelings on the matters of so many things that enraptured me. I've known a lot of people, been known by a lot of people, but you were incomparable.

Mostly, for me, it was knowing someone else who straddled the grayness of the world, being neither a lover, nor a fighter, but elements of both and essentially all things, and basing it on speculative logic all the while.

"I wonder why it is, I won't let my guard down for anyone but you"

If there is any hate in my heart for you, which I try to muster up in bursts of exclamations that no one believes or wants to hear anyway, it is that you got inside my walls, the ones that have been in place for longer than I'm aware. I still haven't figured it out, except that perhaps you traveled back in time, told yourself to be the most wonderful, serendipitous peripheral acquaintance, which would grant you unequivocal access to me some years later if only you could deduce the secret password.

I wake up every morning with phantom memories of you entwined in my thoughts, that I weed until they are no more, but like weeding, it is an endless task, just when the garden has been picked over, it seems the rest of the weeds underground have surfaced while the eye was distracted, and so I spend my nights picking out more things and trying to push your influences and opinions back into my periphery.

I was starved and your words were the sustenance that brought me out of the delirium of hunger. You spread glorious words at my feet, showered me with linguistic feats, and smothered me in the joy of language. I couldn't resist you and you couldn't resist giving me yourself.

"I wonder why it is, I don't argue like this with anyone but you..."

You gave me what I was hungry for, and then you took it away. You had your reasons. You had your logic. But it seemed turned against me. It seemed opposite what I was then clamoring for. I keep trying to trace its twists and turns in my mind, but it is complicated, my memory is bad, and I can't. I try to tell the story of us and every time I am interrupted, told to stop, that it is too much.

You say the most garish things. It is hard for me not to argue them. The analogies? For you. If you look back through the entries before your entrance, it is an occasional device, but nothing more, not relied upon. Those analogies were my way of writing just for you, my gifts from the skies,

And it is easy to say that you must have known, you should have known that every beautiful word was for you. I can reconcile that you didn't always understand my intentions, in fact have misinterpreted them, just as I did with you. I understand that we are only human and cannot read minds. do you understand?

For me, there are definitely points you've made that cannot be denied. I was a wheel of contradictions with you, and I spun in no predictable fashion. Yet, from the beginning, and throughout, and at the end, I have produced disclaimer after disclaimer that who I am at this time in my life was someone who was not well and not at my best. And all I wanted was for you to know me at my best.

It is funny to me that you said emphatically to let it go, there's nothing to prove, but here you are, there you go, your presence haunts me. Why don't you let it go? What do you have to prove? Why don't you leave me alone?

Do you feel as cheated by our recklessness, our hastiness, our clashes?

In the end, I know I will never really hate you. Hating you would be easier, actually, I could blithely place the blame squarely on you, and spend each day loathing you. It is much harder to ache for you, to want to speak to you, to want to be with you and not be able to. It is much harder to be misunderstood and ostracized from your circle. Your misanthropic ego did validate me.

It just didn't have any compassion for me.

[Goodbye. I'm gone.]

why I get paid the big bucks around here...

for the brilliant solution to place a huge painting on the windowsill.

A little thrill of joy races through me when I look over at it, nestled between the curtains; it looks like it's always been there.

it's kind of perfect because the painting is of a wintry pasture with two trees at dawn.

it's this kind of stuff that makes working for Marilyn seem like a likely story.

habits of highly successful older people...

Apparently, all it took to make me feel older, older than the vague twenty-something, is regularly wearing a set of matching pajamas and brushing and flossing my teeth every night.

The pajamas were bought in a TJ Maxx in Florida, during the vacation that revolved around the bathroom and the amazing amount of Doritos everywhere. They are supposed to feel like silk, but they are just polyester. Cheap. But, on the other hand, polyester washes well. And they are great pajamas for only twenty bucks.

The brushing and flossing was always hit or miss with me, for various reasons. About three weeks ago, my friend Laura had oral surgery. She had a build-up of plaque and bits under her teeth from not flossing, and these were rotting her teeth from underneath her gums. So they cut a line along the inside of her gum line, from the right back molar to the left back molar (with no anethesia, I might add), peeled back her gums and scraped out the pockets of plaque and then stitched it all back up. That was just the bottom...she's still got the top to do. After detailing this horrific event and showing me her purplish gums, the black stitches, the swollen jaw, she intoned, "Save yourself some trouble and floss."

I must operate well with scare tactics, because I've only missed one or two days at the most since.

Maybe also, it's that I've got less than six months til I turn thirty....

student-only contemplations...

I just got home from babysitting. Have to wake up for work in five hours. Haven't finished a bit of homework for class tomorrow. Wondering: should I stay up all night and do the homework?

Figure, I can stand it for about two hours and then I'll probably get totally tired and fall asleep, but worry that my alarm will go off and I'll think I'm hitting snooze but actually just turn it off and then wake up at seven and scream and panic and nothing will be right with the world.

If this is the only way to gain some extra time that I desperately need, should I take it?

Problem is, I won't get much sleep tomorrow either. Funny how you can already know that. I don't have to work in the morning on Friday, but I'll be woken up early, earlier than I'll want to be.

Grrr. I cannot wait for school to be over. Just seven more weeks...

It's only five hours, right?

Then I wonder, what if I skipped class and spent the time in the lab doing my homework and turned it in when class was over. Or what if I do stay up just these short five hours, do the homework, email it to the teacher, go to work and get hopped up on caffiene and then come home and take a nap after work?

I hate homework. it's so stupid.

an enumeration of the days past:

Pages of writing accomplished: none.

pages of journal writing: 3.25

midterms taken: two.

midterms passed: so far, one.

Novels completed: none.

(currently reading Sula and All the King's Men for class, If on a Winter's Night a Traveler, for fun, and staring at The Complete Saki and The Te of Piglet)

Novels close to completion: one. (Sula)

record breaking sleep: fourteen hours.

followed next day by: five hours and some snoozing.

most meals eaten in a long time: Saturday, three.

worst meal eaten in a long time: yesterday, McDonald's.

best meal today: pineapple fried rice, thai spoon

sent back: once.

reason?: no pineapples in first time.

Text messages received today: five.

