lundi, mai 30, 2005

Thanks, Lukas. This is inner life stuff. I start with one part "God is not a pooper" and add another part of particle physics/ quantum mechanics, throw in a splash of a grand (almost) unified theory and realize that I've got more power than I thought.
Part of "more" is mine. I aim at everybody I love.
Gimme dat,


String Theory Prayer

Hey, I remember back to when I was sad and weary and my needs weren't met- when I was isolated and undone.

And I remember forward to when you healed all of my diseases and made every dream I have come true and flooded my entire life with love and comfort and rest. And joy- did I forget to mention the joy? Or the peace like a buzzing river that rearranges me right down to my very molecules and sub-particles and more?

Oh, I remember back to when they were crushed and brutally re-arranged, when they were confused and could not find one calm way forward- when they were unloved and made ugly.

And I remember forward to when you loved them and healed them and comforted them and gave them rest- a rest which overtook their children and their parents and their friends and their lovers and spread out a thousand thousand miles all around their lives.

Because I remember back to when he lied and stole and killed and destroyed.

For this I remember forward to when you spoke truth which ended every lie, you gave back what was stolen and stole even more from that thief. I remember forward to when you killed his power to harm and confuse and crush, when you destroyed territories and abilities he'd built up over centuries, taking a million times what he took from your own. This is vengeance. I see how you get it done.

I remember back to when we cried and would not be comforted. Could not be. Inconsolable here with years of backbreaking work between us and joy, between us and free choice.

And I remember forward to when you said hey, ain't nothin' but a thang. Here, I'll trade you beauty for those ashes and how about joy for your mourning? Sound fair? Never mind that timeline. This thing has already been done. Darling, you still just don't get how you are loved.

So now I sit in peace in the center of every time that ever was or is or ever more shall be. Nothing is lost. Nothing is lost. There is no striving here. I'm loved. I'm done. I needed this. I was made for this.

I like this time better than that other one before. Thanks, You. You're a good egg, God, and I don't mind saying it.

jeudi, mai 26, 2005

Angel or Spike?

Well, I know the answer to that one. Spike is magnetic on my fridge. This is because a good friend who is older (and therefore wiser, I swear), shares my addiction to Buffy and Angel re-runs and sent me the magnet after we bravely and enthusiastically discussed the love which dares not speak its name. Honestly, I do wonder at grown women groovin' on a couple of shows which were aimed at young (very young) girls- maybe boys, too? Not sure of the intended demographics, but needless to say, I have been caught in that net and I've got good company.

Anyhoo, I like the writing. Maybe it's because I used to be a respected boohonkas kicker "...and now I'm a wounded dwarf with the mystical power of a doily." And, no, you probably don't get it. You don't get that or why James Marsters is the only male on television who has me rewinding my TiVo to hear him say something again. And, YES, that's kind of sad, but I'm all for honest acceptance of my crushes when I've got them. (And I do got them- one or more of them back burnered at almost all times. Multitasking as only a woman can.) And, of course, I never want to meet him in real life. I have a feeling if I like a character I'd probably really dislike the actor who created it- not sure, of course, but it's my theory and I'm sticking to it. So, I'll never go to some damn sci-fi convention and try to get an autograph like (more of) an idiot (than I already am.) I'll never buy his band's CD or attend one of their shows, if I can help it. (Have another theory that if I like a character, I'd definitely hate the band that actor is in.) No, I like my fiction left fictional fo' sho'.

Have heard some conservative/ Christian types complain about the occult, and etc., stuff in these shows. Which has me scratching my head, I guess, because Christianity is a religion which absolutely accepts the reality of the demonic and even expects that power plays will definitely occur between good and evil. And then there's the little fact that fiction is meant to have layers of meaning. A vampire isn't just a vampire. Maybe a vampire isn't a vampire at all. Maybe a spell is about an abusive relationship and breaking free of that. Maybe this whole nonsense about "the slayer" is about girls choosing to be strong. (Wow, I shouldn't have to spell that one out.) And on and on. But, mainly, since I'd internalized these messages long ago, in a galaxy not that far away, I just end up watching it for entertainment purposes.

