Argument and pretty people

I reject the idea that two plus two equals four, there, I said it. I also reject the concept of dying flowers and the change of the seasons. A few people have rejected the concept of me, or just me entirely. It is never a surprise when it happens, but that never really cushions the blow, it hurts and it bruises. Incredibly beautiful people can walk away from quality because they have the aesthetic right to do so; when those of us with a few qualities, lacking the complete package (as judged by the media) happen to reject another, the idea can be downright baffling. Then again, even those of us with the wrong idea of self-worth (”it’s okay to beat yourself up a little…”) can see where the criticism is coming from and take it in stride. Who is anybody to rate anybody? I wonder how many people have been told how beautiful they were, believe it with all of their worth and made a system of how many others were allowed in their handsome universe? If you look good and know it, how is it that personality gets in the way and intelligence becomes a prerequisite? Then you find out how hard it is to find it all then give up rather than lowering the standards set by the artificial desires of other gorgeous people. How awkward would it be if one of these “normies” walked past you, actually believed they were as beautiful as you and waved goodbye? How is it that some of us are okay with what we’ve been given, imperfections, vices, and lack of time? He looks good because pretty girls tell him so, it allows him to become the bouncer of an exclusive club… finding out neither the music nor the ambiance were worth the hassle. Worth… as a pretty girl I can tell you that assholes aren’t worth much, maybe a few bucks for the cover charge. I have nothing else to say…

I refuse to be bitter… and other lies we tell ourselves

People tell me it’s a sin,
To know and feel too much within. -Bob Dylan’s “Simple Twist of Fate”

Grow up! Enough of this mess and the excuses you have been making, for people parasitic and cruel. Enough of being afraid, worried about things you have no control over. As individuals, free even when honored, there’s that possibility of walking away; heavy bags and pictures to sort out… in a smaller place, a happier place.  I have been diagnosed with Adult Attention Deficit Disorder (I found it funny and told it as a joke, but as I’ve had a few months to think about it now I understand the seriousness of such diagnosis… no, I’m not ready to talk about it) and it is just cruel to confess and ask me for advice. Most days it consists of “be careful” and “think about what you’re losing” while I have yet to take my own advice, in ANY situation where such comforting and reclaimed words are appropriate. Regardless, why is it so difficult to fall in everlasting love these days? Are we so concerned about our own interests that we have simply refused to compromise?

Classy chicks, I see them everywhere now. Do you know the type? Hair in place, perfectly-heeled shoes, poised and ready to be interviewed. If at twenty-three I wanted to believe they had horrible lies at home, as I ignored how they gushed about their husbands and there I was, making the creep’s macchiatto… I digress; now I understand how worried I was about never becoming them. Well, I will never be them and i cannot be any less apologetic about that. I own too many jeans, I make them “classy” with a pair of boots and lip gloss; my hair resembles more of Chrissy Hynde’s (*bows*) than your local news reporter. It has taken me ten years to be “okay” with my look, maybe a few pounds less, maybe more stylish clothes, but still me. In five years, who knows? As of right now, I am slowly trying to faze out the jeans by introducing more slacks, a few skirts. But I know what those gals think of me as I stand next to them and every once in a while I do care, that sucks.

“Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk- real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.” -Jack Kerouac

If we see each other

… once every two years and we fall in love for eighty-seven minutes each time, how is that remotely close to satisfaction? Carnal? Sure. Needs are demanding and irrepressible, and yes, that was a 1980’s excuse I just used… enjoy.  The sad part is, Max doesn’t hold a candle to this one and as the years go by and the man I used to know has become an independent and indeed handsome man that speaks his mind and now enjoys the better things in life as he is comfortable with working hard for his bread. To him, I am still the same hippie flake, maybe a better mother than he thought I’d be with the children we were supposed to have together… a matter of life and it’s twists and turns. If I had been a more supportive partner to him back then, I may not have to worry about my days after those eighty-seven minutes of blissful conversation, admiring the new things he has accomplished and the nagging thought of “how come he wouldn’t do this when we were together?” Then it happens, the awkward silence and the use of that vocabulary he has learned as his interactions with people expanded from that little room we used to stay in at his mother’s house, exploring each other with meticulous care. Every encounter starts like such, warm greeting and friendly banter, wandering aimlessly around a public place while discussing a thousand topics under fifteen minutes. The jump from there to the possibility of a try is swift and it never occurs to me that it will be over in no time, I never learn from the time before. If this does not border on desperation, then I do not know what’s wrong or right and that’s a scary thought. Maybe if my flaw is searching for love quietly and with a hopeful gleam in my eye, the possibility of happening in my life time is as real as the moments I enjoy, with people that enjoy me.

