my last 24 hours

my downstairs neighbor came up at midnight to talk about her faltering relationship.(kind of knew from the noise)

my clutch went out in the middle of 7:45am downtown traffic.

the tow truck guy witnessed to me during the entire car ride to firestone.

my gynocologist called to say i had an abnormal pap smear, and she has to look at my wassa with a microscope.

can i just go back to sleep?

first line i'm working with

i used to think that my father ruined our lives; later i realized we did that just fine on our own.

epiphany 2007

it took a little while.
found it sunday morning during mile 2 on porter road, 37206.

in giving up hope, i gain everything.

that's it.
that's what i learned in 2007.

what a good boy

this first time i heard the term hair shirt, the barenaked ladies were crooning through the speakers of my 1989 diesel suburban. we were in a parking lot in west nashville near our favorite restaurant, stir fry cafe (AKA spicy noods). we worshipped spicy noods and the ensuing gastrointestinal discord.

anyway, a hair shirt was originally a garment or undergarment made of coarse cloth or animal hair (a hair shirt). the word has come to mean an object that can be worn to induce some degree of discomfort or pain.

last night, hair shirt became revised...

email to a friend:
my date last night had his $238 shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest. what am i going to do?

her response:
what? I got your text about the debate (I was at an event). Who is the guy and why can he not dress? Is it the hoodie guy?
Because a big fat I told you so may be coming your way.

email to a friend:
hoodie guy. super virago type. too designer jeans, a scarf, and a pearl buttoned patterned cowboyish shirt with embroidery. and 7 stark chest hairs peeking from the unbuttoned abyss.

her response:
I am speechless. Actually, I am in disbelief that 1) this species is still in existence and 2) wandered out of his habitat to 37206

men are my hair shirts.
i know before i put them on, it's gonna be itchy and uncomfortable.

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.