Which reminds me (in a kind of non-sequitur way) of Hayden Christensen. Life As A House, people. I don't even think that crush was appropriate, but there you have it. I never said I was trying to make good sense (or that my attention was constant.) I don't know about the rest of you crazy M.F.ers, but I'd TiVo him.


Energy Reassignment Surgery

I swear, y'all, I'm an ass kicker trapped inside a Hashimoto's having body. So, I need the energy equivalent of a plastic surgeon, I guess. (Have recently become addicted to Nip/ Tuck on DVD and need Season 2 stat!) "Alright, H+P, what don't you like about yourself?" the kind doc will say. And I'll speak my truth. That's with a capital T, of course. And I'll hear about the procedure, the risks, the recovery time and I'll say this is really what I want. I won't be myself until I change what I've got going on right now. And the staff psychologist will say, "I think she's a good candidate because she was living as an ass kicker for most of her life until recently." And I'll think damn straight.

And somewhere along the way, someone will want me to understand that it's easier to dig a hole than it is to build a pole. And I'll scrunch my eyebrows together and try to figure out how that belongs in the analogy I'm running with. (Don't poke your eye out running with that thing.) Anyway, this is how I envision it- going under anesthesia, waking up to a somewhat "uncomfortable recovery" (that's doc speak for hurts like hell), and then going on my merry way despite the shocked looks and rude whispers of those around me who just don't understand who I really am. Who I really have been this whole time. That I'm only doing this to make things right. To make my outside match my inside.

Ah, well. I spoke to a friend today who pointed out that when I speak of the future, I sound a little afraid, I guess, and much more passive probably about my possibilities than I ever did before. I explain that I am and I amn't afraid, really. Hashimoto's has ruined my good time. Or at least the good time I thought was mine by rights. Now, I have to adjust my thinking to a much more zen kind of thing where sometimes I'm great and sometimes I'm dragging. Gonna have to wrap my head around "success" as an uneven or patchy proposition- or shall I say a fluid idea? Gonna have to figure out what I'll do for work that won't bore me to tears when I've got energy or kill me when I don't.

Hmmmmm. Romance novel writer, perhaps. It would make me laugh and could make me wealthier than I might reasonably deserve to be for exhausting a long list of euphemisms. I think about the make me laugh part and I like it. Plus, it would allow me to work wherever I am. I could travel a lot, which would make moi happy. Longmire can do my covers. Yep, I've solved my problems in a doctorless fashion.

And that'll do, pig.

lundi, mai 23, 2005

It's Better In Hell...

... if you know. If I didn't thank you for that, I should have. (Hate to make the same mistake twice.)

samedi, mai 21, 2005


Saw this film tonight and wow was it ever dull (inane editing choices, threadbare acting, the most obvious of choices on plot and foreshadowing. And wonder of wonders- it managed to make sex boring.) I studied Kinsey when I was- what?- sixteen, I guess, or seventeen, working on my psych major. (Ok, the first run at my psych major. After completing my literature major, I dropped psychology and college a total of three times before I finally wrapped the whole thing up nine years later. So much for the boy wonder I was supposed to be.)

And Kinsey, he's still a fascinating fella. Mistaken and right at the same time. While this movie didn't shy away from the contributions made to his research by note-taking pedophiles or from the confusion and hurt that loads of casual sex create, it did in the end insist on making the man a missionary (which is an ironic position for him to find himself in- smack my paw. Harder!) Or a preacher. Or a hero, saving us all from our prudish selves.

The biggest moment of truth onscreen, though, was when one of his research assistants told him off for trying to reduce sex to simple statistics and neutral science. As if it could ever really be less than a whole lot of everything between human beings who can't help but communicate much more than desire or disease when they touch each other.

