irony to the third power

how can the son of an english teacher/school board commissioner not be able to spell, at all?

why do the things that make the least sense, feel most right?
(and the chuck taylor of that)

why is it the guy who is perfect for a friend chasing me around the mulberry bush? i hope that i can get his bird circling her bush before he tries to pick a berry from mine. it's gonna be sooooo awkward.

want to

so the guy who bought our bottle of wine at the bar last night has the song "want to" by sugarland, on his MYSPACE page.

get ready to be entertained.

yin and yang

i have come to a clear handle on this concept in one respect:

attachment is the expansive to the contractive uncreative.
detachment is the contractive to the expansive creative.

i like being attached.
i like being creative.
i have never brought the two together.

ho hum. what comes to us is not to be understood, but merely accepted.

not that my g.i. tract is paying any attention to my belief system.
my body is a stupid little vehicle. in its pheromonic and recently discordant symphony, it has neglected to note the harmony in my brain.

virginia woolf

she had been promised a soft pretzel when she was 8. he had made the promise of refined grain and rock salt in an attempt to shut her up on the way to the smithsonian. this ran her mind as she lit the cigarette in the parking lot of the drug store.

as she drove down the pike, she thought of that lie and the others she had been told. barbie trucks, mocking birds, nicotine. all of these promises worked in her like the buckwheat that was not digesting from dinner.

she promised her stomach that the feeling would go away, that all things came and went. and in the doubling over, in the roll of her gut, she saw the pretzel. it was twisted like the promises that she had made to herself: the lies that are the most truth within us.

see me, feel me, blah blah blah

on the drive into work this morning, i noticed that the row of shops in my neighborhood was recently repainted... vibrant punches of color in the mids of my urban hood. and, there are white lights on the trees that stand on the riverfront when i pass into downtown. they were beautiful and probably there since thanksgiving. and the street lights go off right after 7am. who knew?

wonder what the hell else i haven't been seeing lately... besides the mice that have taken over my kitchen.

animal fat

breathing is salvation. the idea that no matter what, involuntarily air moves through me regardless of any burden, thought, or drop in the stomach.

i just moves.
through.
in and out.
it's nice in a way.

the only time it causes me anxiety is when i'm in yoga and realize how aware of it i can become in a moment and how easily i forget it when i leave a certain space.

like most things in life.
how our understanding of something is ever present, but not oft noticed.

tonight i noticed.
and what my breath brought was animal fat and the belief that as long as i love what i can, say what i feel, and appreciate my moments.
nothing.
else.
matters.

gurl shake dat laffy taffy

this morning i spilled hot wax all over my bathroom sink and cabinet. like a tub of bikini wax that is cherry laffy taffy in all ways but flavor (even that is easily debatable).

after spilling it on the sink and cabinets, i cursed the fates for stealing the 20 minutes it was gonna take to clean it up with the little bit of isopropyl alcohol i had left. some of it dripped on my toes, too.

in the midst of my cursing, i dropped the whole fucking thing on the bathroom floor.
then, there was crying.

i give up.
seriously.
it's gonna take 3 hours and a gallon of rubbing alcohol to clean it off my floor, the $85 wax pot, and my $200 hair straightener.

i wish i were rich. i'd fucking throw the appliances away and get new floors.
instead, i get to cover the entire pink mess in saran wrap and look at it for at least a month. because that's how long it takes for me to clean anything up.

auld lang syne

we all are miserable.
talking to a friend over turkey rachel's the other day, i determined that whatever misery we have, we create. but create it, we do.

either you doing what you love and can't pay the bills or working so hard to pay the bills you never see anyone you love. or you are paying the bills doing what you love, but you no longer love it because it's your job.

misery.
it's fucking beautiful

what misery do i create?
i think that my blog pretty clearly explains that.
merry christmas.
go make some misery.

with or without you

at the annual girls christmas dinner the other night, we talked about what we could not live without. i came to tweezers.

but in the bathroom at the bar car later that week, what i really came to is that there is not a thing in this world that i can not live without.

except
the cruelty of hope and the comfort of indecision
and it is tangible in driving him home at 1am,
walking through the obed national park,
the freckled bridge of his nose,
the temporary tag on a windshield,
and the same lunch date
almost one year later
with the same half-eaten sandwich,
the same pathetic snow,
the same lack of eye contact
and the same damn pair of shoes.

conception

Your finger traces the pulse in my neck
From the shelf of my jaw line mandible
To the soft ridges of my breast bone sternum.
Fascination moves your palm and I see
Your eyes expand and contract
As you discover and lose my pulse.
You talk chemical reactions that start life,
The beating of the ventricles,
And how time wears a muscle to its end.
I consider the scent of your shoulder clavicle
The tightening of my chest thoracic
And the minute my pulse might stop.

And in this morning bed I wonder
About the technical names of things,
The difference between substance and longevity,
And the conflict in our belief and my desire:
These chemical reactions in our decisions
Small moments when life begins.