Blue Sky

You tried to make good
Hiding out in the neighbourhood
Getting by and it’s understood
There’s no time
Like the time before the flood
You get high to feel your love
It’s alright so you need the crutch
Step aside wonder what’s up
You close your eyes
You see you’ve missed so much
Bring on the blue sky
You can fly in your dreams
Floating by the black and white scenery
Take a drive where lovers leap
Only to arrive dead on your feet
The paint is peeling off
The hood of this old truck
As you drive into the West
Where the eye of God is sinking fast -Jason Collett, “Motor Motel Love Songs”

This is how

We can keep things private and only fuck-up in silence… or make lawn signs announcing your mistakes. I am sick of doing the things I’m not supposed to then refusing to learn from them. These are the dark ages, intellectual famine and debilitating self-doubt, lack of financial stability and love’s destructive forces on stand-by. You just wait, Allen says there’s going to be trouble. What do we do with the worst part of our psyche? It’s because when we wish for glory, we get alienation; when we ask for understanding, if we get only confusion then how lucky! My fear is that the funk’s more than in my head, it’s a real notion and it’s happening to almost everyone I know, and I hope that no one gets this stupefied. I can’t even give my signature, if we become famous for nothing tomorrow, how am I going to sign any autographs? Holding a pillow between your legs, falling out of love and deserting your home, creating a new account and becoming someone else entirely; find yourself staring at a mirror and apologizing for nothing, you’re forty now. Then you go into the garage, before getting into the car and moving on, you’re twenty again and nothing can hold you back, when will you be yourself again? A woman of thirty-one, confused and holding on to her youth almost desperate; sad, really. It’s the boys you met and the girls you once kissed, all of them made lives out of what they saw while you sat back and religiously tried to fictionalize actual experiences, refused to learn anything from them. That’s what thirty can be, retrospect in very small doses, none of us are remotely ready then to complete the mission. Then again, thirty can also be the open road. Hitchhike without fear, damned the modern times to find courage in exploration, we must learn from somewhere, right? Giving risk a break, instinctively we find ourselves back in square one, it’s just how you choose to leave on two.

“I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is” -Vladimir Nabokov

Beast of burden… for your pleasure.

Rikki Don’t Lose That Number

We hear you’re leaving, thats ok
I thought our little wild time had just begun
I guess you kind of scared yourself, you turn and run
But if you have a change of heart
Chorus:
Rikki don’t lose that number
You don’t wanna call nobody else
Send it off in a letter to yourself
Rikki don’t lose that number
Its the only one you own
You might use it if you feel better
When you get home

I have a friend in town, hes heard your name
We can go out driving on slow hand row
We could stay inside and play games, I don’t know
And you could have a change of heart

Chorus

You tell yourself you’re not my kind
But you don’t even know your mind
And you could have a change of heart -Steely Dan, “Pretzel Logic”

It’s the idea that most of us would appreciate having someone around you can always count on. I mean, it is the essence of most friendships and the nerve of a few relationships to expect less. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s that one person that will wait for you, the one person that will love you like no other and commit their talent and emotion to someone as undeserving as you. We have seen people wait for years, married people and uninvited guests, the catalyst for all that is passionate and wrong. If we can’t even stay together long enough, then how is it possible that we are able to find that person?

