Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Trapped
This boredom is good for my writing. All I have are my thoughts and this sorry keyboard to free them with.
I don't have that teathered to a rock feeling inside me anymore. There is no tension, immediacy. I miss it.
I miss longing and being unsure. All the aching questions tumbling about inside my head for hours. It’s easy to write then. Inking out the way I would get through this or that or it or him. And it was always him. I could have misplaced an arm on the way to work and it would still be about him. That was where the rawest emotions in me came from. The freshest cuts left to be gingerly dressed. The buzz in my head and the catch in my throat. I was the walking wounded, but I felt alive.
Complacency is like L.A. fog. During the day you don’t notice it because you are consumed with daily tasks. Only when you’ve escaped the work day can you see it rising above the skyline, massive, yellow-luminous and steeping the air with indifference.
I'm plagued by a different beast now. And even though it's not one that cuts as deep, the damage is slower and more lasting.
There is a difference between stumbling into some restlessness and actually mass producing it. I don't know if my luck is just really bad, or if I am just this strange magnet of small tragedies.
But on the other hand, would I be satisfied with a life of effortlessness?
That's a tough question. I think I thrive on the difficult, expect it.
It just seems I am always on the verge of this massive heartbreak and I don't just walk towards it ... I run full speed ahead.
I don't have that teathered to a rock feeling inside me anymore. There is no tension, immediacy. I miss it.
I miss longing and being unsure. All the aching questions tumbling about inside my head for hours. It’s easy to write then. Inking out the way I would get through this or that or it or him. And it was always him. I could have misplaced an arm on the way to work and it would still be about him. That was where the rawest emotions in me came from. The freshest cuts left to be gingerly dressed. The buzz in my head and the catch in my throat. I was the walking wounded, but I felt alive.
Complacency is like L.A. fog. During the day you don’t notice it because you are consumed with daily tasks. Only when you’ve escaped the work day can you see it rising above the skyline, massive, yellow-luminous and steeping the air with indifference.
I'm plagued by a different beast now. And even though it's not one that cuts as deep, the damage is slower and more lasting.
There is a difference between stumbling into some restlessness and actually mass producing it. I don't know if my luck is just really bad, or if I am just this strange magnet of small tragedies.
But on the other hand, would I be satisfied with a life of effortlessness?
That's a tough question. I think I thrive on the difficult, expect it.
It just seems I am always on the verge of this massive heartbreak and I don't just walk towards it ... I run full speed ahead.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Why I Write
I write to keep the world in perspective. To knock it back from its skewed axis enough to try and understand it. I write to avoid the ever-feared cliché, to get inside the ring with a paragraph and work it over until it pleads for the bell. I write because I am hopelessly in love with the sound of words. All of my books have scribbles in the margins and dog-eared pages. A star here, an underlined passage there. I can't think of any other way to read a book than to constantly remind myself of why I need to write.
Mostly, I think I write to discover foreign lands within myself. I wonder oftentimes about those who take no pleasure in it, why? Perhaps it would be wise to consider leaving the shore more than just once in a while.
In a world where what we see is what we get, it is important for writers to brighten that image; to make it accessible to as many people as possible. Making blades of grass into tiny green swords that swipe at our shins. Skyscrapers become stilts for God. Tree branches resembling twisted, arthritic hands. They hold the power of metamorphosis in their hands and all they have to do is get black on white. But writers are not magicians. They can’t turn numbness into passion. They can’t use their pencils to erase wrong, and for me, the sting of heartache still smolders even when cloaked in eloquent language.
Sometimes I wonder if the seeds of my existence were watered with the ink of tormented writers and this is what pushes my pen to the paper at night and on sad days. Or maybe it is simply the need to write. What is true in the world? What is our purpose in the universe? How do I live my life? On countless pages, I deliberate. I spread the wrinkles of my mind flat in order to take more in and then I write.
Sometimes I wonder at the eerie fleetingness of the written word. When a writer settles into his bed at night and picks up his journal to record the slips and falls of his day, it seems odd to me the urgency to get it all down. It’s sad really, the art of writing things down in a journal or diary because when you think about it, we write things down to remember them later. Do I write because I want to remember my own life? I think I write in order to understand … not remember.
Stepping onto foreign soil is not always the easiest task. There are many obstacles to tackle on the road to self-discovery. Writers are pretentious and arrogant. They are vain, they are serious. They hate each other, are viciously jealous, but can recognize a good thing when they read it, even if it is not their own. They steal from Joyce, Hemingway, Baldwin and Whitman with no intentions of returning what they take. They scan the dictionary for the perfect word, and then devour it like wolves. They are ruthless, proud, demure, and calculating, but at least they are all these things together.
A writer’s biggest fear and ally is the world itself. I am sometimes afraid that I will not be able to adequately and justly recount the world around me. It is almost like a blind man seeing for the first time. There are so many aspects to sight: colour, space, shade, size, movement, that to realize all these things at once would send any mind reeling.
To become a writer, I fear this disillusion, yet desperately seek to capture it. No matter how difficult, if a writer succeeds, then he or she has contained the world---lassoed its rearing, ugly head and corked it in, like a tiny ship in a bottle. From this triumph, we can poke and prod to learn more about ourselves and our lives within this world. We begin to understand from rolling the bottle between our hands how small the world is, and what connects us to its every aspect. Language transcends barriers of race and gender. Words act as bridges between cultures. And ultimately, writer or not, we begin to see worth in the art of writing.
And I do think that only the observant eye of a writer could capture all the elements of sight at once. However, unlike a photographer, our negatives develop on paper. Instead of using shadow and light to know something is round, we use adjectives and similes. We can sway a reader by changing the round object into a ripe, fuzzy peach, or a different kind of round, the ethereal sphere of a bubble freshly blown. A photograph cannot intensify the experience, it only documents the reality.
Some say the written world is not real. They claim it is an embellished representation of what one person thinks is real. I disagree. Allowing ourselves into other people’s perceptions is what makes our lives real. By stepping onto their shores, we are given permission to question, to run about barefoot and wonder like a child. We see for the first time all over again.
The written world is the only medium that lets us travel to these foreign lands consistently and without resistance. Writers offer a kind of displacement that one can only get lost in through words. A good book can take you anywhere you want to go. Where else are we permitted to wander and explore the capacities of our own minds and free ourselves of the world we know for a moment or two?
But perhaps writing is for the bold. It is for people who seek to find and don’t stop until they have reached somewhere they have never been. It is for those few who have an irreconcilable need to express. And again, for those who simply wish to create something they are proud of. Sylvia Plath said that she decided to write, not in order to save the world, or to serve her fellow men, but for the simple, personal, selfish, and egotistical happiness of creating the kind of men and events she could like, respect and admire. There is a certain poignancy in wanting to assemble something as honest as that. I understand this. I care about the words I write; I seed and water them until they perfectly bloom into my thoughts.
