Pitt-er Patt-er on the window sill.
As the rain droplets fall and turn to ice in the frigid air,
You pluck at your guitar strings with wild care.
The frenzy of notes you play make me dance with hungry rhythm in my hips,
And I can't remember the last time I tasted hot sugar on my lips.
If only your fingers could play me like that guitar,
Maybe I could run from this place, run so very far.
Maybe I could be your musical weapon or magical muse
I could be your tiger, your fire. Please light my fuse.
I want you to inspire me, make my dead heart beat
As if blood still pumped through this bag of meat.
Bend me, fold me, as long as I can create
Beauty from life before it is much too late.
Touch me, let me wonder as I wander through
This deep forest comprised of only you
Your hot breath, smooth skin, radiance and desire.
Let me be your muse, let me be your fire.
And maybe there'll be hope for me still.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Winter
The tree is bright with globes of silver, red, and white, and the snow reaches above the shin. The dog is sighing in hopes he might beg cutely enough for another treat, and the family sits in the kitchen, nibbling on cookies and resting after eating the giant Christmas meal of soup, salad, potatoes, roast pork, and roast lamb.
At least, that's what we do here.
I sit alone in an attempt to digest the past year and see if I accomplished anything to mention. I really haven't. This year has been a failure of sorts, of course with its small achievements and smiles.
I flew home to Ohio on Wednesday night, sick with a fever, a cough, and chills. In doing so, I realized that I'm slowly destroying myself. Currently working two jobs, I come home and feel the tingling luxuries of suburbia, where a college grad can rest and take her time finding a good job while she saves money to one day move out and buy a home. We know that I did not follow the Jesus of Suburbia slow guide to success in hopes of living in the same city as my family and the many people I remember from high school. I looked for lights, like a moth to a flame, with big ideas and unfathomable dreams beating like drums against the walls of my head.
But are my fears correct? Is there no rest for me? Am I doomed to live a life of the ordinary? Am I to work my fingers to the bone simply to pay the rent and the bills that keep me from sleeping in my car? Because the Lord knows coming home for more than a week at a time is not an option; I know my sluggish corpse of a body would grow easily accustomed to the swell of the leather couch and the love of the dog's kisses and the brilliant sound of the family's voices...
And my mind would waste away, more so than it already has. I'm tired, and therefore have no drive. Virginia Wolfe's theories of work and writing ring all too true in my mind. I stress more than anyone I know, except for my father, because I worry about the future. I'm a hesitant artist too concerned with where my next paycheck will come from and what it will cover.
I prayed in Church last night, really prayed after I received the thin wafer meant to represent or actually be the Body of Christ, depending on who you listen to. I normally recite a Hail Mary and an Our Father after this centuries old transaction, but this Christmas Eve felt different. I'm in dire need of a miracle. I don't mean a miracle in which God or an Angel hand me something to better my situation, simply a miracle of the heart or mind. I desperately need to start thinking differently. I want to be creative again, I want to have a job that I look forward to in the morning. I know we all struggle through hard times, and I know none of us are handed more than we can deal with, but this Christmas I just want to know what it is that I am meant to do.
I am frightened of my future. My brother tells me I don't really have one. Am I to be married to a poor actor? Am I to continue to work two jobs? Am I ever going to write something of meaning again?
I realize this blog entry, of several, has a self-pitying theme which I surely apologize for. But it is my blog. And at least I am writing.
At least, that's what we do here.
I sit alone in an attempt to digest the past year and see if I accomplished anything to mention. I really haven't. This year has been a failure of sorts, of course with its small achievements and smiles.
I flew home to Ohio on Wednesday night, sick with a fever, a cough, and chills. In doing so, I realized that I'm slowly destroying myself. Currently working two jobs, I come home and feel the tingling luxuries of suburbia, where a college grad can rest and take her time finding a good job while she saves money to one day move out and buy a home. We know that I did not follow the Jesus of Suburbia slow guide to success in hopes of living in the same city as my family and the many people I remember from high school. I looked for lights, like a moth to a flame, with big ideas and unfathomable dreams beating like drums against the walls of my head.