Text messages sent today: three.

hours spent gazing at computer without doing homework: nine.

movie attempted: Scent of a Woman (I had no idea Al Pacino was playing a blind guy in that movie!)

movie watched, finally, to Netflix's great relief: Howard's Zinn You Can't be Neutral On a Moving Train

movies in my queue: 105

Movies rated: 91

movie in hand: Me, You and Everyone We Know

emails sent today: not sure. catching up on old ones. a lot.

emails welcomed today: all of them.

hours worked yesterday: six and a half.

hours worked today: none.

time spent today out of doors: less than an hour.

times I wish time had passed: every ten minutes or so.

my favorite comic book: 100% by Paul Pope

recently encountered as a guest artist in: 100 Bullets

Trade Paperback Collection of 100 Bullets I'm on: five & six.

will receive them via John: tomorrow.

days until Gil Mantera's Party Dream: nine.

gifts purchased for old roommate's who got married: two books.

stamps needed: eight.

number of items still on today's to-do list: seven

times I used public transportation yesterday: seven or eight.

Accidents viewed after the fact: one.

sense made of accident (was she pregnant or not): none.

will to carry on at this pace: waning.

will to work: nil.

a shock:

"You have a pot-bellied pig?"

As I said these words and gazed upon the man who nodded his assent, I knew then that Man of the Year was all too common a phrase to lend him. (Plus, I think I saw a preview for the movie of the same phrase, you know, with Robin Williams, and that might be why I called him that in the first place.)

Today's visit began with a trip outside to see my favorite dog, Cozy, who is a leaner and a licker, and one of the best dogs I've met. As I cooed at her and petted her, I noticed someone walking up, and it was he, this man of utter surprises, and immediately, the dog and its owner ceased to exist as the man winked at me. I could hardly open the door and walk inside. I was topsy-turvy, but finally for good reason.

As I gushed about my love for Cozy, he bragged that his dog was the best dog ever. But that his dog was no match for his pot-bellied pig.

I asked, in the only moment of impressive and functional brain power that I managed to emit in his presence, "Are there any other animals in your menagerie?"

He admitted to the inclusion of cats and tropical fish. I asked questions about how the pets got along and whether or not it was legal to own a pot-bellied pig in the city (Beth? Lehn? surely one of you must know...) to which he answered very pleasantly. He said the reason no one had turned him in was because, "They're probably all waiting for me to cook him." Which I thought was a very vaild thing to say with a smile. He's obviously an easy-going guy, just by considering that statement alone.

I realized later that talking to him lately is thrilling. I feel thrilled afterwards. I feel like I could run five blocks straight (normally, I pant after a jog half a block to catch a bus).

And I'm taking suggestions on what to call a man who works manual labor all day outside, but went to an arts school and has a menagerie. And likes to read. And has a funny laugh. And has managed to capture my interest (despite the many other things obscuring the view).

stripped of analogies (in content, but not context)

Those of you who haven't actually been in my presence this summer will not know that I took up smoking again. It was a brief, but hard and fast bout of smoking, in which a half a pack to whole pack was consumed in one day. I was able to give up the dirty habit (for what must have been the eighth time), some three months later, when I realized it wasn't making me feel any better to smoke.

That was two, two and a half months ago. In that time, I've been out to bars, with friends who chain smoke, and at bus stops with smokers. I even smoked a total of three cigarettes during a combination of the first two instances. Previously, these three activities are what brought me back to being a smoker.

During the last week or so, I have wanted to smoke very badly. It is a pervasive thought. It is fueled by watching other people smoke. It is even triggered by the smell of cigarette smoke in the air.

Usually, in the post-smoking resolve, my mind scoffs at all my attempts to justify having just one cigarette; it is especially stronger when I'm not drinking. Lately, my thoughts seem very convincing. My favorite one is that I will buy some clove cigarettes (which are much too harsh to smoke in the same manner as a regular pack of cigarettes) and satisfy my craving that way.

This morning, when a friend stopped by to bemoan his relationship and was fingering a Parliament Light (my preferred brand) in his hand, I felt my resolve slide. I could hardly listen to him. All I could focus on was that cigarette, and deciphering the multitude of thoughts that hurtled into my mind.

Somehow, I remained steady and did not ask him for one, did not join him, did not buy a pack on the way home. And I begin to realize what people mean when they say that wanting to smoke will always occur throughout the rest of my life.

Sometimes, I wish I had never started smoking. But also, I know that it is just part of who I am and how I've grown up. It is neither good nor bad, just something I learned from.

kellog's corn flakes are still my favorite cereal

The interesting thing about feeling restored to my life, feeling like I'm putting the puzzle pieces of the last three months together in an effort to figure out what I was doing, almost as if I was on auto-pilot, or without a conscience, or lacking my own previously determined boundaries, is this: I am getting thinner.

Physically, it happened because of the fast I did in May (look through the archives for fun posts about not eating solid food for twelve days). I didn't gain back any of the twenty pounds I lost, and have since lost an additional five or so. I didn't notice it so much lately, but my jeans are looser than they have been. Pants that I wore and couldn't zip up before are too big now. Lately, I have begun to get the random comments and praise (it is quite the feat to lose twenty-five pounds).

Mentally, my capacity for anger is gone. I don't know if that's just a numbness I feel, or if it is really gone. No matter what someone says to me it's like I've got the ability to stand in their shoes and feel their heart and I don't get angry. That's not to say I don't feel hurt and pained by their actions, but the immediate and instinctive anger is gone.

I have cut myself loose from him yet again. And though it seems odd, but not permanent and not the end of the world, it does feel right somehow. As well, I have let the door close on the quintessential boy next door, whose intentions for me would have never matched my own for him. These two bold moves are simply a way of clearing and opening my clogged arteries so that blood can pump into my heart again.

Getting my apartment in order has really begun to shape this sense of clarity, as I remind myself of projects waiting for my return, reconnect with my most treasured items, and remember who I am. I thought for sure I had too many things, that my life was bloated by the inability to throw anything away. Instead, I am surprised to learn that I was just cramped into my previous space, that my legs were buckled, my shoulders grazed the ceilings, and my limbs were strapped to my torso. I hardly have enough things, I am a svelte creative being just beginning to explore the possibilities.

All in all, I find that my capacity for things is feckless and brief, that I can only tolerate what I most enjoy and what most enjoys me. And for a while, I feel that is fine. I think that is a very safe way to recover myself.

a deeper onion layer than most

you know it's bad when your good friend, the kind of person who knows you so well because they know themselves so well, the kind of person who has grown up in conditions achingly similar to yours, the kind of person who knows what's going on with you the instant they look into your eyes, which are welling up with the secret and invisible tears of shame and grief--

yeah, it's bad: when that person can ask you the question you most don't want to answer.

and you lie.

that is, I lied.