Complete freedom can put so many holes in your heart that it can become difficult to carry even a dream of love. And sometimes, the restrictions we place on ourselves in terms of "social obligations" exist to protect the greatest freedom of all. Who gets it right, though? Or more to the point, human beings are almost always incapable of balance on any of our big issues of sex, money, power, the infinite and where to spend Christmas this year.

I have such faith in us. Five times today already and it's not even noon.

mercredi, mai 18, 2005

Fairy Tale Ending

Some days, when I am feeling grim and grimmer, I speak to you. And I expect you think you are your very own person with your very own life and reactions to me and everything around you. But you're not. Not here. Because on days like this one, I have turned you into a little, black stove. And I will tell you what I can't tell anyone else. And I know- I just know- there is no one there to hear me say it. So it won't matter. It won't matter to anybody but me. There's no one on the other side listening in.

I am as sure of that as she was.

And it won't matter how high I put that picture. How I tore it. How I pinned it. How I memorize it. Or how the boards are rearranged. Or what I start. Or what I stop. My efforts aren't lacking. They're useless. There is just so little use for them. So little use for me.

Everybody wants what they don't have. The bird on her shoulder reminds me of this. All the heat of the sun is what he wears. Everything else reminds me of that. (As if I could forget.)

I kneel like this over destiny. Stretch out one arm. Look down with one heart. There is no answer for my faith. No answer for desire. Nothing is returned.

What have I done?

Little, black stove, I can tell you that tearing and pinning and hoping do not fix this. I don't think I can stand to be alive for all of ever after.

lundi, mai 16, 2005

Sleeping at the Circus

By the end of the semester, we were the last ones left. I think we were social pariahs by that point- at least that's the conclusion we came to sitting in a little bar at lunch on an overcast late fall day in Italy. It didn't matter that you'd watched culture shock rip through your friends or the entire fuzzy, fashionista-brained group you'd come here with. Or through your own personality, for that matter, either, because no one else was having that thought. No one else was factoring that weirdness into their thinking about why there was so much damn drama. Every single second of every single work drowned day.

I envied the merchandisers. They had only three classes and almost no homework. They were out every night, slept in most of the day and began to shop and drink in the late afternoon. They travelled constantly and knew a million local boys. They had time for everything. I tried to feel superior to them. Told myself I was becoming skilled in ways they would never replicate. That any fool can plan a wide/shallow/narrow/deep selection based on last year's numbers and this year's economy. Any fool can stock a department once things have been created by the real thinkers. To be a designer was a much higher calling, even if it paid worse and demanded more for years and years. I thought of Vera's and Donna's aging faces and shuddered. Calvin's was worse. Better to think of the un-American ones- Carolina and Giorgio for example- who radiated something light and unending as they worked.

But the worst part of this wasn't the work or the tiredness (which frankly told you that you were stronger than you ever knew) or the lack of time for language, travel or new friends. The most awful of all were the infinite combinations of stupidity these 17 other girls and two boys (who are we kidding?- 19 girls) could work themselves into. The gossip, the sniping, the actual destruction of other people's plans and property-not to mention reputations- were omnipresent. The bitchy, shaming confrontations and declasse polarizations which would have scared the living shit out of the meanest Real World cast member, were eternal.

I sat with the goat at lunch. The one who had become the epicenter of the drama queens' shit storm. I wanted to get away from her and at the same time I knew that I'd better not. I'd better not because it wouldn't be good for her. And I'd better not because no matter how weary I'd become, and no matter what was being destroyed in the foundation of my own life these days, I'd be a person profoundly changed for the worse if I left her to what they had planned. I knew better than to step away. But I wished that I could.

She talked out loud about the Doc Martens we'd seen in a shop three doors down before lunch. She wanted a rather classic pair but couldn't decide between a dark red or purple. I lazily pondered the weirdly illustrated ones on display but they weren't good enough to stop me. I couldn't get the white ones out of my head. How colossally tacky they'd become- scuffed in two seconds flat (not that that's necessarily a bad thing.) My brain wondered over the meaning of white boots- sixties sharpies to Clockwork Orange creepiness. Clockwork caught me. Where's my milk bar? Do I get to beat up some of these jerks before or was that after?