But are my fears correct? Is there no rest for me? Am I doomed to live a life of the ordinary? Am I to work my fingers to the bone simply to pay the rent and the bills that keep me from sleeping in my car? Because the Lord knows coming home for more than a week at a time is not an option; I know my sluggish corpse of a body would grow easily accustomed to the swell of the leather couch and the love of the dog's kisses and the brilliant sound of the family's voices...
And my mind would waste away, more so than it already has. I'm tired, and therefore have no drive. Virginia Wolfe's theories of work and writing ring all too true in my mind. I stress more than anyone I know, except for my father, because I worry about the future. I'm a hesitant artist too concerned with where my next paycheck will come from and what it will cover.
I prayed in Church last night, really prayed after I received the thin wafer meant to represent or actually be the Body of Christ, depending on who you listen to. I normally recite a Hail Mary and an Our Father after this centuries old transaction, but this Christmas Eve felt different. I'm in dire need of a miracle. I don't mean a miracle in which God or an Angel hand me something to better my situation, simply a miracle of the heart or mind. I desperately need to start thinking differently. I want to be creative again, I want to have a job that I look forward to in the morning. I know we all struggle through hard times, and I know none of us are handed more than we can deal with, but this Christmas I just want to know what it is that I am meant to do.
I am frightened of my future. My brother tells me I don't really have one. Am I to be married to a poor actor? Am I to continue to work two jobs? Am I ever going to write something of meaning again?
I realize this blog entry, of several, has a self-pitying theme which I surely apologize for. But it is my blog. And at least I am writing.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Autumn.
Today I sipped coffee and orange juice while watching orange and yellow leaves fall from the sky. I'm in the woods, sitting in the kitchen of a beautiful home whose interior was decorated when the 70's style was at its peak. I'm on the border of New York and Connecticut, and the area doesn't feel very different from the Ohio woods I am familiar with.
This street smells of money, and the lake nearby is beautifully kept in place by a man-made dam with a medieval architectural style.
I like it here, away from the city. It's quiet. Peaceful. This is a place where a writer should write if they have an inkling.
There are projects coming my way. And I'm both excited and extremely nervous. These projects, with deadlines, will force me to do what I love. At least, I hope it does.
I hope to come back to this neighborhood to shoot a part of my pilot. I think it would be lovely, to say the least.
This street smells of money, and the lake nearby is beautifully kept in place by a man-made dam with a medieval architectural style.
I like it here, away from the city. It's quiet. Peaceful. This is a place where a writer should write if they have an inkling.
There are projects coming my way. And I'm both excited and extremely nervous. These projects, with deadlines, will force me to do what I love. At least, I hope it does.
I hope to come back to this neighborhood to shoot a part of my pilot. I think it would be lovely, to say the least.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Sayin' Something
All right.
I've remained mum about this recession. I can't anymore. I'm angry. I have two degrees. I excelled in both high school and college. I like to think I'm talented and creative. My managers and former bosses adored me, save one because she was an off the boat Italian with no prior restaurant experience. Yet, I spent my lunch hour at my current production job applying to server positions in NYC. Oh, and did I mention that my current job is outsourcing? First to Florida and then to India. Yeah.
I'm taking two steps back, and I hate it. I'm better than this. And I know I can make money doing a "survival job," as my boyfriend calls them. I just don't want to. I didn't work so hard in school so I could do that.
I have talented friends/associates who graduated with and after me who have network jobs, and I'm happy for them. I just want to know why my resume, my skills,and my name were overlooked.
Damn it all. I swear.
