Untangling

Like the mess of embroidery floss meant for needlepoint
Kept in the old shoebox under my bed
We were a beautiful mangled tangled together mess.
The combination of intermixed colors made us
appear more beautiful than we ever thought we were alone.  

The years, like the knots, seemed impossible to undo.
One weekend was all it took
To sort through those Gordian knots.
One mistake, one move until each string came
free and we were left there
wondering if we were as beautiful on our own. 

Ode to a Redheaded Slut

Take your bottle produced lopsided locks
Dumbo-esque ears
Small lipped
Pill Popping
Insecure
Skank ass
Back to the hole you crawled out of.
Your four am texts do little to disturb my rest
Other than making me snuggle more into the
arms you wish were around you.

Waiting Room

Sittingin the waiting room of my doctor's office. Getting my knee looked at post accident. I hate that my knee is messed up. I hate that my car is messed up. I hate that I have too jump through hurdles because one person couldn't make a left turn properly. One person's inability to wait is using up my precious time!! I don't want to talk to insurance agents, I don't want to talk to adjusters. I definitely don't want to see the doctor. I wanted to start running again.

It's pouring out. If you factor out the shorts and summer dresses today is more like a winter day than the summer. The day does nothing to help my spirits. I hope I get into graduate school. I hope I get a better job. I hope Ruthy and I get this house we're looking at. I'm hopeful but at the same time I feel like none of this will work out.

Rent

If you want my apartment, sleep in it
but let's have a clear understanding:
the books are still free agents.

If the rocking chair's arms surround you
they can also let you go,
they can shape the air like a body.

I don't want your rent, I want
a radiance of attention
like the candle's flame when we eat,

I mean a kind of awe
attending the spaces between us---
Not a roof but a field of stars.

--Jane Cooper

Saw Transcendent Man Live  with Abe and Jer of Ultraweekend.net and Eliezer,  Wednesday night.  While I think there's a lot of social changes that need to happen before the Utopian Singularity that I think RayKurzweil envisions, the live discussion was a good way to start the discussion of what the future is going to bring about. It also wasn't as I feel propaganda ridden and so assertive of this Utopian future as the film was.  Which was nice.   I don't have any doubt that the technology will get there.  I don't doubt the ability for humans to get to that point. What I wonder is are we at the right point as a society to get there?  I think the answer is no. Before we can get to that point, we need a social revolution.  I think that would need to happen before anything else.



I will comment on this more later but I have work to do!

Old People

Old people doing old people thingd
like
vote Republican
drive slow
pick up their perscriptions at Rite Aid
pop prescription pills
read large print books
forget things easily
are in bed by seven
eat the early bird specials
wear slacks
get their hair done at the salon
use canes
forget things easily
get skin spots
reminisce about the good old days
wait to die.

An Excerpt from Threadbare Thursdays

Sometimes I would catch myself watching her change, not so much to get a glimpse, no not to be perverted, but more so to capture her beauty.  Her pale delicate bare shoulder, adorned with only a thin bra strap stole my breathe--her bare back was enough to send me to new heights.  Not only did her body excite me, but she completely captivated me.   I sat there watching her, not consumed by lust but rather mesmerized by her loveliness.  When she caught me, she'd stick her tongue out at me. Or she'd joke about me being a "pervy lesbian"; tell me to take a picture it would last longer.  I knew she was only joking yet guilt managed to instantly wash over me. To her it was a joke, but if only she knew how much I wanted her.  How painful it was to watch this beautiful creature get half naked in front of me, just within arm's reach and there was nothing I could do.

Word Deficit

I don't do poetry
Using words to paint,
how absurd!
Isn't that what my acrylics are for?

Landscape with The Fall of Icarus

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings’ wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning



-William Carlos Williams

Packing

Tenant shall leave the apartment in the condition found means:
Packing up
the dishes we bought because they were cheap
the silverware
the giant 42" plasma TV
the dresser
the couch
the desks
the computers that gave the place a gentle hum
the cat,  who is clueless as to what is going on
the shower cutran that gave the little white bathroom color
my failed attempts at art that decorated our walls
the pictures of our friends
the area rug

the bed we spent so many nights together in--both happy and sad
out clothes.
It also means cleaning
the floors
the shower
the closets and finding forgotten items
the spaces that were once covered by furniture
fixing holes in the wall
until we're left with the empty apartment
and feeling quite empty ourselves.