I sometimes laugh when I hear myself say I’m a writer at heart. Images of me in twenty years in a dimly lit room with bad wallpaper, hunched over a typewriter, a cigarette dangling from my lips and a short glass of warm bourbon on the desk next to me. Then I see my face, and I am shocked at the immutable frown I wear. Then, I look more closely and see the corners of my mouth quiver and upturn ever so slightly and I know this is the beginning of a smile.
I am revealed. I have found another sandy shore.
Mostly, I think I write to discover foreign lands within myself. I wonder oftentimes about those who take no pleasure in it, why? Perhaps it would be wise to consider leaving the shore more than just once in a while.
In a world where what we see is what we get, it is important for writers to brighten that image; to make it accessible to as many people as possible. Making blades of grass into tiny green swords that swipe at our shins. Skyscrapers become stilts for God. Tree branches resembling twisted, arthritic hands. They hold the power of metamorphosis in their hands and all they have to do is get black on white. But writers are not magicians. They can’t turn numbness into passion. They can’t use their pencils to erase wrong, and for me, the sting of heartache still smolders even when cloaked in eloquent language.
Sometimes I wonder if the seeds of my existence were watered with the ink of tormented writers and this is what pushes my pen to the paper at night and on sad days. Or maybe it is simply the need to write. What is true in the world? What is our purpose in the universe? How do I live my life? On countless pages, I deliberate. I spread the wrinkles of my mind flat in order to take more in and then I write.
Sometimes I wonder at the eerie fleetingness of the written word. When a writer settles into his bed at night and picks up his journal to record the slips and falls of his day, it seems odd to me the urgency to get it all down. It’s sad really, the art of writing things down in a journal or diary because when you think about it, we write things down to remember them later. Do I write because I want to remember my own life? I think I write in order to understand … not remember.
Stepping onto foreign soil is not always the easiest task. There are many obstacles to tackle on the road to self-discovery. Writers are pretentious and arrogant. They are vain, they are serious. They hate each other, are viciously jealous, but can recognize a good thing when they read it, even if it is not their own. They steal from Joyce, Hemingway, Baldwin and Whitman with no intentions of returning what they take. They scan the dictionary for the perfect word, and then devour it like wolves. They are ruthless, proud, demure, and calculating, but at least they are all these things together.
A writer’s biggest fear and ally is the world itself. I am sometimes afraid that I will not be able to adequately and justly recount the world around me. It is almost like a blind man seeing for the first time. There are so many aspects to sight: colour, space, shade, size, movement, that to realize all these things at once would send any mind reeling.
To become a writer, I fear this disillusion, yet desperately seek to capture it. No matter how difficult, if a writer succeeds, then he or she has contained the world---lassoed its rearing, ugly head and corked it in, like a tiny ship in a bottle. From this triumph, we can poke and prod to learn more about ourselves and our lives within this world. We begin to understand from rolling the bottle between our hands how small the world is, and what connects us to its every aspect. Language transcends barriers of race and gender. Words act as bridges between cultures. And ultimately, writer or not, we begin to see worth in the art of writing.
And I do think that only the observant eye of a writer could capture all the elements of sight at once. However, unlike a photographer, our negatives develop on paper. Instead of using shadow and light to know something is round, we use adjectives and similes. We can sway a reader by changing the round object into a ripe, fuzzy peach, or a different kind of round, the ethereal sphere of a bubble freshly blown. A photograph cannot intensify the experience, it only documents the reality.
Some say the written world is not real. They claim it is an embellished representation of what one person thinks is real. I disagree. Allowing ourselves into other people’s perceptions is what makes our lives real. By stepping onto their shores, we are given permission to question, to run about barefoot and wonder like a child. We see for the first time all over again.
The written world is the only medium that lets us travel to these foreign lands consistently and without resistance. Writers offer a kind of displacement that one can only get lost in through words. A good book can take you anywhere you want to go. Where else are we permitted to wander and explore the capacities of our own minds and free ourselves of the world we know for a moment or two?
But perhaps writing is for the bold. It is for people who seek to find and don’t stop until they have reached somewhere they have never been. It is for those few who have an irreconcilable need to express. And again, for those who simply wish to create something they are proud of. Sylvia Plath said that she decided to write, not in order to save the world, or to serve her fellow men, but for the simple, personal, selfish, and egotistical happiness of creating the kind of men and events she could like, respect and admire. There is a certain poignancy in wanting to assemble something as honest as that. I understand this. I care about the words I write; I seed and water them until they perfectly bloom into my thoughts.
I sometimes laugh when I hear myself say I’m a writer at heart. Images of me in twenty years in a dimly lit room with bad wallpaper, hunched over a typewriter, a cigarette dangling from my lips and a short glass of warm bourbon on the desk next to me. Then I see my face, and I am shocked at the immutable frown I wear. Then, I look more closely and see the corners of my mouth quiver and upturn ever so slightly and I know this is the beginning of a smile.
I am revealed. I have found another sandy shore.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
The Politics of Music
In an age where our world's political climate is sweltering and virtually every move our leaders make becomes satirical fodder, shouldn't we at least have some good music? Isn't it warranted?
Is there any inspiration I can glean from a song titled, "Freek-A-Leek" or lyrics like,
"To the window, to dat wall/ To the sweat drips down my balls/ To all you bitches crawl".
It's puzzling really. I mean, sure, give me a good hook and a loud bass line and I'll shake my ass with the best of them. But this is an opportunity for the creative people of the world to actually SAY SOMETHING.
What happened to bands like Neil Young, the MC5, The Yardbirds, Bob Dylan and The Who? And then those that followed, Bad Religion, Public Enemy, Pearl Jam, Rage Against the Machine, Ani DiFranco? Even the Sex Pistols. Damn, and the Clash. The Clash did it right. And they did it in the time of hair bands and fake metal followers.
"Kick over the wall/Cause governments to fall/How can you refuse it?/Let fury have the hour/Anger can be power/Didja know that you can use it?"
I'm sick to death of turning on the radio and hearing the same insouciant, alternative crap and phony, made-up gangster lingo.
Where are the Clashes and the Rages? Are there none left? Where is the dissent? The rebel yell?
Is there any inspiration I can glean from a song titled, "Freek-A-Leek" or lyrics like,
"To the window, to dat wall/ To the sweat drips down my balls/ To all you bitches crawl".
It's puzzling really. I mean, sure, give me a good hook and a loud bass line and I'll shake my ass with the best of them. But this is an opportunity for the creative people of the world to actually SAY SOMETHING.
What happened to bands like Neil Young, the MC5, The Yardbirds, Bob Dylan and The Who? And then those that followed, Bad Religion, Public Enemy, Pearl Jam, Rage Against the Machine, Ani DiFranco? Even the Sex Pistols. Damn, and the Clash. The Clash did it right. And they did it in the time of hair bands and fake metal followers.
"Kick over the wall/Cause governments to fall/How can you refuse it?/Let fury have the hour/Anger can be power/Didja know that you can use it?"