Everyone else has heard my reasons, my excuses, my thoughts and opinions for letting him back into my mental landscape.

and they all disapproved.

and I suppose I knew what would come out of my good friend's mouth, so rather than face his grousing, I lied.

if I couldn't tell him, this good friend who knows my heart, my thoughts, my life better than I do, because it's his too; then he's really not someone I should be involving myself in, is he?

the thing is, I knew it all along.

I was just lying to myself.

grad school declarations

So, today, while idly chatting with a curious party, I managed to somehow pack my writing career into one perfect metaphor.

As I was describing how I'd managed to discover my strengths lie in the non-fiction arena halfway through my career as a fiction writing student, through heralded journal entries and a class in Creative Non-Fiction, I told him, "It's like you love basketball and play it for years and years because there's nothing more you'd rather do, you watch basketball because it thrills you to see other people doing it, and then you find out that you're not that great at it. Your heart is in it, but you just don't got what it takes to play in the professional arena. At best, you know enough about the game to know when someone else has gotten it wrong, but that's all."

And sometimes, that's how I truly feel about my abilities as a fiction writer. I'm good, but I'm just not that good. And the truth is, I may not even be that much better at creative non-fiction, but I do think that's a good basket to take hold of right now. I have had small successes in my career at Columbia College, but nothing extraordinary. Nothing that makes me feel any more certain about my abilities as a writer.

I will likely attend graduate school next fall, attempting a master's in creative nonfiction. I figure half the year off will be enough of a break from school and homework. And I know myself. I won't write unless I have to. I can barely get out of bed unless I have to. School will be the perfect kickstart for me and my career as a writer. And if I had known my skills veered more toward the creative nonfiction genre, I would have started there first. Ah, but isn't that what college is meant for all along, to give you the time to explore the options to choose from? And it has been well spent, well explored time.

I have started searching out different colleges, and so far, the ones I like best are "tele-commuting" degrees where I send my work via the internet and someone reads it and gets back to me. I love the idea of not departing from my somewhat solid life here. Though, the allure of picking up and leaving is strong. I was born here, grew up here, and sometimes I wonder if I'll die here. It feels like this is the perfect reason to get up and go.

Perfect reasons glint in the sun.

the olive branch arrives

I can't tell if it's a mixture of failure and jealousy or some kind of regret that I have not managed to find that same kind of relationship, but when I came across the news that an old boyfriend of mine has gotten married, I got a little sad. A little welling up of tears happened, and a dribble of tears ran along my nose into my lips.

Maybe it's the same reason that when I unpacked my things and discovered the multitude of items I had packed away for when eric and I were finally able to move into our own place, a similar physical reaction occurred.

The same thing, tears, actual howling tears came when I found my desk date book, the one I used to keep on my dresser, and opened it to find blank page after blank page from June to October.

Who am I? What has happened to me? What is this?

I feel the lethargy of a deep sleep and the confusion of a recently awoken coma patient. And yet, I cannot say that I wasn't here for all of this. It feels like I wasn't, that my life has been upended and I have been dropped into a completely different situation.

As the deep fog clears, the clouds defer, the waters recede, it seems like it is the first time I have been astonished over what my life has become. Before, it was in a state of becoming. Before, it seemed as hollow and unreal as those blank pages of my date book. Now, it has become something.

I look back on those many weeks, months, and see the things I did, the things I accomplished, the life that happened and I wonder how much of it I don't even know about, how much I let slip away because I was too numb to chase anything.

The good news is that I finally feel like it is over. Ending. Has become. And that is good.

And, I am very happy for that old boyfriend of mine and his marriage. They are good together. And they totally deserve each other. I credit my time with him to stoking his belief in his worth and connecting the dots to her love. I did my part. And it went well.

drifting in and out of truths

I don't know how Kim does it. She always manages to find great people to work for her. Okay, some of them have been a bit of the suck, but for the most part, she hires pretty great people. The latest entry into the Siena Hall of Fame is a sweet DePaul student who happens to be from Alaska.

She doesn't know much about coffee, but in our business, that's not what really matters. She's just terribly pleasant and wonderful, and she's already a natural at chatting up the customers. It's very nice to see her being so great with them. It eases my conscience that if I leave again, it will be alright, because she'll be there.

It's also nice because traditionally, I become friends with people through the coffeeshop, and I anticipate her friendship like the opening a bottle of good red wine. She will not be disappointing, her temperament and style matches what's on my plate at the moment.

Today I trained her in the subtleties of the closing shift, and I found myself happily listening to her stories and eager to tell her some of mine. Also, we indulged in hanging out with some customers rather than clean, and she was great about it. Not frantic, not upset, just very easygoing.

I was thinking the other day that my long list of my criteria also rings true for many of my friends. Most of them have traits that I appreciate and admire and yearn for in The Relationship of my life. Of course it makes sense, I want someone who's like minded and we birds of a certain feather tend to recognize the plumage we know best. But also, I can see that what I'm searching for in The Him is what I'm appreciate in everyone. A sense of goodness, kindness and acceptance that is leaps and bounds bigger than the way most people operate in their day-to-day lives. I'm looking to know extraordinary people, and I do have the privledge of knowing more than a few.

In other news: I only have three boxes left to unpack. I got a lot done yesterday in the vacancy left by waylaid plans to go to Great America. My living room/bedroom is finally free of boxes and I have only my writing papers and homework and important things of note to sort through. My bathroom is still a mess, but I got the shower curtain up finally, thanks to Marilyn's savvy purchase of shower rings at a garage sale Saturday. Those nice metal ones with the beads that make it easier as it rolls along the bar. She has a sixth sense when it comes to things I need, I swear. And taking a shower with a shower curtain is so much more pleasant than standing in the tub and rinsing from the tap, because you don't want to spray the entire bathroom with gallons of water. Not easy, let me tell you. I still have to work on cleaning the refrigerator, but otherwise, the kitchen is in the best shape.

Mr. goggles and I are back on speaking terms, leading to seeing each other or what feels like snicker-filled "hanging out." This pleases me to no end. In the three weeks of our breaking apart, I missed him tremendously. I suppose it is just hard to convey, otherwise I might have tried before now, but he is unlike any other man I've ever known. Also, he is of this world, but not of it, elevated to a position in the clouds from where he glides down to spend time among us mortals and then traverses back and forth through the conduit of dreams and wonders why us people are so mundane and solitary and pretending that there is no one in our proximity when we are practically climbing over each other like ants from his vantage point. If only we could dream as vividly as he. Our lives could be as wondrous and intricate. Imagine being aware of both the front and back of un+complicated at the same time.