A Snippet

Here's a little bit from a short story I've been working on:

Tuesday will be no different from Monday.  The work week never is. Adult life is almost like the instructions on a shampoo bottle, lather, rinse, repeat. Only it’s work, sleep, repeat.  You’ll wake up late for work.  The bright green flashing lights on the alarm clock will let you know that you should have left a good ten minutes ago.  Hop out of bed, skip the shower, you’ll do it when you get home. It’s just work after all.  You don’t need to shower to just sit there, at the job that promised challenges but never really gave you any. There’s no one there to impress, there’s nothing there that’s impressive. Run to the bathroom to take care of the essentials: wash your face, brush your teeth, take a piss. Trip over the laundry, the cat, whatever the hell was on the floor. Throw together some clothes that barely pass the "business casual" dress code.  Wonder why all of your work clothes makes you look like such a schmuck while catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror to fix your bedhead hair.  Grab the necessary, wallet, cell phone, keys, granola bar. Drive to work, stop at Dunkin Donuts for coffee, you’re going to be late anyway, what’s five more minutes?

The day will go by much like yesterday and the workday before that. Work, work work, or push paper to make it seem like you’re working.  Administrative Assistant hangs under your name plaque, it sounds fancy, but you know it’s really just an over-glorified term for secretary. Having a name plaque is there to make you feel fancy, it doesn't. Sit in your cube and feel like a cog. Your boss resents you because you don’t give enough effort, you stopped putting in any effort because your boss treated you like a child.  While you’re sitting there doing menial data entry or answering the phone any of the following are acceptable activities to keep you sane: :

a. Doodling or sketching your latest painting

b.. Checking Buzzfeed, Flavorwire, Facebook

c. Make your grocery list (at least that’s productive)

d. Daydream.
If it’s a good day, you’ll be able to accomplish all four without making anyone in your office suspicious of your lack of work productivity. Check your email frequently, it's your only connection to the outside world. Your boyfriend, Eric, the one you live with, the one you’ve been for what feels like forever, the one your grandmother has been begging you to marry already so you can give her more great grandchildren, emails you frequently either with silly links or other random finds from the internet. It's nice to know you're not the only non productive one at work. Don't question if being in contact with each other is a bad thing, his emails provide you with entertainment that make the day go from torturous to almost bearable. Abby, your best friend will email you sporadically, she commiserates with you on the horrors of working a nine to five and starts planning the weekend. You should say no to her ridiculous suggestion and save money or be a responsible adult, but you'll say yes, blow more cash than you care to Sunday and feel extremely miserable after consuming so much alcohol on Sunday. Penelope, your sister will chime in randomly. Finally sometime in the afternoon, you'll get an email from the one that always managers to put that dorky smile on your face. Noah will reply, to an email you sent him two days ago or to something you think you sent two days ago. You don't remember, your minds all a flutter because he messaged you. Before you know it, after a day of replying to emails and pushing paper, it's time to go home. Pack up, wish everyone a pleasant evening. Use the word pleasant too--it's more work appropriate. Get to your car as quickly as possible and drive home. Grab the mail from the mailbox. Valpak, wonderful. Something the mailman put there so you can throw it out. Go through it as you enter your apartment. You'll be greeted by the cat followed by Eric saying a sweet hello from behind his computer monitor. The reflection of his monitor in his glasses makes him look like a cyborg. You know he hasn't done a damn thing but play Starcraft, World of Warcraft, Minecraft, whatever the latest Craft he's into since he's gotten home--a good two hours before you . Hide your disappointment at having to figure out dinner once again. Pet the cat, tell her she's the sweetest thing on the planet. Sigh at the messiness of your apartment and wonder how your parents--yes, the waitress and the janitor--were better at keeping things together than you, a college educated white collar worker with no children will ever be. Change out of your work clothes as soon as possible. Trade the no personality khakis and white button down shirt for a pair of sweats and your college hoodie. Throw together dinner. It'll be some type of meat, starch and veggie combination. Nine times out of ten it's chicken, tonight though, it's pork with a side of rice and beans. No veggies, the beans and rice will suffice. Serve Eric dinner, he'll love it. He'll say something like, "This is delicious," or "You should make this more often." Smile sweetly and accept his compliment. You'll both finish eating within minutes. Aside from his compliment, you won't say another word to each other. Two cogs sitting in front of the television, stuffing food into their faces. What have the two of you become? You were so in sync once, you were both so fit. You'll remember when you used to be attracted to one another, when you actually felt something for each other---something more than just a level of comfort. Sure you love him, but are you in love with him anymore? Funny how a preposition can make such a difference. You can't be the only one that feels this way, right? Clean up after dinner, leave the dishes in the sink. You really don't feel like cleaning and there's always tomorrow anyway.

The tao of touch

by Marge Piercy

What magic does touch create
that we crave it so. That babies
do not thrive without it. That
the nurse who cuts tough nails
and sands calluses on the elderly
tells me sometimes men weep
as she rubs lotion on their feet.

Yet the touch of a stranger
the bumping or predatory thrust
in the subway is like a slap.
We long for the familiar, the open
palm of love, its tender fingers.
It is our hands that tamed cats
into pets, not our food.