I'm sick to death of turning on the radio and hearing the same insouciant, alternative crap and phony, made-up gangster lingo.
Where are the Clashes and the Rages? Are there none left? Where is the dissent? The rebel yell?
Monday, June 23, 2008
Self Therapy
I used to do this all the time and it really made me feel better! Randomly write down twenty-five things you want to say to people without revealing who they are.
1. I’m constantly getting disappointed by you and yet you blame me.
2. I think you're going to break my heart.
3. Stop taking everything so personally. It’s not always about you.
4. I know I am smarter than you. Stop trying to make me look stupid, asshole.
5. I would die if you died.
6. So what if I drink too much? Everyone does.
7. I’m afraid we’ll never be the kind of friends we used to be.
8. Your ass kissing makes me want to break a chair over your head daily.
9. I think your self-confidence is completely contrived.
10. Your casual dismissal of me only makes me want you more.
11. He’s terrible to you and for you and I'm worried about you.
12. You make my skin crawl.
13. Give yourself some credit. Self-doubt is unattractive.
14. Your hesitance is my hesitance. We’ll never move forward this way.
15. I need you to do more drugs.
16. I am the person I want to be when I’m with you.
17. You’re a fake. Don’t think I don’t know it.
18. When I'm with you I'm completely exposed. You make me feel naked.
19. I’m sorry I don’t visit more often, but I think about you all the time.
20. When you cry, it embarrasses me.
21. Your constant negativity seeps under my skin and I'm afraid it's changing me.
22. My biggest fear is losing you to someone else even though I don't want you anymore.
23. Your righteous attitude and subtle piety really annoy me.
24. Your need to subtly turn everything into a competition frustrates me.
25. Your pessimism is self-perpetuating. I don’t know what to say to make you feel better anymore.
1. I’m constantly getting disappointed by you and yet you blame me.
2. I think you're going to break my heart.
3. Stop taking everything so personally. It’s not always about you.
4. I know I am smarter than you. Stop trying to make me look stupid, asshole.
5. I would die if you died.
6. So what if I drink too much? Everyone does.
7. I’m afraid we’ll never be the kind of friends we used to be.
8. Your ass kissing makes me want to break a chair over your head daily.
9. I think your self-confidence is completely contrived.
10. Your casual dismissal of me only makes me want you more.
11. He’s terrible to you and for you and I'm worried about you.
12. You make my skin crawl.
13. Give yourself some credit. Self-doubt is unattractive.
14. Your hesitance is my hesitance. We’ll never move forward this way.
15. I need you to do more drugs.
16. I am the person I want to be when I’m with you.
17. You’re a fake. Don’t think I don’t know it.
18. When I'm with you I'm completely exposed. You make me feel naked.
19. I’m sorry I don’t visit more often, but I think about you all the time.
20. When you cry, it embarrasses me.
21. Your constant negativity seeps under my skin and I'm afraid it's changing me.
22. My biggest fear is losing you to someone else even though I don't want you anymore.
23. Your righteous attitude and subtle piety really annoy me.
24. Your need to subtly turn everything into a competition frustrates me.
25. Your pessimism is self-perpetuating. I don’t know what to say to make you feel better anymore.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Painfully Poetic
I recently saw Glen Hansard of The Frames & Marketa Irglova in concert. You may remember them from a little movie called, Once. If you haven't seen it, I implore you. Go rent it. Watch it. You won't be able to catch your breath, I promise you...and I only saw it in pieces.
Anyways, don't take it from me. As I said before, see it for yourself.
Moving onto the concert...
Here's the deal. Most shows I've gone to follow the same routine. People show up, the band plays, people party, people leave.
This concert was completely different.
The entire venue was silent when they started their first song, "Lies". All you could hear was an errant cough, the shuffle of a sandaled foot. At first I felt like something was wrong. I was almost slightly embarrassed for the band because no one was clapping. But then something happened. The tide turned and all at once I realized it wasn't a silence of distaste or dislike, but one of anticipation and captivation. People were literally holding their breath.
As Glen Hansard launched into the chorus of the first song with a passionate howl, "The little cracks they escalated, before we knew it was too late..." the crowd responded like the buzz of a window with a passing train.
By the time he got to the second verse of the chorus, "Maybe if you slow down for me I can see you're only telling lies lies lies...breaking us down with your lies lies lies" the crowd erupted.
From that point on you could feel the pulse of every person in that audience racing with each octave Hansard's voice climbed. By the time they got to the piano build up alongside the strong guitar in the middle of the song, I had tears streaming down my cheeks.
The energy those two put off is contagious and genuine. Their rapport is loving and witty and authentic. It's beautiful to watch. They pull you in with barely any effort.
Glen Hansard is fucking amazing. The lyrics are fantastic, heartwrenching, poetic. But it's his performance that is so riveting. He plays with such emotion and fury that you can't deny his talent. You know that he's the real deal, not just playing for fame or fortune. It was so refreshing.
Marketa Irglova was the perfect complement to her partner's rugged candor. She's reticent and demure and has a compelling likeable incorruptibility. But when she sings with him she comes alive. Her voice is like breaking glass, beautiful and torrmented. When she sings, "I'm sorry that you have to see the strength inside me burning" it makes my heart hurt. It awakens something slow, melancholic and regretful inside of me.
For me the best song of the night was not originally one of my favorites on the soundtrack, but has slowly crept its way to number one. "Leave" really and truly makes you feel like you are running in slow motion, trying to catch up with someone who's already gone. As the song moves toward the end, Glen Hansard's voice grows progressively more out of control, violent, louder. His pleas become more desperate and achingly earnest.
From the buildup to the breakdown, this song was probably one of the hardest songs to listen to. You just know that distinct pain in his voice. Everyone can relate to that deep, deep hurt. I have to listen to this song on full blast on my iPod because otherwise I will ball my eyes out.
It's perfect.
The whole show was perfect, yet I can't accurately describe it ... and I know more words than the average person.
I just thank God for creating artists who share their beautiful gift.
Anyways, don't take it from me. As I said before, see it for yourself.
Moving onto the concert...
Here's the deal. Most shows I've gone to follow the same routine. People show up, the band plays, people party, people leave.
This concert was completely different.
The entire venue was silent when they started their first song, "Lies". All you could hear was an errant cough, the shuffle of a sandaled foot. At first I felt like something was wrong. I was almost slightly embarrassed for the band because no one was clapping. But then something happened. The tide turned and all at once I realized it wasn't a silence of distaste or dislike, but one of anticipation and captivation. People were literally holding their breath.
As Glen Hansard launched into the chorus of the first song with a passionate howl, "The little cracks they escalated, before we knew it was too late..." the crowd responded like the buzz of a window with a passing train.
By the time he got to the second verse of the chorus, "Maybe if you slow down for me I can see you're only telling lies lies lies...breaking us down with your lies lies lies" the crowd erupted.