My sense of glee comes from being someone who this amazing person confers with, in full and ample use of the English language and its vast vocabulary, as if somehow, I am on the same fantastical plane. Hence the rampant sighing.

Midterms start this week. I am already--astonishingly--halfway done with the last semester of my undergraduate career. This both pleases me and terrifies me, of course, because what lies before me is a vast chasm of uncertainty and what is on my back is a pile of bills and debts owed. And, I know it will all work out just fine. But I had this panic settle over me in a pointed question, what am I going to do in January?

Marilyn has plans for me, and not just baby plans, but her business, the image consulting, is really taking off and she wants me to be by her side, her personal assistant, at the ready 24/7. Though it seems like I am the perfect accompaniment to her set of talents, I find myself unsure that is the direction I want to take. I can see that we do have a very keen relationship that is a perfect enmeshment of our various capabilities. But I don't want that much responsibility. It's part of why I passed on the coffeeshop. I need "me" time. I need time to be able to write. I need time for stuff. And I worry that Marilyn will exploit (as innocently as possible, you see) her decree that I be available to her 24/7.

Those of you who have read this journal for some time (well, daddy, I guess that'd be you!) will remember my ponderings about "the quintessential boy next door." So long ago I knew he was just not the guy for me (his output flickers out at a lower decibel, I said), but we find ourselves still bound to each other, recently discovering our likes and dislikes, sharing our tastes, and attending various events together. It was he that I convinced to go with me to Great America and I was disappointed when he decided it was too cold to go. And I keep wondering what it is that ties us together and why I wish it was more than our being neighbors and a loose abstraction of friends. He has invited me on a road trip to see our favorite band play, and though I am eager to go, I can't help but wonder what is going on here. My friend Drew says that if there is a question, that is the answer. There shouldn't even be a question, he muses. And so, I plan to go with the barest sense of clarity, and just enjoy myself.

And, I am such a regular at ennui (the coffeeshop near my new apartment) that the barista I see most often just introduced himself to me. When things like that happens, it makes me glad that I stand out, that I am striking, that I am here to be known in the world.

womb studies.

If one of your best friends happened to be an older woman who was certain that her time was up down there, could you stand by and not volunteer the rental of your space?

And so, at 2:13 p.m. I became the proud future womb of my friend Marilyn.

See, this body of mine was made to make babies. Wide hips, high tolerance for pain, etc. Problem is, I didn't want to have any too soon and now it seems like I might not have children at all.

And really, there isn't anything I wouldn't do for Marilyn. I know it doesn't really make sense to anyone else, but that's the bottom line.

and so it goes.

if only I could read minds...

so. I don't know. just when I think I know everything about boys, they all come out of nowhere and ambush me with their feelings and personalities, and make me all mixed up again.

suffice it to say, none of it has been unwelcome. and all of it is good to know.

and, it's a good kind of mixed up that I ponder and view like the night sky, searching for patterns in the stars and changes in the atmosphere.

and yet, I have been dealing with myself in a very disciplined way, school first, work next, followed by the apartment (which seems like a never ending catastrophe), and then keeping my word to the various people in my life who have managed to get me to agree to spend the little time free time I have with them.

and then the night sky arrives and I sit before it, wondering and contemplating and yawning,

discerning:

the emergence of a distinct bear, whose shape looms over my sky, whose presence fills me with pleasure, whose gentleness is only gone when his temper flares,

the lone figure of orion with his studded belt seems ever present, but I find it hard to outline his shape, his points are a little less fine, his stars dimmed...

the sideways dipper whose self is constantly in a tragic and tiresome flux of being filled up with spirits and emptied out...

the gallery of the rest of them, all shapes and figures before me, seem pleasant enough...

another yawn reminds me that all that's left to do is sleep, which is filled with afterimages of my lengthy day and the night sky.

and so it goes.

enter: man of the year

Why is it that exactly when I declare that I never want to think about men again, one comes ambling ever so gracefully into my life in such a way that I cannot resist his glance, his thoughts, his words?

It took a while for his visage to permeate my muddled view. How long have I seen him, day in day out, and been too tired to make sense of him, or too distracted by the other men in my life to appreciate him, and yet, the little things have always been there, building and building, like a lincoln log cabin, piece by piece, and suddenly, what I see taking shape before me is something that resembles the beginnings of a relationship.

it began like this: in the back pocket of his jeans, he had a book jammed unpretentiously, whose title I could not see, which I felt I could not ask ("I just happened to notice you have a book in your ass, can you tell me its title please?"). And there was the first bit of information, that he read books, that he actually read books, rather than talking about reading books, he was an actual reader of books. People who are actual readers of books cannot be without one, no matter what, and when they are, they are quite disappointed in the alternatives.

it was such a small thing that I can hardly remember when that was. The next thing was inducting him into the rigorous process of having a coffee club card. At seven in the morning, these things can be rather difficult to make sense of. He and I had a pleasant enough time of it, and this is how I learned his name. There is a funny story about his name that I will not tell just now.

also, he is a rare man who actually likes bright eyes. I know it is amazing, but true. I knew some guys who liked bright eyes, but it has been a long time since I heard of a man who says he "loves Conor Oberst." One day, my coworker was playing a bright eyes cd I loaned her (which just makes it all the more perfect) and she said she was surprised at his enthusiasm, since normally in the morning he is so not awake.

Most of the time, he would come in with his work friends and get coffee and we would all exchange pleasantries. Sometimes I would ask him how his weekend was or was going to be. Our conversation was always stunted by the feeling of cotton in the ears, mouths, and eyes. So it went. For a while.

From time to time, he would come in alone, and always a pet name emerged, one not agreed upon mutally, but that never felt ridiculous or unnecessary. My favorite of these is "peaches." It is quite a thing to have a man call you peaches, let me tell you.

The moment it changed for me, when the logs took shape, when the structure seemed to emerge as something recognizable, was probably something that was just like the cutesy pet names, a completely habitual act that one does with someone they feel comfortable with. It probably had no meaning for him whatsoever, other than a basic level of connectedness, but it took the air out of my chest and sent the rockets waiting in my stomach alift.

he winked.

Just a simple gesture, but I was startled into an area I had not considered...could I like this man? why did his seemingly innocent act have such an effect on me?

and as the weeks and days have gone by, with my woes and shocks of my life taking shape, I've decided it's going to be a while before I get into another relationship, so even the rigor of looking at men and speculating about men had no value. And, having things between me and the other he of my life this summer, looking at another man as a possibility just made me feel numb.