The widow looks in the mirror
thinking, no one will ever touch
me again, never. Not hold me.
Not caress the softness of my
breasts, my inner thighs, the swell
of my belly. Do I still live
if no one knows my body?

We touch each other so many
ways, in curiosity, in anger,
to command attention, to soothe,
to quiet, to rouse, to cure.
Touch is our first language
and often, our last as the breath
ebbs and a hand closes our eyes.

In the Words of Those Before Me

It's been a long time since I've written here.  Mostly because I've been using Tumblr. (It posts to both my twitter and facebook.) But I figured I'd stop by and leave you with a small cento I wrote for my Creative Writing class.


In the Words of Those Before Me

Exactly right
The ineffable
implications of one plus one

This is just to say
since feeling is first
i like my body
to be of use

The Guitar Player

by Dave Morrison

He waited for the bartender to close
his gear was packed and stacked beside the door
you can't enjoy the highs without the lows

The gigs were becoming something of a chore
the sameness had anesthetized the dream
til he forgot what he was pushing for

The waitress poured herself a short Jim Beam
he remembered when she fronted her own band
with headphones on she wiped each table clean

He'd left his cigarettes out in the van
he wanted to get paid, go home to sleep
next weekend was another two-night stand

He waited for the bartender to close
you can't enjoy the highs without the lows.

Lately, I've come to hate writing about what bothers me.  I feel so melodramatic.  Once upon a time it used to make me feel so much better. Now I just feel like It’s a burden. The thought of posting it publicly shames me a bit too, but sometimes the need to just empty what’s inside of you overpowers how melodramatic people will think of me.  After all, you chose to read it right?

Another day where I try to quiet down the thoughts in my head but can’t.  I want to just focus on work as tedious as it might be, but I can’t.

You’re going to do what’s right? What does that even mean? What’s right? Right for who?  I’m sorry you feel guilty that your intentions weren’t as true as mine. I’m sorry that this was way more than you ever thought it would be.  I’m sorry it brings up so much conflict in you.  I don’t want you to chose me out of guilt.  I don’t want you to chose me because you feel some sense of obligation to me.  I don’t want you to chose me because you’re afraid of losing me or you don’t want to hurt me. I’d rather be lost than resented. 

You love me, BUT.  It’s huge, it fills the room and I stand in its shadow being reminded how much of a foolish little girl I am.  How could I have been so stupid? How could I have just given up something so tangible and so obvious for words coupled with irrational feelings? How could I hurt the one person who I meant the world to? Just because I was dumb enough to believe the lines you spoon fed me.

And I do feel like they were lines. The emptiness in me tells my gut that they are.  It tries to convince me that you could never feel the same way about me that I feel towards you. That I was foolish and dumb for ever falling for them.  What were they ? Oh yes, holding me was the greatest privilege you ever knew, how you love me, how I’ve moved you to song and poem, how I’m the closest person to your secret heart, how I have the only embrace, how the thought of never cuddling me or gracing my lips again kills you. How all you want to do is be happy with me.  How quickly those words change, how quickly it is now that all you want is for me to be happy. How obvious it makes it that those were merely words to you, words you wrote to make me feel better, words you chose because you assumed it was what I wanted to hear.  All I have are my words.  All of the ones I’ve given you have been true. I’ve been nothing but honest with you, I’ve told you things that I knew would hurt, I was open, candid, and forthright my words.  I was more honest with you than I was with myself.  They’re all I have when I’m trying to tell you how I feel for you, they’re all I have when I have to try and describe the way you make me feel, how it feels being in your arms. I never used any of them to make you feel a different way. I never used them to make you think I wanted something else.  They’re all I have. They’re the only way you know how I feel. It hurts me so much to think that you just picked them to mislead me.

I can’t even concisely describe how I feel . It’s just coursing through my body bringing the rest of me down with it.  It makes me feel like a old greek mourner, I want to don my black clothes and wail as if the wailing will somehow soothe the pain of my soul.

Everything inside of me aches. My stomach is a mess again.  My whole body feels heavy. All I want to do is sleep.  I want to sleep until I forget your face, until I forget how it felt to be in your arms.  I want to sleep so long that I convince myself it all was a bad dream.

I feel so hollow –yet heavy.  There’s no density to me, but this entire burden weighs me down.  I feel so empty inside that I may collapse in on myself.  If I could unhinge my chest and take out my heart I would. If I could stop feeling I would.  I keep telling myself that this will all work out. This will all be ok, but I know it’s not going to be.  I keep seeing us together and I keep reaching out to them to you, but as soon as I get close it turns into sand and I want to sit on the floor wrap myself in my arms and cry and cry and cry until I can’t do so anymore.  I want to disappear.  I want to turn into the same sand that my thoughts of us turn into when I try to reach for them.