From that point on you could feel the pulse of every person in that audience racing with each octave Hansard's voice climbed. By the time they got to the piano build up alongside the strong guitar in the middle of the song, I had tears streaming down my cheeks.
The energy those two put off is contagious and genuine. Their rapport is loving and witty and authentic. It's beautiful to watch. They pull you in with barely any effort.
Glen Hansard is fucking amazing. The lyrics are fantastic, heartwrenching, poetic. But it's his performance that is so riveting. He plays with such emotion and fury that you can't deny his talent. You know that he's the real deal, not just playing for fame or fortune. It was so refreshing.
Marketa Irglova was the perfect complement to her partner's rugged candor. She's reticent and demure and has a compelling likeable incorruptibility. But when she sings with him she comes alive. Her voice is like breaking glass, beautiful and torrmented. When she sings, "I'm sorry that you have to see the strength inside me burning" it makes my heart hurt. It awakens something slow, melancholic and regretful inside of me.
For me the best song of the night was not originally one of my favorites on the soundtrack, but has slowly crept its way to number one. "Leave" really and truly makes you feel like you are running in slow motion, trying to catch up with someone who's already gone. As the song moves toward the end, Glen Hansard's voice grows progressively more out of control, violent, louder. His pleas become more desperate and achingly earnest.
From the buildup to the breakdown, this song was probably one of the hardest songs to listen to. You just know that distinct pain in his voice. Everyone can relate to that deep, deep hurt. I have to listen to this song on full blast on my iPod because otherwise I will ball my eyes out.
It's perfect.
The whole show was perfect, yet I can't accurately describe it ... and I know more words than the average person.
I just thank God for creating artists who share their beautiful gift.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Dear Boyfriends, Potential Dates and Prospects on the Sidelines,
Let's get this out of the way now.
You really shouldn't like me.
First of all, I'm fucking weird. I do weird things that are irrational and inexplicable. I act weird, seemingly senselessly and ambiguously. I'm a cross between an old-school Italian house wife and a shameless dirt-bag.
I don't believe that the glass is half full because I'm the one drinking out of the 12" tall glass cowboy boot.
I am a walking contradiction, a caster of stones and careful architect of my own glass houses. I own several and rent out the ones I don't live in.
I don't sleep. But when I do, you'll never understand how. I've calculated the exact position of my pillows to quantify the perfect amount of sleep. I am addicted to white noise yet I sing in bed. I don't know how anyone puts up with my odd sleep patterns and insane bedtime routine.
You shouldn't like me because I won't keep my opinions to myself. I find it impossible to be fake and am visibly awkward in situations in which I feel are not genuine. Small talk makes me itchy and people usually think I am unapproachable and emotionally unavailable.
You shouldn't like me because I live more on paper than I do in real life. Because I'll keep my most intimate moments for myself on my hard drive and in softcover journals. This will drive you crazy. It will make you jealous in a way you can't describe.
I'll know you better than you think in a shorter time than you think and this will unsettle you. It would unsettle me.
You shouldn't like me because there will always be that one percent of you that doesn't trust me completely. I thrive in that one percent. It's not intentional, it's just where I feel the most comfortable.
You'll wince when I tell you my guiltiest pleasure is the dirty South. You'll cringe when you hear me humming the chorus from Skynyrd's "Poison Whiskey" while I'm on my blackberry. Oh, and I will force you to listen to classic rock while we drink bourbon at my kitchen table.
It's just who I am.
Here's something else. I spend more money on clothes and shoes than I do on groceries. I don't floss my teeth enough or dust when it's required. I will always take a shortcut if one is made available to me. I'm not as consistently kind and considerate as I appear to be upon first impression.
You won't be able to relate to my priorities. I definitely want to have babies but am indifferent about getting married. But I do believe in the institution of marriage, family and true love.
All of this will puzzle and confuse you and just before you've got me figured out ..... you'll run.
So, basically you're probably better off without the headache.
With all sincerity,
Rebecca
You really shouldn't like me.
First of all, I'm fucking weird. I do weird things that are irrational and inexplicable. I act weird, seemingly senselessly and ambiguously. I'm a cross between an old-school Italian house wife and a shameless dirt-bag.
I don't believe that the glass is half full because I'm the one drinking out of the 12" tall glass cowboy boot.
I am a walking contradiction, a caster of stones and careful architect of my own glass houses. I own several and rent out the ones I don't live in.
I don't sleep. But when I do, you'll never understand how. I've calculated the exact position of my pillows to quantify the perfect amount of sleep. I am addicted to white noise yet I sing in bed. I don't know how anyone puts up with my odd sleep patterns and insane bedtime routine.
You shouldn't like me because I won't keep my opinions to myself. I find it impossible to be fake and am visibly awkward in situations in which I feel are not genuine. Small talk makes me itchy and people usually think I am unapproachable and emotionally unavailable.
You shouldn't like me because I live more on paper than I do in real life. Because I'll keep my most intimate moments for myself on my hard drive and in softcover journals. This will drive you crazy. It will make you jealous in a way you can't describe.
I'll know you better than you think in a shorter time than you think and this will unsettle you. It would unsettle me.
You shouldn't like me because there will always be that one percent of you that doesn't trust me completely. I thrive in that one percent. It's not intentional, it's just where I feel the most comfortable.
You'll wince when I tell you my guiltiest pleasure is the dirty South. You'll cringe when you hear me humming the chorus from Skynyrd's "Poison Whiskey" while I'm on my blackberry. Oh, and I will force you to listen to classic rock while we drink bourbon at my kitchen table.
It's just who I am.
Here's something else. I spend more money on clothes and shoes than I do on groceries. I don't floss my teeth enough or dust when it's required. I will always take a shortcut if one is made available to me. I'm not as consistently kind and considerate as I appear to be upon first impression.
You won't be able to relate to my priorities. I definitely want to have babies but am indifferent about getting married. But I do believe in the institution of marriage, family and true love.
All of this will puzzle and confuse you and just before you've got me figured out ..... you'll run.
So, basically you're probably better off without the headache.
With all sincerity,
Rebecca
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Pure Lust
Here's the newest addition to my footwear collection. I'm so obsessed with them, I practically wore them to bed. Like, I want to f-ck my boots.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
My Saturday night till 6 in da mornin'
It started out simple enough. I left my apartment somewhere between the Lower East Side and the Financial District. There was a limo waiting for me as I left, and it was gorgeous. A late model Cadillac kind of limo. I then kindly asked the driver to leave his vehicle so I could take it for a spin.
I might not be the best driver, and as a result I crashed into a few street lights on my little joy ride. I also may have hit a few pedestrians as well, but there was little blood so I assumed everything was ok. I continued on my drive down to the South Street Seaport. I finally reached my destination, and got out of my limo. I may or may not have heard sirens in the distance, but all that didn't matter now.
I was going to steal a helicopter.