As my criteria has taken up the forefront of my contemplations in this area, I have to admit, this new guy, he fulfills on a lot of them. nearly all. there is only one dealbreaker that I can outright see. The point of the criteria was not to have a list to rate people by, but I have to admit, it is already showing up as a filter by which to screen out people who are just going to waste my time and cause me grief. And, the criteria is acting like a lit up neon arrow behind the guys who do fit.

But none of this is the point.

Today, I went out of my way to bring him coffee. I knew he had not stopped by Siena. I was there for breakfast before class. I asked. I was hoping to bump into him there. (Yes, it sounds like stalking, but I was in the neighborhood, having babysat for Laura last night. ahem.) I noticed once at some point during the summer where he worked, in that way that I take things in and file them away, never really needing the information, but just unable to stop observing and making connections. I saw his coworkers milling about this building. Suddenly, that they wore paint splattered pants and were up so early made sense. They were contractors, or builders, or painters, or something, and that was the place they were fixing.

Over the last few weeks, there have been days when I was looking forward to seeing him and he didn't have time for coffee. Once I joked that I would have brought him some if only he had called and let me know. The next time he missed his morning coffee, I told him that I was seriously about to bring him some. He said that would have been great because he had been having a bad day.

So this morning, I put myself together, got him a coffee and walked with some trepidation in my step. I had butterflies in my stomach. I wasn't sure if he would even be there. I felt foolish. I wondered if he would think I was weird. I worried that I would go there and wouldn't be able to find him. Every single possible scenario played itself out in my mind in that block I walked. I still forced myself to go, thinking at the worst, I would have a coffee to drink on the way to school, and he might be made uncomfortable by my gesture.

As I crossed the street, I heard a steady hammering noise. As I passed one half of the building, I looked past it, into its gangway to see where the hammering was coming from. There he was, standing on the ground, arm extended overhead, nailing some black sandpapery item to the exterior wall. And he felt my presence and turned to see who was there. Something about that is so sweet. I just couldn't stop thinking about that all day, that I loved that he saw me at nearly the same time I saw him.

We talked for a few minutes, and I learned more about him and he about me in that few minutes than the last five months. He never knew I went to school. That I liked to write. He confessed that he also went to an arts school, but he spends less time on his art and more time working (the aforementioned, possible dealbreaker). We talked about his weekend, and I told him about the RedMoon Spectacle, which he had already mentioned was his favorite theatre group. And our conversation still had an awkwardness (maybe due to the lack of portable countertops available for baristas who rely on their solid three feet of space) but no cottony feeling, just a cute, kind of surprising feeling of being important to someone who you hadn't considered yourself important to.

He was also delighted to see me, not at all weirded out, which I had hoped for, and was glad to feel.

And as I look back on these things, I know that it is just another story, just another guy who I could find more than enough love to spare, but I also know that nothing is set in stone and I have my choice. I can date whomever I want and I can be in relationship when I feel it's the right time. and that is what is really behind my avid wandering eye, that I am free to make choices for myself.

and so it goes.

Canadian Thanksgiving and more....

Wow. I had a great weekend. Really. I can't get over just how great my weekend was. It was fantastic. okay, okay. but, I just want ya'll to get this: GREAT.

[and, what's better, no men were involved in the making of this weekend...well, incidentally, but not like it hinged on them.]

Saturday I worked. It went by fast. The new girl is amazing. She's fun to talk to. I encouraged a customer to tell me his life story and it really made me profoundly sad, then rather happy that I am no longer dating someone who brings out the worst in me and hurts himself, someone who is not willing to face his problems of substance abuse. This guy was all sorts of messed up about a woman who's six months sober and is still working on her anger issues. I kept telling him at least she was willing to admit there was a problem.

Then I went over to my friend Laura's house for brunch and talkings. We had a lovely, easy time. She wasn't feeling too well, so we just slowly muddled through the day. We stopped at Urban Outfitters and I got some clothes on sale and found three panels of these curtains I've had my eye on for some time for five bucks each! I was amazed that when I walked in there, I thought to myself, I wonder if they still have those birdcage curtains and then further amazed that there were just enough for my front room/bedroom windows.

As our afternoon together waned, I headed back towards Siena to meet my coworker. We walked over to Piper's Alley and saw the new G.G. Bernal (as she calls him, the guy from Y Tu Mama Tambien, Gael Garcia Bernal) movie, The Science of Sleep. It was an amazingly well told movie about one man's tendency to blur his active dream life with his real life. I loved the movie so much, but it was like watching a twisted truth-is-stranger-than-fiction psuedo documentary of myself and goggles. There were times where I identified with the main character, and then times when I identified with the woman he falls in love with. Mostly, though, it was a whimsical and absurd movie that I enjoyed despite my feelings of the familiar. We loved G.G. Bernal's acting. He was so cute and lively. We giggled in fits throughout the movie. Also, I felt the movie bore a strong resemblance to Brazil, with less universality.

After the movie I headed home and had an uncharacteristically long phone conversation with my good friend Lehn. We're both not much for phone talking. But it'd been a while since we talked and it was good to talk to him. When I got to my apartment, I had a burst of energy and unpacked all my books and set them up on my bookshelf, even though it's not in the "right" spot, which is against a wall in my kitchen with a one and a half inch gap between it and the floor. I figure by the time they fix it, I may have to change the order of the bookshelf anyway, and I am sick of looking at boxes. I stayed up til 1:30 in the morning even though I had to work the next morning. I am so eager to get the rest of the unpacking completed.

I worked through the next morning in anticipation of a visit from my good friend Pete. But he did not arrive. I suppose he fell asleep sometime between his text to me early that morning and when I got to work. Afterwards, I went to pick up my mail from the old apartment. I managed to make it in and out in half an hour. I did have to stand through some obligatory gossip and since-the-last-time-we-talked questions. Pablo, the cat, seemed to recognize me, and we had a long petting session. Eric left me a check for his part of our phone bill, and his note revealed the complicated relationship that I was always groaning over between he and his roommate: he hoped that I had finally moved into my new place. That he even knew that I had not moved into my new place when I expected to meant that they must have told him I hadn't. grrr. I left knowing that the next time I see them, if ever, it will be completely up to me. I left knowing I might never see them again.