Who could have predicted that people deeply commited to something surface-y like fashion would actually be shallow? I laughed at myself. My old, old self, for trying. For walking into this with heart wide open, not holding back. The latter got people convinced I thought I was better than everyone else and it really revved up some who just wanted to measure themselves against me. Kind of an "everybody wants to fight a black belt" sort of thing. Since I wasn't actually the snob people anticipated and because my confidence included a belief that I was among equals, either reaction tended to be a cold shock. I was much too tender to handle the retaliations against the way I pushed into what I loved. Always have been.

But this experience was teaching me I'd better work with what people believed I really was. Fuck them all. I would have given more- it's what I'm made for- but nobody believes that when insecurity blocks their eyes. I'd given up trying to explain myself to creatures whose jealousy and competitiveness never slept. Best to just run with their distorted view. You were made to be small, I said to them in my head, and I was made to be big. It's what you believe and I'm ready to make it real.

I knew I'd been so beaten up that I'd finally turned a bad corner. But I hadn't abandoned her. And in that little bit of loyalty to a person who annoyed me often enough, I still recognized myself. She was talking now about a trip we'd been part of- a trip with a group of people who'd been our friends. People who still were her roommates in a house which was now sick with secret betrayals and an irrational hatred of one of its own. Culture shock would have been a helpful concept for these idjits to grasp, I mused. Still, no matter. We'd obviously been cut out of the loop regarding a trip we'd been part of planning. Her because she was the scapegoat for the entire school and me because in two or three key confrontations I actually dared to try to balance the scales and talk calm sense about her to those who were in a frenzy. In repayment, I'd been cut off suddenly. And that without remedy.

Now, our former friends were beginning to lie about cancelling the trip and splitting off in other directions for a break we had coming up. We kept hearing from other people, though, that they were sticking with their original plans- they just didn't want us along. If I'd rolled my eyes one more time, they would've fallen out, so I let it go. She wanted to go back to Germany, though. And I said why the hell not. Munich was cool. Berlin would be even better.

But when we got to the Circus Hostel (the one at Weinbergsweg 1a), I folded. We went out to eat but it was obvious she was ready to stay out and that I was just pacing myself until I could collapse into bed. There were no worries about replacing me. She'd chosen to stay in a room with twelve beds in it and when I wandered down to check on her later, she was jammed onto a lobby couch with five guys from a huge, rowdy group which included Americans, assorted Europeans, boys and girls. She was happy. She was doing just fine. I took my key card and myself to the to the top floor, ready to stop pretending I could handle my life.

The main room had yellow walls and two beds which I shoved together after unfolding their down comforters. A small living room area, kitchen and a little rooftop terrace I ignored after looking through the curtains at the bit of Mitte district showing late at night. I threw coins and candy and remnants of tickets onto the little breakfast table in the light from one lamp. I unpacked my things, laying clothes carefully over the metal rail at the end of each bed. I was too tired for this but I did it anyway. As if the order I imposed on my belongings would keep something terrible far away. I went into the bathroom which was spotless and covered in tiny pale blue tiles. The room was quiet, peaceful. In the mirror I saw that I was shattered and unloved. After a shower I went to bed.

And lying there in dim moonlight from the windows,
flanked by photographs of scuptures I didn't like,
and pressed to the bottom of an ocean of loss,

I gave up.

vendredi, mai 13, 2005

Joining the Circus

Realized I’ve been fantasizing about running away from my entire extended family lately. I think I’ll actually follow through on this, say for two or three years at least. I think it would be incredibly healthy. Not to mention fun. They’re grown. If I can’t stop playing mommy now, when can I? Eeeeeshk. No wonder I don’t have any cravings for kids. I swear to Jehovah I am tired.