Oh yeah, like there are dishes and they pile, then they smell, then you have no choice but to move out of the house and pay, like a shitload of money for the damages… just sucks, okay? When Kyle speaks, sometimes from the most ridiculous side of his brain, girls, girls -gay girls, clean girls, slightly polished and engraved girls, girls with power and girls with sandals and socks-, they listen and they love the sound of his voice. Get to know him then you’ll know, this man will be a child for while. But this is my excuse for creating him, he exists in the gut of every man stifled by even their own burdens and fear, let’s not forget fear. Kyle was superman, fearful of nothing but doubt… maybe its’ subsequent regret. But cool girls didn’t give a shit, he’s so young there is always time to make up, for that hit of acid or splash of paint. He’s my fear of rejection, aesthetics and phantom frolic. It is too late for me to do a lot of things, but I will never regret creating him. Kyle makes risk look sexy, innovation for the intoxicated and foolish. We could imagine a man of thirty after the deluge of responsibility… but I prefer it like this, payments of less than a grand a month and smiles as wide as the tolerance for alcohol. The secret is, I don’t know Kyle; don’t care to ever meet him nor fall in love with him. He must stay… lost. Maybe I’ll have him let go of Alice, she is, after all, too real to mention.

“You f’ing bitch, let’s work it out!”

People, people everywhere. Your family, your friends, your neighbors and co-workers. I write because of people, those that are here, influencing my everyday and those I wish I had met (or have, but because we are who we are, we refuse to fight for their stay). The book’s about people, they interact and have meals, some will see each other every morning and sleep with others because they need to. We need that piece of chocolate or that stolen moment with those that belong to the night, take afternoons as burdens. Kerouac wrote because “we’re all gonna die” and I wish he had understood how important that statement is for those like me, pretending to write to get published and accomplishing very little while pursuing the laundry or checking the mail. I’m tired of equating everyday life with the ordinary, we NEED to do a few things in order for the fun to soak, without the roof or the money, how will I ever get the time to write? The manuscript is done, it’s been done for three weeks now, I just don’t know if it’s me or something I would ever want attached to me. These characters… these people exist because “I believe in what I saw,” not because this creative mind hails them from scratch and bone. Six years ago I met this incredible man that introduced me to William Blake, that imagery, the magnificent collaboration of the senses; it was ridiculous of me to believe that I could do that by putting a few plots and personalities together based on real, walking, breathing humans. And no, it does not matter that they are actually written how I saw them, what I imagined their souls to be like. My concern is this new idea I have, of manipulating a character’s every move and thought through a torture device called a script. Maybe even getting my feet wet with a small play based on charcters from the almost-defunct manuscript, a few short stories of value and some forethought. Just an idea, while I pay some bills and go to bed too early… I think of my mother and what she wrote to me, quite recently in fact, “The day you stop rebelling against yourself, then I will know you are no longer you.” Intervention, anyone? Get a few of the faces I see and kiss everyday to write down how my walking away from the struggle has affected them, maybe a few pictures of Kerouac and Jack Johnson propped on easels as my friend Mel -tears streaming down her face- recalls the day I helped her daughter with her Edgar Allan Poe assignment without opening a single book. Just awful! Nah, it’s all about how I live my life and how I want it to go, the goal is to write and write, fingering these keys like I used to pick at the guitar and take the kid to school, watch her grow and work hard at whatever makes things easier for us. And I’d like to do this as “people” whisper how crazy it is for me to believe this’ll work. And I am… crazy enough to believe in the things we want, for our life and the lives of the people we love.

Killing the messenger

The many definitions of a shadow. Number twelve states: a period or instance of gloom, unhappiness, mistrust, doubt, dissension, or the like, as in friendship or one’s life: Their relationship was not without shadows.