Even now, even as much as I hurt or as empty as I feel, I just, I want you to reach across and hold me. I want you to make me feel full again, but I know that it just won’t. It won’t because it’s now it’s disingenuous on your end.  It feels as if my whole being can tell. I don’t feel like Sweet Pea anymore or Eface or even Eleni♥, I just feel like me, the plain girl that I always knew I was.  The stupid foolish girl that I know I’ve been for years. The one you swore I wasn’t but deep down I always knew. What would make you see any different?  

I’m sitting at work trying not to cry, trying to do anything but think about this, but the emptiness in my chest won’t let me. It feels like it’s going to suck me in. I feel as ifI’m going to collapse into it.  My stomach is churning and the rational side of me is just telling me how much of an idiot I am. How I should’ve known that you could never have felt anything for me. Why would anybody?

My protesting and propaganda can’t make you want me. No matter how much I want you, there’s absolutely nothing I can do to make you feel the same way about me. As happy as I get talking about how much I want to be with you, how much whatever it is inside of me that makes me want to reach out of me and wind itself around you, it means absolutely nothing, because just like the dreams above that turn to sand, it just reaches out and falls to the floor because you don’t feel the same way about me, so it can’t grab on to you, and that hole in my chest gets larger and the pain in my shoulders stronger, and I just feel like crawling into it and never coming out.

I used to see different things with us.  Awesome explosions, even when did did the most mundane things.  THey seemed something like this:

Different images come into my head. Different visions of the future come to mind. Rather than awesome explosions, we carry as if nothing ever happened.  We act like things are fine, we see each other occasionally—random parties, tournaments, wherever, because we’ve become people we “used to know”. And we carry on with different people. I go on pretending like there’s nothing there for you.  Faking it until it finally doesn’t hurt anymore, or at least until I become numb to it. We finally become the two ships we were meant to be.  I don’t want that, but if you want to be with someone else please let me go. Lose me, because I can’t stand around pretending that I’m ok with someone else being where I feel like I should be.  I can’t pretend that I’m happy for you when inside all of me is dying.  I can’t stand there and be your friend and listen to you tell me that you want me to be the closest person to you, but you’re with someone else.  I don’t want to keep pining for you and wanting to be with you.  I’ve done that entirely too long.

I could keep writing for days. I could keep writing and writing, till I ran out of paper to carry my words, till I start writing on all the streets, on buildings, on people, on trees, on leaves but it’s be pointless. It does absolutely nothing. 

(* stick figure images are from xkcd  used entirely out of context.  top image created using Wordle)

Delicate
We might kiss when we are alone
When nobody's watching
We might take it home
We might make out when nobody's there
It's not that we're scared
It's just that it's delicate

So why'd you fill my sorrows
With the words you've borrowed
From the only place you've known
And why'd ya sing Hallelujah
If it means nothing to you
Why'd you sing with me at all?

We might live like never before
When there's nothing to give
Well how can we ask for more
We might make love in some sacred place
The look on your face is delicate

So why'd you fill my sorrow
With the words you've borrowed
From the only place that you've known
And why'd you sing Hallelujah
If it means nothing to you
Why'd you sing with me at all?

And why'd you fill my sorrows
With the words you've borrowed
From the only place that you've known
Why'd you sing Hallelujah
If it means nothing to you
Why'd you sing with me at all?
-Damien Rice

The Metric song Hustle Rose keeps playing in my head.  I suppose it's the soundtrack for this post.  The emptiness of it I guess captures my own emptiness.

My stomach has been a mess for the last two months.  I finally threw up today.  A feeling I've had for the last two months.  Finally it came out. I thought throwing up would make me feel better, it hasn't, but I want to keep doing it.   I want to keep going until I feel as small physically as I feel emotionally.  

Realistically what's even the point of posting? Does anyone really care that I feel absolutely hollow inside?  I feel like I'm made of bird bones.  There's no density to me, I could easily be picked up and carted away.  Only feeling like I can float away isn't liberating. I don't find any freedom from this flying, just the feeling of loneliness and hopelessness.  I need the balloon to keep me alive but at the same time it takes me further and further away from the ground.  

I'm supposed to come over tomorrow.  I don't really know if I want to. I don't really even think you want me to. I'm setting myself up for the worst because everything in me is telling me that's what's going to happen.  It adds to my feeling empty. I already know what to expect.  I already know what you're going to say.  I already know what you're thinking.  You're just trying to find the right words to use. Shouldn't I just save you the effort of having to save face.  You're just not that interested.  This all got way out of hand way too fast.  You love me, but _________.  I can hear it in your breath after the words come out of your mouth. Save them and spare me the train ride. Say them across the telephone wires and let me get closer to having a full night of sleep. 

       I've already lost so many nights of sleep over you.  How many now over the last year plus? I've lost count. What difference do a couple more make? They are the less important of my causalities so far.   This feeling is temporary.  The actions I've done to get to this point aren't.  But that's my cross to bear.