I've remained mum about this recession. I can't anymore. I'm angry. I have two degrees. I excelled in both high school and college. I like to think I'm talented and creative. My managers and former bosses adored me, save one because she was an off the boat Italian with no prior restaurant experience. Yet, I spent my lunch hour at my current production job applying to server positions in NYC. Oh, and did I mention that my current job is outsourcing? First to Florida and then to India. Yeah.
I'm taking two steps back, and I hate it. I'm better than this. And I know I can make money doing a "survival job," as my boyfriend calls them. I just don't want to. I didn't work so hard in school so I could do that.
I have talented friends/associates who graduated with and after me who have network jobs, and I'm happy for them. I just want to know why my resume, my skills,and my name were overlooked.
Damn it all. I swear.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Lonely
It’s in the still silence of the evening. Though you turn on the portable AC to not only cool the bedroom and drown out the silence, you still feel it there.
It’s loneliness.
She hides within the old bricks of your building, between the keys of your blackberry, behind the unused radiator, and sometimes in the very vulnerable crevices of your mind.
You detect it in your voice when you speak to your mother or when you whisper to your lover. And you wonder if your voice is playing tricks on you, if your whole body is playing some sort of unfunny joke that really has no punch line.
Just a punch.
To the gut.
You want to tear it out so you can feel something that isn’t loneliness. Maybe when the warm liquid covers your shaking hands and the body heat escapes your abdomen, maybe then you’ll feel something closer to life.
After all, the fading of life is still a work of life.
Right?
Or would that simply induce more loneliness?
It’s loneliness.
She hides within the old bricks of your building, between the keys of your blackberry, behind the unused radiator, and sometimes in the very vulnerable crevices of your mind.
You detect it in your voice when you speak to your mother or when you whisper to your lover. And you wonder if your voice is playing tricks on you, if your whole body is playing some sort of unfunny joke that really has no punch line.
Just a punch.
To the gut.
You want to tear it out so you can feel something that isn’t loneliness. Maybe when the warm liquid covers your shaking hands and the body heat escapes your abdomen, maybe then you’ll feel something closer to life.
After all, the fading of life is still a work of life.
Right?
Or would that simply induce more loneliness?
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Into Nothingness
From my second floor apartment in this quiet neighborhood of Brooklyn, I can hear the tenant below practicing piano. He or she plays I think almost everyday, and I find the notes mellow and soothing. Now, I'm not sure if he/she is a teenager, a composer, an engineer, or a housewife. I have no clue. I just hear the person playing, day after day, most evenings, and in the afternoon hours of the weekend.
There is also a woman who sings in my apartment building. I hear her alto voice in the evenings sometimes; she's practicing opera. She could be an actress or a soon-to-be actress.
And here I am. It's Sunday, and my boyfriend has come and gone; he works all day on weekends so we don't have the ability to walk through the park or go to the beach on my day off like other couples can. It's okay because I don't really like to be seen in my bathing suit anyway, but it'd be nice to have the option.
I should be writing. I should be finishing my fanfiction. I should be writing my sitcom and carrying it around to shove it into the faces of NBC or HBO or CBS or ABC execs, pleading, "Give me a job where what I do is meaningful." But I'm not. Instead, I'm doing laundry and scrubbing the tub on the Lord's day of rest. My mother doesn't give me grief for this. She, after all, is a neat freak and would straighten up the house on the Holiest of holidays. Of course, I know this really doesn't matter to either of us; it's simply an old Croatian/Catholic tradition and we felt we should continue.
But I'm getting off track.
Unlike the piano player and the opera singer, I am not honing my skills and trying to make progress. Instead, I'm being voyeuristic (using my ears as Jimmy Stewart used his lens in Hitchcock's Rear Window) and trying to imagine why they do what they do. Why do they love their craft so much more than I do these days? Why am I not craving to write anymore? Have I become that mundane? Do I no longer wear the label of writer or artist? Have I lost my creativity?