My idea was to live my life as everyday is always one day closer to death, so breathe every breath and count your blessings, one by one. I didn’t mean to let people down, but at my age that number has grown and I ache for others. I wonder if my mistakes have all been worth it or just the ones that involve passion and risk. We wish for greener grass and by the time we’re done we have fluorescent yards and empty rooms. It’s like a combination of citric acid and forgery, now there’s a brand new craze, finding energy in made-up places in your body. I was in love once, and once again and “I’ve never felt this way” every single time and for the life of me I cannot get the concept; it HAS to be all new, otherwise it wouldn’t make an impact and it wouldn’t fucking hurt. None of us have time for games, with twenty-four hours in a day, much of what becomes routine are the things you once had to fight for. There’s love to be had, at my age and in your forties, it’s just the saturation of time and responsibility that puts time-stamps on everything of value. What I would say to you is that I once believed in us, the team with the prerequisite of family already in the box… I dropped the ball, just been swamped in paperwork! Hello? It’s me, how do  get over it and write you a line? And still, who are you voting for?

Wiki -this!

We have forgotten that love is irrational. It doesn’t care of timing or distance and sometime soon it will catch you letting go of something that never was. Perpetually passionate about everything of little importance, at this age the responsibilities you have tried to avoid get brave enough to knock at your front door. If I could be twenty-two for twenty-four hours, I would do nothing, just enjoy the ride. Why change this course? It’s been bumpy and serious but for fuck’s sake, haven’t I learned a few things? It isn’t that I don’t want to talk to you, I miss you, it’s just that it makes me sad… and how much happier are you without my shadow?

I’ll take you to the store, he says and so it begins where we ride sinister. Innocently chatting of those things that come easy between two sinners, Katie floats down a cloud somewhere as they retie that knot. It was easy enough to forget that two random people as themselves could find such rare loneliness in common, never left alone but so quiet and damp down in the basement. Freedom to be us is being welcomed to dirty deeds.

Serendipity is the effect by which one accidentally discovers something fortunate, especially while looking for something else entirely.

New characters emerge

 …from the shadows of those I had to let go…

The concept of compatibility is more of a variable than hard fact; in every situation upon which two people connect through some abstract reasoning, compatibility is the scapegoat. Attraction, also a matter of compatibility, for every fish needs a hook. Kyle had this simple idea of love and companionship that poured through his mother’s heartbreak. Now a young adult, the idea of being taken care of comes in a pretty little jar labeled Katie. After a few months that dragged as years and behaved as such, with seasons and mistakes, cheating and promises, he settled in for the long haul and kissed her eyelids every night. Falling in love is this, quiet, I guess. Some of us crave the wind, whipping, a little angry; some of us wait for the opportunity of parks and hidden treasures. Kyle found the storm and it just waited there for his call. Whatever we need to tie down, do so before the ache gets fierce…

At the edge of a cliff….

maybe a few steps down, exaggerated notion of life-changing encounters being these outrageous leaps of faith when there has always been a sturdy ladder nearby. And I mean sturdy, sometimes even some concrete steps with a railing and comfy shoes. But whatever, this whole thing of having lost something so big ’cause you were afraid of this leap is as valid as the courage very few of us find to do the very thing that turned out the pick of destiny for them. Understand? If it happens to be that if you know what I’m talking about then it was recent because the flow of life grabs that pang in your stomach to make room for something else; after all, no love is ever gone “for good.” I would like to thank you for giving me hope, for allowing me to talk too much, right over you and about unnecessary things that just NEEDED to be said.

As much as I have gained in the last few months, those few things I’ve lost have saddened me and in the business that I am now, “sad faces” are an absolute no-no. Having to believe that things would work themselves out has been a challenge, but let me tell you that it took a lot of strength, the emotionally draining one, to get to a certain level of confidence that would allow me to battle through. It is seven-sixteen am and my body has an alarm clock that reads “up before six… ALWAYS!” No coffee -Have I lost my mind?!- instead I checked on the kid and sat here, in front of this old friend with a thin layer of dust over a few of the keys. (For those of you that have been anywhere near a small child for longer than four hours understands the great invention that is the diaper wipe!). So this is it, for now. As I had promised, once I settled into a routine I will start writing more and hopefully this is the beginning of my lesson in self-discipline, not just being organized but multi-tasking and still keeping the desk clean. I miss… too much, yet only two or three people… see how that works?

“Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple.” -Dr. Seuss