I hadn't had lunch, so I stopped off at the local Sbux to check if they had my favorite sandwich (the tomato mozzarella on ciabatta--so fucking good, I could eat it everyday) and say hey to all the people I know who work there. One guy that I've always gotten along with really well who is just a salt-of-the-earth kind of man was there and we had a nice talk about the things we do for our mothers. He and I exchanged phone numbers and may hang out sometime soon.

I went home and napped. I was exhausted. Later, I met my friend Kathleen for a special theatre thing she wanted to do. She tried to explain it to me, but it was kind of confusing. Soon I realized why. It is an annual performance/art display that this group RedMoon puts on once a year outdoors, usually in a different city park each year. Then, there are random theatrical performances inside the theme-park like venue. There were nine or ten "scenes" set up, each fairly static and meant to be viewed and taken in. The best by far was the Canary Chamber, where a woman wearing a yellow dress sat on a wooden swing and whistled bird calls among her "nest" of books. The best perfomance was a man and a woman who stood in a tower. They were covered in fine, regal dress. They had various accessories that were made of mirrors, so that whenever they looked at each other, they could see themselves as they appeared to their lover. Occasionally, they would look out at the crowd and wave, and the RedMoon theatre people clapped and cheered. Their vainglorious acts hinted at the celebrity culture and as the audience gathered and craned necks upwards to see them, became part of the commentary.

To get people to gather at performances, the RedMoon theatre team had mid-sized cranes set up a beefed-up golf cart with speakers and various objects hanging from the crane that fit the mood of the performance: a ceiling fan with light for a chess game, a disco ball for a dance, a bubble machine for a wedding party. People milled about the park at random, but when that crane was on the move, people began to follow behind as it traveled to a destination. A lot of times, children were the ones who followed the RedMoon staff, as if they were pied pipers. I was surprised by the number of children in attendance, and not only their presence but their palpable delight in the unstructured events and randomness of the displays. At one "scene" a swan danced around her nest and little girls in the background mimicked her movements in utter rapture. It is surely a spectacle to be seen.

As if my weekend could not be more packed and full of magic and wonder, there was more to be had. Kathleen's friend, a Canadian who lived nearby (who she called because she thought he would love the RedMoon show) invited us over to participate in his Canadian Thanksgiving dinner. I was excited for two reasons...I had passed on the option of having a boxed lunch at the RedMoon Spectacle, and ever since I met Marilyn, I've always been curious about a Canadian Thanksgiving. It turns out it's not like they eat anything very different from us, or if they do, this couple in particular didn't stray far from the typical American fare: turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, etc.

The most interesting thing was to be at a table of aspiring comedians and keep myself from spitting out wine or food during every bite. That was the most fun I've had eating in a long time. The best was when we "acted out" all the uncomfortable family conversations that inevitably happen during the holidays. My friend Kathleen said, "No one's said anything about my sell-by date..."

I puzzled over that for a second or two until the wife of the Canadian said, "You better get your eggs frozen before its too late!"

Cue laughter. After dinner, we watched a BBC show that I had never heard of called "Father Ted" that was hilarious. I love BBC comedy shows. They are so formulaic, but the stuff they get away with is funny.

This goes out to Beth. Happy Thanksgiving. I hope yours was full of good eats. I'm glad you're here and I got to meet you.

cheers.

how the rules have changed me.

I still falter, but do not rush over to a man who I used to see when I worked at Sbux who was, what I then declared: the perfect physical specimen for me. He and I made eye contact several times, but I suppressed the urge to ambush him and remind him who I was and how he knew me.

I smiled, I laughed, I enjoyed the company of my friends. But I did wonder...should I talk to him? should I say something? should I go up to him? thankfully Natalia reigned me in. she tried hard to get my focus off of him, but he kept wandering into my view, and as a tall man, he was hard not to notice.

at the end of the night, I felt his eyes along my profile and wished that he would say something to me. But he did not. He just kept walking.

Part of me wonders why the universe even had our paths cross after a year has gone by and I'd finally forgotten all about him. I suppose it has to do with my criteria, which I read to Natalia before our evening began. And maybe, his presence was necessary to remind me how important the physical attraction really is to me, and two, to remind me how important it is for the guy to be somewhat like-minded. He is one but not both of those things.

and so it goes.

brutality at the hands of a 21yr old

As I begin to let the barricades of my life down, I found myself letting a complete stranger read my work today in a bar. She gleefully requested if she could "copy edit" like she used to on the school newspaper, and proceeded to leave no sentence untouched. I had to hide my appallment. I had to pretend like everything was okay. I had to look at her markings after she finished. As I said "Thank you," I realized that I was thankful, despite the misgivings I had, despite my disclaimers, despite the lack of polish of my piece of writing that she decimated.

I think I was mostly offended by her age (twenty one years old) and her eagerness to edit "the way she used to (in high school!)."

I don't claim that any of my work is perfect, but I do go to a school where "editing" and "grammar" are not as important as the "story." Perhaps that has made me a little lazy, but I thought I had an inherent sense of the rules, but apparently, I don't. Apparently, my style of writing is just plain off...no matter what I say. And that was a major blow to my writerly mind.

The other day in class, I was looking over the shoulder of a girl sitting next to me who was reading from her own work. She had written something about how her mother "through" away something of hers. Not "threw" but "through." I don't make those kinds of mistakes, I suppose, but seriously, this girl left a lot of marks on those pages. My pages. My work.

I know that I don't take criticism well. In fact, I take it about as well as anyone ever does. I think my fear of criticism is a deep-down-scaredy-cat concern that I am not a good writer and this is all a waste of time. I have this deep fear that I really suck and no one's gone out of their way to tell me at Columbia because after all, I'm paying them, and they are making money off me. (yes, I know. I have a marvelous way of labeling all possibilities of my being asked to grab my ankles.) I know that I have my strengths. Lately, I have begun to feel my writer's voice come out in my own speech, and that excites me. I know I am good at writing to some degree, but I worry that I don't have what it takes. What does it take? I don't know exactly. Talent. Persistence. Word count. Polished pieces.

Listen, indulge me for a second. I know I'm being a total baby. (as in, 'Waaa, someone picked on me.') I do know in her heart she was feeling like she was helping me. On a completely intellectual level, I can totally appreciate that.

One thing this has taught me is to really look at my work and decide what level of critique I can tolerate and if I am as certain of a piece and its weight as I can be. Everyone is going to have beef with something. Not everyone agrees on one thing, writer, writing style. A lot of it depends on the person reading. For instance, Vonnegut's my favorite, some people think he's too simple (I say, deceptively simple, but, oh well for them).

anyway. ha ha. someone marked up my work with a pen. truly, a learning experience.

new music monday

(I know it's Wednesday, but it doesn't roll off the tongue the same way.)