So my sister is in much the same place and tells me that in search of more fun she and her pals have found a bar they like. The facts that she doesn’t really drink much or that this is a biker bar, don’t seem to slow her up in the least. I ask her if she will start dressing the part. And she says, naaah, except for a do-rag. Which I helpfully point out will either endear her to the regulars or offend their sensibilities. Plus, she will giggle and blush if she wears one and look cute and harmless. The eventual outcome is probably nothing for me to fear. Or for her to fear. Or anybody to fear for that matter.

But I am definitely going to run away. I don’t know who invented the life I’ve been living but it sucks patootie. It doesn’t fit. I am chafing like the proverbial idiot. I thought today that I should live in S. Skove’s house. You haven’t met her (unless your name is K-sra) but she’s definitely got gorgeous life down to a science. A sloppy, happy science.

She spends a few hours every day painting silk and velvet scarves, pillows, etc. in a studio she set up in her basement. She’s got a sales rep that gets her stuff placed in boutiques and high end department stores throughout the country. She orders her dyes from France and mixes them all by herself. Designs her patterns and repeats. Gets lost everyday in fun that has given her enough money to put her two kids through some rather expensive private schooling.

Plus, she loves to bake and cook. So, every afternoon she climbs the basement stairs to the kitchen and does just that before her son gets home from school. And she adores him (and her daughter who is studying dance in New York) and talks with him and oversees his homework. She divorced her first husband “because he bored me” she says. One assumes this second one does not. (Her hubs is a lawyer- one of those civil liberties/ environmental types. Can’t remember what he does exactly.)

And she’s not afraid to show anger or disappointment or affection or happiness in front of anyone in her home. If you’re not used to this, you’ll feel awkward at first and then you’ll calm down and realize that everybody’s o.k. here. Everybody’s boundaries tend to be respected, everybody’s loved and still considered separate, everybody’s creating the life they long for and believe in. And yes, I’m starting to sound new-agey, but I will admit that my jealousy is the very old, traditional kind.

So, I don't want her exact life, but I’m tired of being jealous when what preventeth me from saving my own damn self? I’m tired of pouring out everything I’ve got for other people. I’m tired of not being thrilled by my own life, my own adventures, and abilities. I am tired of not scaring myself silly with the freedom that I am allowed to have as an adult- with the chances I need to take to feel alive. Squashed in this oppressively tiny life, who do I think I’m trying to be?

She’s running away.

mardi, mai 03, 2005

Once More With Feeling (or I Needed A Laugh Today)

I put "Longmire does Romance Novels" back up there. Click on the title and enjoy his latest ones and a few new ones from contributors. I know I shouldn't laugh at some of these... but dear me. Crazy times call for crazy novel covers.

lundi, mai 02, 2005


My teeth hurt, yo, so I am eating soft foods and trying to figure out how to use a damn water pik (plus brush, plus floss.) So far I am a fetching failure at this braces game. I don't remember it being this difficult before... A guy at the grocery store made me smile, then laugh, and I did that ridiculous squish-your-lips-closed-over-braces thing that wrinkles your chin. Wow. Told you I'd be a big dork. Have decided I must embrace my brace-filled smile in all it's potentially gunk filled glory. Have I mentioned that I'm vain? Also, has anybody else noticed how braces make your entire smile kind of undefined? I mean your lips look like earthworms after the rain ('cuz they don't know what they're doing on top of those stupid brackets) and your teeth look kind of blurry. Oy. And vay.

Anyway, I made pudding- the old fashioned kind that you have to stir constantly over medium heat until it boils. Well, first off, I am not a big cow stuffs fan, so I used soy milk. (First mistake.) And then, I decided to eat soup in between stirring. Constantly. I swear. (Second and probably third mistakes. Where's the soap?) So, it burned on the bottom of the pan which flavored my vanilla pudding (there wasn't any chocolate left at the store) with a nice burned taste. And I swear (when will I ever stop? Help me, Jesus!) to you that it now tastes exactly AND PRECISELY like animal crackers. Yes. Cold, wobbly animal crackers with skin on top. (Who knew soy milk could do that for you?)

Well, that, and the fact that I had a big lipgloss-on-my-braces fiasco already, are all the news that's fit to print.