I've tried. I have. I stopped taking pills that would alter my mood and make me complacent; I know that I write my best when I'm racked with sobs or depressed beyond belief. Well, Widow Sadness and her estranged lover Master Anger returned but didn't bring Lady Creativity. I feel as if I had opened Pandora's Box but Hope wasn't inside with all the rest of the world's torments.
Of course, this leads to doubt. I doubt my skills. I doubt my purpose. I doubt my career choice. Why haven't I been writing? Why haven't I finished my Harley Quinn tale? I love that character, yet I let her hang in limbo without resolution.
I don't know how to fix this void. How does one FORCE herself to be creative?
There is also a woman who sings in my apartment building. I hear her alto voice in the evenings sometimes; she's practicing opera. She could be an actress or a soon-to-be actress.
And here I am. It's Sunday, and my boyfriend has come and gone; he works all day on weekends so we don't have the ability to walk through the park or go to the beach on my day off like other couples can. It's okay because I don't really like to be seen in my bathing suit anyway, but it'd be nice to have the option.
I should be writing. I should be finishing my fanfiction. I should be writing my sitcom and carrying it around to shove it into the faces of NBC or HBO or CBS or ABC execs, pleading, "Give me a job where what I do is meaningful." But I'm not. Instead, I'm doing laundry and scrubbing the tub on the Lord's day of rest. My mother doesn't give me grief for this. She, after all, is a neat freak and would straighten up the house on the Holiest of holidays. Of course, I know this really doesn't matter to either of us; it's simply an old Croatian/Catholic tradition and we felt we should continue.
But I'm getting off track.
Unlike the piano player and the opera singer, I am not honing my skills and trying to make progress. Instead, I'm being voyeuristic (using my ears as Jimmy Stewart used his lens in Hitchcock's Rear Window) and trying to imagine why they do what they do. Why do they love their craft so much more than I do these days? Why am I not craving to write anymore? Have I become that mundane? Do I no longer wear the label of writer or artist? Have I lost my creativity?
I've tried. I have. I stopped taking pills that would alter my mood and make me complacent; I know that I write my best when I'm racked with sobs or depressed beyond belief. Well, Widow Sadness and her estranged lover Master Anger returned but didn't bring Lady Creativity. I feel as if I had opened Pandora's Box but Hope wasn't inside with all the rest of the world's torments.
Of course, this leads to doubt. I doubt my skills. I doubt my purpose. I doubt my career choice. Why haven't I been writing? Why haven't I finished my Harley Quinn tale? I love that character, yet I let her hang in limbo without resolution.
I don't know how to fix this void. How does one FORCE herself to be creative?
Friday, August 27, 2010
Time
I think Virginia Wolfe had said it best in
If one does not have time to write, despite the fact that she has talent, nothing will come of her skills. I need money, so therefore I work. I'm tired at the end of the day and have no drive to write.
Where has this motivation gone? I miss it. I wish I were as driven as I once was. Back in college, there wasn't a day that went by that I didn't write SOMETHING.
I don't know what this means for my dream career. I fear I'm doomed to be mundane and unknown. I'm afraid my fate is to be a dreamer who regrets not following dreams.
A Room With a View.
If one does not have time to write, despite the fact that she has talent, nothing will come of her skills. I need money, so therefore I work. I'm tired at the end of the day and have no drive to write.
Where has this motivation gone? I miss it. I wish I were as driven as I once was. Back in college, there wasn't a day that went by that I didn't write SOMETHING.
I don't know what this means for my dream career. I fear I'm doomed to be mundane and unknown. I'm afraid my fate is to be a dreamer who regrets not following dreams.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
All of the Things I Was on the Inside
I'm one of few people who actually can feel the full spectrum of emotion. Now, you may believe that you have felt the full spectrum as well, but I don't mean to be rude or self-indulgent when I admit that I highly doubt it. See, my argument depends on your grasp of reality when you experience one of these. How bleak does the sky get when you've lost all hope? Do the children down your block appear to be dancing as they walk home from school when you're overjoyed?