I walked on the helipad and ripped the pilot out of the driver's seat. He was sitting there waiting for someone. Maybe a high profile passenger like Donald Trump or Jay Leno, or maybe he was waiting for me. That all didn't matter now. I got in the pilot's seat and took off towards JFK.
I landed near taxing 747's and left my helicopter on the runway. I tried to steal a 747 by trying to cling to the wheel well, but the plane was too big. The sirens got louder, and I broke out into a run searching for a vehicle so I could make my escape. I found a luggage transport vehicle to drive, but the beast of a truck proved not worthy of a getaway car. Eventually I was shot along a grassy knoll near the Van Wyck.
I woke up again in my apartment. Was it all a bad dream? Maybe. I had a new mission though. My true mission.
I needed some poon.
I stole a nice bus this time. It proved to be very useful in driving over cement dividers and running stop lights. Finally I took a corner too hard and rolled the bus. There was a young gentleman in a convertible that tried to talk shit to me as I emereged unscathed from my metal box of death. I mean, he didn't even ask if I was ok. So I shot him. Point blank. I guess I must have hit his gas tank too cause the asshole caught on fire along with his car. That fucking showed him for talking smack to me.
Again, sirens.
I picked up the pace to my desired destination. Nothing was going to get in my way! Not even men on fire. Finally, I made it. I opened the door to air conditioning and the sweet smell of dirty pussy. I was home. I was in the strip club.
After being ushered to the back for a private lap dance (that's how I roll, yo), a nice young lady with brown hair and a hot pink thong began to dance. It wasn't enough though. I wanted more. So they brought out a blonde with a yellow thong and both of them girated on and around my huge wood. It was glorious.
After they were done, one of the ho's was all, "You're the greatest...blah blah blah" so I fucking clocked her. Right in the jaw. Bitch started to yell and was all, "why'd you hit me, asshole?" so I shot her. Doesn't she know who I am? This did not please the bouncers too much, and after a shootout in the main room, I died.
But seriously,what a way to go. So fucking bad-ass!
I might not be the best driver, and as a result I crashed into a few street lights on my little joy ride. I also may have hit a few pedestrians as well, but there was little blood so I assumed everything was ok. I continued on my drive down to the South Street Seaport. I finally reached my destination, and got out of my limo. I may or may not have heard sirens in the distance, but all that didn't matter now.
I was going to steal a helicopter.
I walked on the helipad and ripped the pilot out of the driver's seat. He was sitting there waiting for someone. Maybe a high profile passenger like Donald Trump or Jay Leno, or maybe he was waiting for me. That all didn't matter now. I got in the pilot's seat and took off towards JFK.
I landed near taxing 747's and left my helicopter on the runway. I tried to steal a 747 by trying to cling to the wheel well, but the plane was too big. The sirens got louder, and I broke out into a run searching for a vehicle so I could make my escape. I found a luggage transport vehicle to drive, but the beast of a truck proved not worthy of a getaway car. Eventually I was shot along a grassy knoll near the Van Wyck.
I woke up again in my apartment. Was it all a bad dream? Maybe. I had a new mission though. My true mission.
I needed some poon.
I stole a nice bus this time. It proved to be very useful in driving over cement dividers and running stop lights. Finally I took a corner too hard and rolled the bus. There was a young gentleman in a convertible that tried to talk shit to me as I emereged unscathed from my metal box of death. I mean, he didn't even ask if I was ok. So I shot him. Point blank. I guess I must have hit his gas tank too cause the asshole caught on fire along with his car. That fucking showed him for talking smack to me.
Again, sirens.
I picked up the pace to my desired destination. Nothing was going to get in my way! Not even men on fire. Finally, I made it. I opened the door to air conditioning and the sweet smell of dirty pussy. I was home. I was in the strip club.
After being ushered to the back for a private lap dance (that's how I roll, yo), a nice young lady with brown hair and a hot pink thong began to dance. It wasn't enough though. I wanted more. So they brought out a blonde with a yellow thong and both of them girated on and around my huge wood. It was glorious.
After they were done, one of the ho's was all, "You're the greatest...blah blah blah" so I fucking clocked her. Right in the jaw. Bitch started to yell and was all, "why'd you hit me, asshole?" so I shot her. Doesn't she know who I am? This did not please the bouncers too much, and after a shootout in the main room, I died.
But seriously,what a way to go. So fucking bad-ass!
Friday, May 23, 2008
Awkward
So, I have a new "big boss" client who just started about a month ago. Anyway, he was in the office earlier in the week, along with his boss and their lawyer to negotiate the terms of our retainer. Anyway, I'm in the meeting room with another person I work with and I'm bending over to plug in my laptop and I have a nice size tattoo on my back - which was exposed .. due to my pervocative ability to bend.
Anyway, the guy I work with sees it. And...
Him: Hey, sweet tat man.
Me: Oh, thanks.
Him: That's awesome. I have one in progress (shows me). Hey, what did you use for the aftercare?
Me: Um, A & D, then just Lubriderm after the first few days.
Him: Next time you should try Bag Balm. I got a mess of tats, that's what I've always used, it works awesome.
Me: Bag Balm?
Him: Yeah. It's what farmers use on cow's tits.
We both turn around to take our seats, and see 10 people - my boss, my clients, their lawyer, etc... in complete stunned silence.
Perfect.
Anyway, the guy I work with sees it. And...
Him: Hey, sweet tat man.
Me: Oh, thanks.
Him: That's awesome. I have one in progress (shows me). Hey, what did you use for the aftercare?
Me: Um, A & D, then just Lubriderm after the first few days.
Him: Next time you should try Bag Balm. I got a mess of tats, that's what I've always used, it works awesome.
Me: Bag Balm?
Him: Yeah. It's what farmers use on cow's tits.
We both turn around to take our seats, and see 10 people - my boss, my clients, their lawyer, etc... in complete stunned silence.
Perfect.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
life in a parallel
These days I can't seem to catch a break. I usually have a pretty rock solid sense of self, but lately I am finding cracks in the foundation that make me think otherwise. I don't see things as clearly as I used to. I have been making irrational decisions and questioning truths that have always been unwavering variables in my life. It's weird. I'm unraveling.
In the past, when something like this would happen to me I would wait it out. I'd wake up in the morning and travel throughout my day and somewhere along the way something would tell me what is right, or what it is I should do. Well I've been the most aware I have been in months, more present in my own life than ever, and yet I can't see it. I can't see the answer. It's like looking through a window in the rain. Even my own reflection is blurry and faceless. I'm unsure of my direction, roaming around in a body that doesn't feel like mine.
I can't even talk about it because I can't even describe it. Interesting, I know; I've never NOT had the words for something. I liken it to someone blindfolding me and then driving me to the middle of nowhere and leaving me there. I remember where it was that I came from and feel that burning sense of longing in my chest to go back, but I just don't know how to get there and I can't find the tools to help me on my way. No one is looking for me, no one even notices I am gone.