Today I went to Tower and bought new music that I'd never heard of before for the first time in about five years. I just needed something fresh in my life. And I picked it much like I would a potential new book of fiction (which means a recently published novel that isn't already on my long list of Things I Must Someday Read), just by looking at the cover.

The cover in this case caught my eye with its colors, the image, and the band's name: Tilly and the Wall.

Would it surprise any of you that one of the guys from Bright Eyes produced the album and played for some of the songs? That they thank Conor Oberst in the their liner notes? That the band is from Nebraska?

I was surprised. Of all the new music I could choose, I happened to pick one that's got the fingerprints of Bright Eyes band members all over it. And I didn't find that out til I opened it up...

One thing that kind of struck me pleasantly is there are no photographs of the band on the album art. No line-up of lanky people with their hair in their face, staring pointedly at the lens, no grinning candid shots, no set-ups of the people in the band next to their instrument of choice.

The music itself is jangly, full of instruments and a bit of a mess, all of which I rather like. The feeling of the album is something akin to a big, euphoric hootenanny, but kinda like Blondie meets a Wes Anderson Movie Soundtrack. The first track starts with a harmonica, and a chant of one, two, three, four!

I ran into the old manager of Tower Records last week while out drinking and got him to write down a bunch of bands I ought to be listening to. He and I agree on a lot of things and I trust what he's into, though I know half of it is just things that someone else told him he'd be cooler for knowing about. I decided to look for something that appealed to my own aesthetic, for now, and will check out the five or so bands that I should know about later.

It's kind of interesting to know myself this well and find something that I actually like just by judging its visual elements. And even crazier that it's got links to one of my favorite bands. I've been thinking a lot about my tastes and values and opinions lately, with the departure of men from my life, as well as the entrance of men into my life, as well as friends and acquaintances being readmitted into the din of my solitude. I have a pretty well developed aesthetic and I am glad to know myself this well. I suppose it is a result of being a bit older than the average college girl, but also, it's that I've been lucky to be exposed to lots of things in my life.

more of the same dreadfulness

After years of promising to be kitty kitty (my friend Nick's cat, who sometimes goes by the moniker Little Kitty for her small size)'s guardian angel, vowing that I would take over her care if it became necessary to do so, if things between he and his ex-girlfriend got sour enough, and finally standing with my arms open wide and ready to take her in, she is gone. Nick to her to the vet today to get a tumor taken out of her throat and they said she didn't have much longer anyway. They put her down.

As one of the few people that Little Kitty even let get close enough to touch, Nick thought it would be a good match. And now that I have my new place, and they allow cats, it would have been the best timing. And I am so sad that she is gone. I am so sad that the last time I saw her, I barely petted her, because I had other things to do and I was just stopping by.

kitty kitty was the sweetest little thing. If she liked you, she would sit by your feet and stare up at you, willing you to lean over and pet her, but in a certain way, with as little actual petting as possible. Sometimes she let me rub her warm, soft belly. She was very small, still kitten-ish, even though she had two litters and was a mature cat, she was tiny. She often sat perched, with her body resting on her long legs, ready to bolt at the slightest offense. Often, when I sat on the couch, she would slink along the back pillows and sit behind my head and let me pet her. Sometimes, when I slept over, I would find her warm body in a circle near my head, a purr ready in her throat.

Sometimes, she liked me enough that she would come out of whatever hiding place she happened to be in and seek me out, which is pretty rare in an otherwise terrified cat. She would slink around my steps, which were always mindful and careful around her. Sometimes, to be near me, she would even risk getting close to the fat, grabby hands of the baby, who wanted nothing more in life at the time than to make out with Little Kitty.

I liked to think that I understood her, and I'd spent enough time there that she knew me. I think also, being slightly allergic to cats, I never went out of my way to find her, chase her down, or pet her. She always came to me.

One night, over the summer, we all had a picnic and we came home and kitty kitty was trapped between our legs with her back to me and a terror in her eyes. I saw her head twist back and forth, trying to decide what route to take. I reached down, and with a swift movement, I picked Little Kitty up and held her close to me, attempting to pet her back and soothe her. I had a lot to drink that night and clearly, my mind was operating on auto-pilot. I would have never picked her up from behind like that if I was sober. She, of course, sunk her claws into my flesh and leapt off my palm into the dark hallway and past the bodies milling about. She actually could have clawed me much worse, I think she was too surprised by me, for I only ended up with a couple scratches and a stigmata-like gouge in my palm.

I know that cats can't live forever. It just seems unfair that exactly at the moment when the stars were lining up to deliver kitty kitty to me and my home, she's gone. And I'll miss her. lots.

what to expect when you're expecting

Lightning that illuminates the dark sky, peals of cracking thunder and torrential rain lingers overhead. Today it hailed. Twice. Hailstones smacked against every surface with a gleeful vengance. Currently, the rain is less sinister, but heavy. I wonder if it's meant to cleanse, to drown out the city, to nourish the plants, to remind me that no matter how I feel, the world is still moving toward something, still operating in its own time.

I should be doing fifteen other things. I should be writing other things. But here I am. I don't even know what I want to say. Mostly I wish that I could take all the things I've done and produce something tangible to stand on when there's nothing there. I thought I had that, but of course, when you are comfortable, you are certain of many things. It's not til you're tested that you realize you're all hot air.

I'm amazed that I haven't cried at all this week. I haven't shed wallowing tears. I haven't wept silently. I have gotten teary-eyed, for sure, but then they receded, as if the breaking point would be tears, as if the dam would burst if one came through.

Maybe it's the yoga. In class, last Thursday, our teacher lit a tealight and placed it in a holder in the center of the room on a yoga brick (used for support in poses). He instructed us to stare at the light in the dark. He asked us to resist blinking, unless it was necessary. He warned us that our eyes might water, but not to stop staring at the flame. I happened to be sitting very close, and my eyes rained. His gentle voice crept along. Tears are the way the eyes are cleansed, he spoke, over and over in my mind. After class, I felt a bliss that I could not shake for hours, so quiet and steady and firm. Maybe that is how I managed to make it through this week without letting one tear fall.

The astonishing thing about the yoga is that my mind is quiet. There are very few times in my life when my observer mode is turned off. I can hardly stand to ignore a thing. I am constantly on alert. I make it my business to know what is going on around me, even if I have to make up stories to make sense of it all. It is what I am good at. In yoga, I find myself paying more attention to my body than my head and what its seeing and saying about what its seeing. For some reason, this makes me very happy. I wouldn't want it that way all the time, but for that hour and a half, my brain gets to rest and I like that.