This happens to me.
When I'm sad, I am at the lowest low. I rarely remember feeling happy, even if joy had only escaped my body a minute prior to when her counterpart, sadness, slid in.
But when I am happy, I feel I radiate. Don't confuse this with sparkling; my life is no damn Twilight novel. I glow, much like the sun shines. My green eyes look brighter to me, and my friends' eyes do the same. My favorite is blue eyes. When the light hits them just right... my knees become jello.
And I sigh. Love and infatuation. I fall hard. And the bottom is far below. You can ask my ex, though I'd much rather you ask my current love. You see, he has blue eyes, and he understands that when I feel a feeling, and I feel it hard, I commit to it. I give my all, I surrender my body, my soul, and the emotion takes control. Although I do have this unhealthy obsession with being in control, I lose it, and I don't plan to or really like to.
I don't think I know a different sort of love besides the passionate one. One could call it self-destructive, but one doesn't want to. It's a holding-so-tight-almost-smothering love. Yes, it's an exhausting version that I adapted at a young age from my parents. You know, Catherine/Heathcliff sort. I digress.
I pray you never know betrayal or hatred. These two destroy your insides, and I promise you it feels as if your heart and your lungs have been set afire. When I felt betrayed (this happened twice in my lifetime), my mouth moves and words fly without any permission from my mind. My hands tighten into fists that could break bone, I'm sure of it. I mean, at least it feels that way. And hatred eats at your soul. She clings for as long as she possibly can. This is the grudge that takes hold of your stomach and twists.
Of course, one should question if being enveloped into any particular emotion is healthy, but why is there a norm? Why should my behavior be decided by spectacle-wearing men in white lab coats?
Or maybe the real question is why do I feel this way?
This happens to me.
When I'm sad, I am at the lowest low. I rarely remember feeling happy, even if joy had only escaped my body a minute prior to when her counterpart, sadness, slid in.
But when I am happy, I feel I radiate. Don't confuse this with sparkling; my life is no damn Twilight novel. I glow, much like the sun shines. My green eyes look brighter to me, and my friends' eyes do the same. My favorite is blue eyes. When the light hits them just right... my knees become jello.
And I sigh. Love and infatuation. I fall hard. And the bottom is far below. You can ask my ex, though I'd much rather you ask my current love. You see, he has blue eyes, and he understands that when I feel a feeling, and I feel it hard, I commit to it. I give my all, I surrender my body, my soul, and the emotion takes control. Although I do have this unhealthy obsession with being in control, I lose it, and I don't plan to or really like to.
I don't think I know a different sort of love besides the passionate one. One could call it self-destructive, but one doesn't want to. It's a holding-so-tight-almost-smothering love. Yes, it's an exhausting version that I adapted at a young age from my parents. You know, Catherine/Heathcliff sort. I digress.
I pray you never know betrayal or hatred. These two destroy your insides, and I promise you it feels as if your heart and your lungs have been set afire. When I felt betrayed (this happened twice in my lifetime), my mouth moves and words fly without any permission from my mind. My hands tighten into fists that could break bone, I'm sure of it. I mean, at least it feels that way. And hatred eats at your soul. She clings for as long as she possibly can. This is the grudge that takes hold of your stomach and twists.
Of course, one should question if being enveloped into any particular emotion is healthy, but why is there a norm? Why should my behavior be decided by spectacle-wearing men in white lab coats?
Or maybe the real question is why do I feel this way?
Saturday, July 10, 2010
The Girl
So.
I'm a pro. I know exactly what to do to attract your kind. It's all extremely meticulous: the height of the heel, the length of the skirt, the amount of makeup, the shade of hair color...
You don't even know there is a trap set when you wander into the bar with your friends. When we make eye contact and exchange our initial smiles, I know you're hooked. I may not be the most beautiful or sexiest woman to have ever conversed with you, but I'll make you believe I am.