I can't get away from it either. It consumes all of my thoughts, all of the time. It's really starting to freak me out.
In the past, when something like this would happen to me I would wait it out. I'd wake up in the morning and travel throughout my day and somewhere along the way something would tell me what is right, or what it is I should do. Well I've been the most aware I have been in months, more present in my own life than ever, and yet I can't see it. I can't see the answer. It's like looking through a window in the rain. Even my own reflection is blurry and faceless. I'm unsure of my direction, roaming around in a body that doesn't feel like mine.
I can't even talk about it because I can't even describe it. Interesting, I know; I've never NOT had the words for something. I liken it to someone blindfolding me and then driving me to the middle of nowhere and leaving me there. I remember where it was that I came from and feel that burning sense of longing in my chest to go back, but I just don't know how to get there and I can't find the tools to help me on my way. No one is looking for me, no one even notices I am gone.
I can't get away from it either. It consumes all of my thoughts, all of the time. It's really starting to freak me out.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Yes
I want somebody who sees the pointlessness
and still keeps their purpose in mind
I want somebody who has a tortured soul
some of the time
I want somebody who will either put up with me
or put me out of misery
or maybe just put it all into words
and make me say, you know
I never heard it put that way
make me say, what did you just say?
I want somebody who can hold my interest
hold it and never let it fall
someone who can flatten me with a kiss
that hits like a fist
or a sentence, that stops me like a brick wall
and if you hear me talking
listen to what I'm not saying
and don't ask me to put words
to all the spaces in between
I want to peel away your layers
and pull the realness through
just lay your true self on the line
and I might lay myself down right next to you
but don't sit behind your eyes
and wait for me to come get you
I want somebody who can make me
scream until it's funny
give me a run for my money
I want someone who can
twist me up in knots
and tell me, show me,
the girl who’s all or nothing
what have you got?
I want someone who's not afraid of me
or anyone else
in other words I want someone
who's not afraid of himself
do you think I'm asking too much?
and still keeps their purpose in mind
I want somebody who has a tortured soul
some of the time
I want somebody who will either put up with me
or put me out of misery
or maybe just put it all into words
and make me say, you know
I never heard it put that way
make me say, what did you just say?
I want somebody who can hold my interest
hold it and never let it fall
someone who can flatten me with a kiss
that hits like a fist
or a sentence, that stops me like a brick wall
and if you hear me talking
listen to what I'm not saying
and don't ask me to put words
to all the spaces in between
I want to peel away your layers
and pull the realness through
just lay your true self on the line
and I might lay myself down right next to you
but don't sit behind your eyes
and wait for me to come get you
I want somebody who can make me
scream until it's funny
give me a run for my money
I want someone who can
twist me up in knots
and tell me, show me,
the girl who’s all or nothing
what have you got?
I want someone who's not afraid of me
or anyone else
in other words I want someone
who's not afraid of himself
do you think I'm asking too much?
Monday, May 05, 2008
Love. Love. Love.
I love coming out of cold movie theatres into warm summer nights. I love the smell of suntan lotion. I love the feeling of cold sheets on my skin. I love the sound of crickets. I love the smell of fresh cut grass. I love swinging on swing sets. I love my afro. I love the crunching sound of my shoes as I walk along a dirt road. I love my bed. I love weeping willows.
I love seeing babies smile. I love tattoos. I love rock and roll. I love trashy magazines. I love hot hot showers. I love the sound of rapidly typing on my keyboard when I have fresh, new ideas to share. I love road trips. I love my Dad. I love walking around my house in my ballet slippers. I love mixed CDs with no rhyme or reason. I love reading. I love driving really really fast. I love violent thunder storms. I love my black hair.
I love party dresses. I love rediscovering how many stars are really in the sky when you’re away from the city lights. I love the smell of lilacs. I love lying on my stomach on a hot sandy beach. I love falling asleep on the couch. I love dark nail polish. I love homemade soprasatta. I love bourbon. I love wild parties at my farm.
I love Christmas trees. I love singing. I love San Diego. I love the fact that I have volumes of journals dating back to 1994 with millions of quotes and passages that have appealed to me through the years. I love tight jeans. I love long, passionate kisses. I love getting caught in misty rain. I love going to concerts. I love the Nebraska Corn-Huskers. I love the Texas Longhorns. I love town's with one traffic light.
I love high heels. I love Potbelly’s skinny chocolate malts. I love Rob Zombie movies. I love creme-brule. I love kicking ass playing Madden 08 on Wii. I love traveling. I love skimming across the water in speed boats. I love the smell of salt water. I love unsophisticated humor. I love the first sip of beer on a Saturday morning during football season. I love finding hole-in-the-wall restaurants with great food. I love catching the subway just in time.
I love the smell of spring. I love dancing. I love Lynyrd Skynyrd. I love that I can still get away with no bra. I love funky t-shirts. I love waking up next to someone I love. I love lacy boyshorts. I love listening to talk radio. I love cooking. I love singing all the lyrics to Elton John's 'Tiny Dancer'. I love the way my Isabella follows me around. I love the smell of clean laundry. I love grilled cheese with cheddar and tomato. I love hot tubs. I love sitting around campfires and eating s’mores. I love bubble baths.
I love heels and a short skirt. I love yellow jellybeans. I LOVE red lipstick. I love fresh strawberries. I love ribbons. I love crossword puzzles. I love when you meet someone new and they just get you. I love laughing hysterically. I love going out for breakfast. I love kissing a boy with whiskey breath. I love the sound of waves crashing on the beach at night. I love Mexican food.
Most of all, I love my family ... my WHOLE family ... all 73 of them.
I love seeing babies smile. I love tattoos. I love rock and roll. I love trashy magazines. I love hot hot showers. I love the sound of rapidly typing on my keyboard when I have fresh, new ideas to share. I love road trips. I love my Dad. I love walking around my house in my ballet slippers. I love mixed CDs with no rhyme or reason. I love reading. I love driving really really fast. I love violent thunder storms. I love my black hair.
I love party dresses. I love rediscovering how many stars are really in the sky when you’re away from the city lights. I love the smell of lilacs. I love lying on my stomach on a hot sandy beach. I love falling asleep on the couch. I love dark nail polish. I love homemade soprasatta. I love bourbon. I love wild parties at my farm.
I love Christmas trees. I love singing. I love San Diego. I love the fact that I have volumes of journals dating back to 1994 with millions of quotes and passages that have appealed to me through the years. I love tight jeans. I love long, passionate kisses. I love getting caught in misty rain. I love going to concerts. I love the Nebraska Corn-Huskers. I love the Texas Longhorns. I love town's with one traffic light.
I love high heels. I love Potbelly’s skinny chocolate malts. I love Rob Zombie movies. I love creme-brule. I love kicking ass playing Madden 08 on Wii. I love traveling. I love skimming across the water in speed boats. I love the smell of salt water. I love unsophisticated humor. I love the first sip of beer on a Saturday morning during football season. I love finding hole-in-the-wall restaurants with great food. I love catching the subway just in time.