I would just like to thank you all very much. Connecting through words in this informal and impersonal medium is the best I can come up with and for now, it is faster than vying to see you all in person. And somehow, I hope my words linger longer in your mind than the ones that are simply spoken and passed between us.

Here's to taking care of yourself and finding the answers to all the questions that collapse our worlds. At least we're trying to answer them.

a catalogue of some feelings

This has been an amazingly difficult week for me. I am at once both sad and delighted, proud and disappointed, manic and depressed. I have gone through more things in this one week than most people do in a month or three, and it astounds me how every area of my life has had some representation, some small drops or deluge in some cases, to add to the thunderstorm.

Today I grappled with many thoughts of Eric. I haven't heard from our ex-roommates about some chunk of money I sent them and was wondering if he might have revealed to them how I really felt about them (which I was not exactly good at disguising, but I did make an effort to be polite and kind when I was in a good mood). So I thought I'd send him a text asking him about it. I couldn't remember his number. honestly. I kept stupidly pressing numbers for five minutes or so. I deleted him from my phone a while ago to eliminate the possibility that I might someday drunk dial him. But I still looked for him in my contacts.

Finally it came to me, and I sent the text. I got no response. I didn't worry about it too much until a few hours went by. Then I began to doubt that I'd remembered the right number. But I didn't want to call him on top of a text. So then I had my friend Walter call. I had the right number. So at this point I now have to wonder why he's not willing to talk to me either. And it's not like I don't know why. But it's been about a month since we spoke. I guess that's not long enough. To me, it feels like years have gone by already. In the end, I wish I had been a better person in our relationship. I wish I hadn't been so low and mean and horrible with him. When I think about it all, I get nauseous.

Yet this morning, I slept in, awoke to my new apartment and all its possibilities. I then walked down to the local coffeeshop, ate a breakfast panini, had a nice hot mocha and just generally beamed into myself. An older couple played scrabble at a nearby table. A little girl ran through the cafe saying hello to everyone. A woman with a mohawk made small talk with the barista. I realized I live near a Leona's. And the 151 supposedly stops that far north on Sheridan. And someone said "good morning" to me as I walked down the street.

When I got to Siena to work the afternoon shift, everyone was glad to see me. I told my coworker (whose return from vacation was much heralded) all my stories from this week. Walter came by just to see me. I don't feel like some kind of terrible monster who deserves a public flogging for my relationship crimes when I'm at Siena. I feel understood and loved and tended. And after work, babysitting for little Nina, whose smile when I walked in the doorway of her home was stamp and seal and approval of my worth. If I ever question my self, I need only to see her toothy grin, her clasped hands, her shuffled feet, her sway.

Yesterday I spent the day wondering how a week had already gone by since we'd cut ourselves loose of each other, and how it has been like a wound underneath a large bandage, omnipresent, but hidden away, throbbing, healing, ringed with scar tissue, pricked with pain. The truth is, I spent a huge part of my mental capacities mired in him. Many things have happened this week to pick up that slack. It hits me at the worst times, the missing of him, the shock of it, the fantasy of what could have been, and I go into a complete love tunnel, with no end in sight.

I feel so wounded and so surprised at this hurt that it seems like I can never be in a relationship again. I feel so fragile and burned, so skittish and shell-shocked that even contemplating liking another boy seems so impossible. And there hasn't been much communication between us, some potshots here and there, some attempts at returning to what was, and a general moving on has taken place in both our camps, at least, I feel in mine there has. It doesn't make the hurt feel any less deep.

As if she knew it was better for me not to be alone, my friend Natalia kept good on her vague mentionings of a visit and I pursued her--though with some attempts to relinquish her from coming, being saddened by things, but she still came. She traveled clear across the city to spend time with me, helped me do some laundry, sort out some of my things, drink some wine and share some rants. We had marvelous misadventures in our short time together, things that will only ever make us laugh, things we will only share with each other. And she is one of my favorite friends, whose departure from this city will surely leave a gouge in my heart. I have never really been good at making friends, keeping friends, doing the right things with my friends, but she has always understood me, always let me be just who I was, and never got mad at me for the things I wasn't good at doing (like calling or emailing or being count-on-able).

Just thinking about yesterday and all the things I did, all the ways I was powerful and unstoppable, geared up to accomplish anything makes my head spin. I worked in the morning at Siena, trained a new employee, left at one. Headed to the storage unit to tie up loose ends, saw impending thunderstorm in sky, went to eat at Rock and Roll McDonald's. (This new building is like the grown up, misanthropic, minimalist cousin of the previous Rock and Roll McDonald's). The grey clouds burst. I ate a huge meal and talked to Marilyn for about half an hour. We brainstormed about what it might be like if I did take over Siena.

I stopped at her vet on the way to get food for her cat. I walked over to the storage and chatted with the manager. I found a bag missing from the day of the move in the hallway there that I thought had been stolen off the truck. The manager planned on taking it home to his girlfriend. I approved. There was nothing in it that I needed or wanted. I signed some papers. I went to my unit and took three loads of moving blankets to Marilyn's unit. I tried not to grumble too much about why they were even in my unit to begin with. In a gesture of pure revenge I snagged the seven most intact ones and gave them to the manager to thank him for letting me use the van for my moving day. I smiled and laughed and joked with strangers who were loading into their units. Marilyn wanted me to check with her old boyfriend about putting them in his unit. He called me back and said not a chance...I sent him a text that I doubt he'll read for a week. I gathered my things and waited for the manager to finish up with another client.

Then I walked to Marilyn's place to take a shower. My bathroom is still not ready yet (grrr). I made necessary phone calls and ended up talking to a Mom whose kids I babysit for about an hour. then a shower. then home. then Natalia came over and happiness ensued.

ahead of me are just more days and more opportunities to be as accomplished.

ode to my block

oh! how I love thee!
quiet and lonely
the train rattles in the distance
the bus careens past infrequently
the heartland cafe thrives
chinese food nearby
mexican pizza places
duke's tavern and the red line tap
a mix of young and old, black and white
the dollar stores aplenty
best of all...

a sandwich shop,
named ennui
with free wifi
open long hours
just down the block
on the way to the beach
with good people
and a barista who uses the word "janky"

this is exactly what I had hoped for
and I am pleased.
i could see myself spending the rest of my life
on this block
in this place
in a world like this