The rhythm of my voice, the number of times I laugh, the way I turn my body toward yours, the amount of times my hand sits on your forearm or knee...
My dear boy, you don't realize my actions are all a part of a ploy to gain your attention and break your heart. You see, I am the woman who will make you distrust all women. I will be the example you use to defend your misogynistic actions in the future. After I detonate your beating time bomb of a heart, you will be sure to rip out the hearts of many. You will lay these poor hearts to waste, all in the name of justice.
Or revenge.
Dear boy, I will become your Eve, your precious Delilah, your lady Guinevere. Because I made you love me, you will allow others to fall and purposely not catch them before their frail bodies crash at your feet. You'll simply walk away.
After all, where were no strings -- no pulleys, no suspension, no bungee cord. I hadn't offered you any, so why should you be gentlemen-like to these women you only wined and dined to trick into your bed?
You had a few laughs, and she thinks you're getting serious? Silly rabbit.
Blink, dear boy. You'll see we are not in a bar at all.
We met in a sandbox.
In high school.
In a college frat house.
In the grocery store.
At your brother's wedding.
At Coney Island.
In the hallway of our apartment building.
Dear boy, I am your excuse. It is very nice to meet you. Now you'll never be able to forget or forgive me.
And the funny thing is that I won't even know that I had done anything wrong.
I'm a pro. I know exactly what to do to attract your kind. It's all extremely meticulous: the height of the heel, the length of the skirt, the amount of makeup, the shade of hair color...
You don't even know there is a trap set when you wander into the bar with your friends. When we make eye contact and exchange our initial smiles, I know you're hooked. I may not be the most beautiful or sexiest woman to have ever conversed with you, but I'll make you believe I am.
The rhythm of my voice, the number of times I laugh, the way I turn my body toward yours, the amount of times my hand sits on your forearm or knee...
My dear boy, you don't realize my actions are all a part of a ploy to gain your attention and break your heart. You see, I am the woman who will make you distrust all women. I will be the example you use to defend your misogynistic actions in the future. After I detonate your beating time bomb of a heart, you will be sure to rip out the hearts of many. You will lay these poor hearts to waste, all in the name of justice.
Or revenge.
Dear boy, I will become your Eve, your precious Delilah, your lady Guinevere. Because I made you love me, you will allow others to fall and purposely not catch them before their frail bodies crash at your feet. You'll simply walk away.
After all, where were no strings -- no pulleys, no suspension, no bungee cord. I hadn't offered you any, so why should you be gentlemen-like to these women you only wined and dined to trick into your bed?
You had a few laughs, and she thinks you're getting serious? Silly rabbit.
Blink, dear boy. You'll see we are not in a bar at all.
We met in a sandbox.
In high school.
In a college frat house.
In the grocery store.
At your brother's wedding.
At Coney Island.
In the hallway of our apartment building.
Dear boy, I am your excuse. It is very nice to meet you. Now you'll never be able to forget or forgive me.
And the funny thing is that I won't even know that I had done anything wrong.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Where do you want to wake up?
If someone walked up to me and asked, "Where would you like to wake up? The answer is limitless," I hope that I can one day give a simple answer.
"Where I am. Tomorrow morning, in my own bed. I'm happy where I am right now."
I wonder if I will ever reach that point of my life. Will I ever be satisfied? Will I ever be fulfilled? Will I ever not carry regrets in the crevices of my emotionally driven mind?
Today is the anniversary of my life in Brooklyn. Exactly one year ago, I moved to New York City with the help of my mother and my ex. Now, I love this city, and I love living in an outer borough, but I wonder what would have happened had I made a different choice. What if I had traveled Europe for four months instead of moving here? What if I hadn't allowed love to influence my decision? What if, what if, what if...
I want to live a life of no regrets and no "what ifs"; unfortunately, I have too many.