I love the smell of spring. I love dancing. I love Lynyrd Skynyrd. I love that I can still get away with no bra. I love funky t-shirts. I love waking up next to someone I love. I love lacy boyshorts. I love listening to talk radio. I love cooking. I love singing all the lyrics to Elton John's 'Tiny Dancer'. I love the way my Isabella follows me around. I love the smell of clean laundry. I love grilled cheese with cheddar and tomato. I love hot tubs. I love sitting around campfires and eating s’mores. I love bubble baths.
I love heels and a short skirt. I love yellow jellybeans. I LOVE red lipstick. I love fresh strawberries. I love ribbons. I love crossword puzzles. I love when you meet someone new and they just get you. I love laughing hysterically. I love going out for breakfast. I love kissing a boy with whiskey breath. I love the sound of waves crashing on the beach at night. I love Mexican food.
Most of all, I love my family ... my WHOLE family ... all 73 of them.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Guys are really mature. Part I
This guy called me last week while I was in the waiting room of my doctor's office. I texted him back saying I couldn't talk because I was at the doctor.
Guy: "Ew. The vag doctor?"
Me: "You're mature."
Guy: "Ask him if he has any information on labia reconstructive surgery. Then say, 'but it's not for me. it's for a friend.'"
Conversations like this make me wonder why I'm not a lesbian...
Guy: "Ew. The vag doctor?"
Me: "You're mature."
Guy: "Ask him if he has any information on labia reconstructive surgery. Then say, 'but it's not for me. it's for a friend.'"
Conversations like this make me wonder why I'm not a lesbian...
Monday, April 14, 2008
If
If I were a color, I’d be somewhere between deep purple and magenta red, puffs of anger enhancing my darkness.
If I were a word, I’d be rivers of profanity, starting with fuck fuck fuck, fuck you you fucking motherfucker.
If I were a fruit, I’d be a bruised peach, from the imprints of you on me and the hardness of your grip beginning to jade my core.
If I were a grammatical mark, I’d be a comma, for all the run-on sentences due your way; question marks are unnecessary when the answers are pointless.
If I were a car, I’d be leaking fuel near the ignition, a flash yet incendiary, just a blaze still simmering under the hood.
If you were a color, you’d be putrid green, muddled and confused, wanting to run free when you’re better off mixed in with vomit.
If you were a word, you’d connote the essence of dumbed down intelligence, a fine “huh?” to you too.
If you were a fruit, you’d be a watermelon, indecisive in your patterns, swollen with water and little else in terms of substance.
If you were a grammatical mark, you’d be an ellipses for all the things you assume without digging deeper to find, deceptiveness the key to your reality.
If you were a car, you’d be the runaway offender, uninsured and unready to play the game of truth.
If I were a word, I’d be rivers of profanity, starting with fuck fuck fuck, fuck you you fucking motherfucker.
If I were a fruit, I’d be a bruised peach, from the imprints of you on me and the hardness of your grip beginning to jade my core.
If I were a grammatical mark, I’d be a comma, for all the run-on sentences due your way; question marks are unnecessary when the answers are pointless.
If I were a car, I’d be leaking fuel near the ignition, a flash yet incendiary, just a blaze still simmering under the hood.
If you were a color, you’d be putrid green, muddled and confused, wanting to run free when you’re better off mixed in with vomit.
If you were a word, you’d connote the essence of dumbed down intelligence, a fine “huh?” to you too.
If you were a fruit, you’d be a watermelon, indecisive in your patterns, swollen with water and little else in terms of substance.
If you were a grammatical mark, you’d be an ellipses for all the things you assume without digging deeper to find, deceptiveness the key to your reality.
If you were a car, you’d be the runaway offender, uninsured and unready to play the game of truth.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
I need a break.
I have a tendency quit books right before the end. Not quitting for good. I see it more as a break. Like I reached a good stopping point with less than a chapter to go. I had ten pages left in Helter Skelter for a year and a half. And those are a pretty significant ten pages. But I'm like, "damn, I've had enough reading for now" even though a reasonable part of me is like,"seriously? you've got ten pages to go?!" And often times I'll find a new book because, hey, I'm almost done. All the while, I'll have every intention of finishing the old one soon. Sometimes it happens, sometimes not.
In psychology they talk about pregoal and postgoal arousal. Basically, it means people are motivated by the prospect of accomplishing a goal and by reaching it. Some people show a stronger tendency towards one or the other. People who go to med school, for example, are excited enough about reaching a goal that they don't seem to mind that it won't actually be accomplished till they are about hundred years old. Postgoalers, on the other hand, might be so pumped that they graduated from high school that they can sail on that (perhaps in their mother's basement) for a good decade or so before they need something new.
I think the assumption is that it's healthy to have a good mix of the two.I'm pretty sure that I'm a pre/post goal kinda person (even if the actual category doesn't technically exist). I love the endings. That's why I think the greatest thing about a book is you can stay in the ending for as long as you want. How cool would that be if you could stay 23 for a few more years? I would gladly sell (or maybe just rent?) no sell, my first-born to stay 23 for few more years .. hit a few more parties .. hook up with a few more guys (gulit free cuz, duh, I'm only 23).
Forget the honeymoon phase, I'm not that into beginnings. I despise the awkwardness of first dates; the beginning of a semester always made me sick; and no matter how tired I am, the prospect of falling asleep is no where near as enjoyable as those last cherished minutes before you have to get up. And I don't care what the concluding line of Hope Floats says, the middle is NOT the best part. It's the darkest part of the tunnel. Who cares how cool the tunnel is? Fuck the tunnel. I think I'm getting to a point where I'm ready to put a book mark in my life and set it down for a bit.
I'll finish it eventually ... but right now? Yeah, not so much.
In psychology they talk about pregoal and postgoal arousal. Basically, it means people are motivated by the prospect of accomplishing a goal and by reaching it. Some people show a stronger tendency towards one or the other. People who go to med school, for example, are excited enough about reaching a goal that they don't seem to mind that it won't actually be accomplished till they are about hundred years old. Postgoalers, on the other hand, might be so pumped that they graduated from high school that they can sail on that (perhaps in their mother's basement) for a good decade or so before they need something new.
I think the assumption is that it's healthy to have a good mix of the two.I'm pretty sure that I'm a pre/post goal kinda person (even if the actual category doesn't technically exist). I love the endings. That's why I think the greatest thing about a book is you can stay in the ending for as long as you want. How cool would that be if you could stay 23 for a few more years? I would gladly sell (or maybe just rent?) no sell, my first-born to stay 23 for few more years .. hit a few more parties .. hook up with a few more guys (gulit free cuz, duh, I'm only 23).