But on the other hand, I am not dissatisfied. I'm glad I'm living on my own, away from the dismal city known as "The Cleve" by 30 ROCK fans. I have a good job, until September, and I have a great apartment, with no counter space and an unruly toilet.
I'm not sure what brought on this sudden lack of fulfillment. I suppose I just want my life to be meaningful. I want to be meaningful.
"Where I am. Tomorrow morning, in my own bed. I'm happy where I am right now."
I wonder if I will ever reach that point of my life. Will I ever be satisfied? Will I ever be fulfilled? Will I ever not carry regrets in the crevices of my emotionally driven mind?
Today is the anniversary of my life in Brooklyn. Exactly one year ago, I moved to New York City with the help of my mother and my ex. Now, I love this city, and I love living in an outer borough, but I wonder what would have happened had I made a different choice. What if I had traveled Europe for four months instead of moving here? What if I hadn't allowed love to influence my decision? What if, what if, what if...
I want to live a life of no regrets and no "what ifs"; unfortunately, I have too many.
But on the other hand, I am not dissatisfied. I'm glad I'm living on my own, away from the dismal city known as "The Cleve" by 30 ROCK fans. I have a good job, until September, and I have a great apartment, with no counter space and an unruly toilet.
I'm not sure what brought on this sudden lack of fulfillment. I suppose I just want my life to be meaningful. I want to be meaningful.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Randomness
Wake up.*
Did you feel that just now? The quaking? I mean, I know I felt it. It came from inside of me.
There it is again.
I think that's my soul. It shakes when it's done wrong. It gets selfish sometimes, wants attention. It cries. I can't really control it. I've tried. Took medicine to keep it in check, keep it quiet.
See, it feels the need to be in control especially when it's out of control.
My soul suffers from guilt and remorse often. It's then when it quakes, I think. Like right now.
She's upset that she cried. She's upset that she hurt you.
*Inspired by a friend's tattoo.
Did you feel that just now? The quaking? I mean, I know I felt it. It came from inside of me.
There it is again.
I think that's my soul. It shakes when it's done wrong. It gets selfish sometimes, wants attention. It cries. I can't really control it. I've tried. Took medicine to keep it in check, keep it quiet.
See, it feels the need to be in control especially when it's out of control.
My soul suffers from guilt and remorse often. It's then when it quakes, I think. Like right now.
She's upset that she cried. She's upset that she hurt you.
*Inspired by a friend's tattoo.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
A kiss.
Take me in. Let me dance upon your pink tongue and white teeth.
Enjoy me. Let yourself loose and love me.
Swallow me. Let us be the same being even if it's only for a moment.
Enjoy me. Let yourself loose and love me.
Swallow me. Let us be the same being even if it's only for a moment.
Friday, June 11, 2010
You said I must eat so many lemmons because I am so bitter.
The title is simply due to my Kate Nash kick; thank you, Pandora radio.
I'm going to try and free associate some paragraphs, just for fun.
I want to write again; I want to feel lady creativity beat through my veins, cloud my vision, fill my lungs, and rock my stomach again. I miss her. Sure, the bitch punches like Tyson, breaks bones like a car accident, aches like a heartbreak, but she's alive. She forces one to notice the world around her, breathe in the happiness and sadness and indifference of the world by way of covering your mouth with her cold but soft hand.
I close my eyes and wait for her to step into my body, take over my insides and abuse my motor skills. When she's in control, one can taste sunshine. One can smell inspiration. One can shiver in the heat and sweat in the cold.
Something unsnaps. I hear it. The back of my head opens like the red door of a townhouse, easily but with a creak which quietly indicates how old the home is. She slips inside, simultaneously filling me with worry and relief. Her delicate, cold fingers carefully run against the gray walls, and she kisses the backs of my green eyes with her warm lips.
I detect her whispers and feel my arms begin to relax as she begins to take over. My stomach tightens and shoulders roll back; I stand slightly taller and breathe in a sweet scent I could only label as "love."