Forget the honeymoon phase, I'm not that into beginnings. I despise the awkwardness of first dates; the beginning of a semester always made me sick; and no matter how tired I am, the prospect of falling asleep is no where near as enjoyable as those last cherished minutes before you have to get up. And I don't care what the concluding line of Hope Floats says, the middle is NOT the best part. It's the darkest part of the tunnel. Who cares how cool the tunnel is? Fuck the tunnel. I think I'm getting to a point where I'm ready to put a book mark in my life and set it down for a bit.
I'll finish it eventually ... but right now? Yeah, not so much.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
The Tide is High
I know I am a leaky vessel, but do I need to be reminded of it every day?
This morning I stumble out of bed in my rumpled Metal Mulisha t-shirt, the hands of sleep still covering my eyes. The floor is cold and my feet are bare. My arms hang loosely at my sides, not yet ready to function and as I make my way to the bathroom, I hit my funnybone on the door frame. My humanity reveals itself today in the form of pain. I curse and rub my elbow furiously and I know what kind of day today will be.
Today will take its time, each frame flickering forward slowly, like a movie set in slow motion. Sometimes a giant imaginary finger will push pause at specific moments that serve to remind me of myself. The smile of a passing stranger in a red coat. The minute before I finish the last page of the book I’ve been reading for weeks. A laughing voice on the other end of the phone. A package from the mailman. A sore elbow.
And these things make me leak. They are the tiny eyelet holes that expose what’s inside me. I cannot hide my happiness or helplessness or fear or remorse or joy. They pierce through the holes of these things like sunlight through lace.
Few know that I'm thirty and am still scared of rapists. When I get home late at night I sprint up the stairs and when I swing the heavy door open I am breathless and safe. I am human because I am afraid. This too, I cannot hide.
Sometimes when I am lying in bed and those minutes hit me when I am just on the verge of sleep, I recall those moments, those pauses in my day when I am completely exposed.
Then I toss and turn and wonder ... how can this ship ever sail with so many holes in it?
This morning I stumble out of bed in my rumpled Metal Mulisha t-shirt, the hands of sleep still covering my eyes. The floor is cold and my feet are bare. My arms hang loosely at my sides, not yet ready to function and as I make my way to the bathroom, I hit my funnybone on the door frame. My humanity reveals itself today in the form of pain. I curse and rub my elbow furiously and I know what kind of day today will be.
Today will take its time, each frame flickering forward slowly, like a movie set in slow motion. Sometimes a giant imaginary finger will push pause at specific moments that serve to remind me of myself. The smile of a passing stranger in a red coat. The minute before I finish the last page of the book I’ve been reading for weeks. A laughing voice on the other end of the phone. A package from the mailman. A sore elbow.
And these things make me leak. They are the tiny eyelet holes that expose what’s inside me. I cannot hide my happiness or helplessness or fear or remorse or joy. They pierce through the holes of these things like sunlight through lace.
Few know that I'm thirty and am still scared of rapists. When I get home late at night I sprint up the stairs and when I swing the heavy door open I am breathless and safe. I am human because I am afraid. This too, I cannot hide.
Sometimes when I am lying in bed and those minutes hit me when I am just on the verge of sleep, I recall those moments, those pauses in my day when I am completely exposed.
Then I toss and turn and wonder ... how can this ship ever sail with so many holes in it?
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Right up my alley
Place: Townie bar.
Song: Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers
Scene: Old guy attempts to dance with me, when I refuse, picks up chair and begins to waltz.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
a tribute to the delictable pink pills which currently reside in my purse
Dear Pink Pills,
It's been a long time hasn't it? Almost a whole year since we last crossed paths. I take partial responsibility for this, dearest Pink Pills, because I felt I didn't need you (and in truth I really didn't) and also because I don't live 15 minutes from Tijuana anymore and couldn't get my hands on you without a prescription. As much as I love you, my pride forbade me from providing sexual favors for doctors specifically to procure myself (unnecessary) medication.
But this week I found myself needing you, desiring you, begging to have you back in my life (literally, I actually begged someone. Like, down on my knees,begged them). And you came through for me, Pink Pills. You made my life better - a place of happiness and light in those hours I couldn't rely on my main man, Jack Daniels, to take the pain away. (Fabulous as he is, he isn't always appropriate company. Remember the mess he made the last time I enjoyed his company on the train? Not. Good.)
You've helped me through some tough times before, Pink Pills. Like the time we first met after I had been so roughly assaulted by a baseball bat (though others may not agree, I maintain that merely taking part in the game of baseball counts as a form of assault), or our encounter when you so kindly helped me recover from a ballet (pulled groin) related injury. But the time that I knew you were really for me, Pink Pills, when I knew that you were more than just a fairweather friend was when you helped me through the pain when I fractured my wrist trying to save my bottle of Patron. I thought I was going to die from the pain and you saved me. You even made my week one day shorter by allowing me to slip into a mild coma for 36 hours.
And now, although I'm not asking you to help me climb mountains, you have gotten me through the last eight hours. So I thank you for that, please don't think badly of me this evening when I abandon you again and run to the loving arms of Mr. Daniels. You know I love you - he's just more fun in social situations.
Thanks again, Pink Pills; for some you may just be an aid to combat pain, but for me you are 400 milligrams of candy coated happiness.
Eternally yours,
Rebecca
It's been a long time hasn't it? Almost a whole year since we last crossed paths. I take partial responsibility for this, dearest Pink Pills, because I felt I didn't need you (and in truth I really didn't) and also because I don't live 15 minutes from Tijuana anymore and couldn't get my hands on you without a prescription. As much as I love you, my pride forbade me from providing sexual favors for doctors specifically to procure myself (unnecessary) medication.
But this week I found myself needing you, desiring you, begging to have you back in my life (literally, I actually begged someone. Like, down on my knees,begged them). And you came through for me, Pink Pills. You made my life better - a place of happiness and light in those hours I couldn't rely on my main man, Jack Daniels, to take the pain away. (Fabulous as he is, he isn't always appropriate company. Remember the mess he made the last time I enjoyed his company on the train? Not. Good.)
You've helped me through some tough times before, Pink Pills. Like the time we first met after I had been so roughly assaulted by a baseball bat (though others may not agree, I maintain that merely taking part in the game of baseball counts as a form of assault), or our encounter when you so kindly helped me recover from a ballet (pulled groin) related injury. But the time that I knew you were really for me, Pink Pills, when I knew that you were more than just a fairweather friend was when you helped me through the pain when I fractured my wrist trying to save my bottle of Patron. I thought I was going to die from the pain and you saved me. You even made my week one day shorter by allowing me to slip into a mild coma for 36 hours.
And now, although I'm not asking you to help me climb mountains, you have gotten me through the last eight hours. So I thank you for that, please don't think badly of me this evening when I abandon you again and run to the loving arms of Mr. Daniels. You know I love you - he's just more fun in social situations.
Thanks again, Pink Pills; for some you may just be an aid to combat pain, but for me you are 400 milligrams of candy coated happiness.
Eternally yours,
Rebecca
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