My hips shift, and I take in a shallow breath. Creativity likes to abuse her powers; she tugs all sorts of strings so one doesn't know whether she's coming or going. A moment of euphoria shakes my body, and I notice Creativity's lips and fingers slowly making their way down the inside of my body, heading for the location where love and wanting confusingly become interchangeable.
I shiver loudly and pull a breath into my throat when her fingers graze my most intimate point. She continues to explore the walls of my stone body until she reaches my feet and tickles them.
I laugh. I open my eyes. I put down my pen.
The first three pages of a love story sit upon my desk, waiting to be reread.
I'm going to try and free associate some paragraphs, just for fun.
I want to write again; I want to feel lady creativity beat through my veins, cloud my vision, fill my lungs, and rock my stomach again. I miss her. Sure, the bitch punches like Tyson, breaks bones like a car accident, aches like a heartbreak, but she's alive. She forces one to notice the world around her, breathe in the happiness and sadness and indifference of the world by way of covering your mouth with her cold but soft hand.
I close my eyes and wait for her to step into my body, take over my insides and abuse my motor skills. When she's in control, one can taste sunshine. One can smell inspiration. One can shiver in the heat and sweat in the cold.
Something unsnaps. I hear it. The back of my head opens like the red door of a townhouse, easily but with a creak which quietly indicates how old the home is. She slips inside, simultaneously filling me with worry and relief. Her delicate, cold fingers carefully run against the gray walls, and she kisses the backs of my green eyes with her warm lips.
I detect her whispers and feel my arms begin to relax as she begins to take over. My stomach tightens and shoulders roll back; I stand slightly taller and breathe in a sweet scent I could only label as "love."
My hips shift, and I take in a shallow breath. Creativity likes to abuse her powers; she tugs all sorts of strings so one doesn't know whether she's coming or going. A moment of euphoria shakes my body, and I notice Creativity's lips and fingers slowly making their way down the inside of my body, heading for the location where love and wanting confusingly become interchangeable.
I shiver loudly and pull a breath into my throat when her fingers graze my most intimate point. She continues to explore the walls of my stone body until she reaches my feet and tickles them.
I laugh. I open my eyes. I put down my pen.
The first three pages of a love story sit upon my desk, waiting to be reread.
Friday, June 4, 2010
The Phoenix
Rebirth.
Isn't that the metaphor for spring? Then what is the metaphor for summer? Besides hot and sticky? No. Not metaphors. Adjectives.
I'm sitting at work, completing the meaningless tasks part-time employees finish when there is nothing else to do. So, whenever the page that I'm updating loads, I quickly type a line here.
My mind has been drifting away with thoughts of metaphors, absolutes, love, family, and summer.
Brooklyn is an absolute for me. I belong here like I have never belonged anywhere. I feel it in my bones, in the salt of my sweat, in my dyed and damaged hair follicles. But with that absolute comes other absolutes. My right contact will always dry quickly; it's done this since the July day in 2009 I moved here, probably due to the pollution. I will always crave Mexican food. I will always try my best to keep my utilities at a low cost.
But in this transition and assimilation to New York, I've also begun to realize how we react to those souls who come in contact with us and the purpose they serve in our lives.
My roommate. I don't think there are words invented for an unbreakable soul such as hers. She's been the best roommate I've had, and she's been there for me when I needed her most. I've gotten stronger and have learned a lot about myself and about life because of her. I know this seems vague and perhaps a bit cliche, but it's true.
My first love. He was there for the transition, the original move. He was there to break my heart. One day, I should thank him for doing so; I learned that I can survive heartbreak. Unfortunately, my damned Scorpio attitude might never allow me to speak to him again. And that's fine by me.
My new friend. The Russian Jew. She's this wonderful, brightly glowing beauty who managed to sneak into my life and into my heart. Although she has a bit of a cynical side, she is my positive energy. She keeps me in balance, and together we learned how to let go of the past, of the men who no longer wanted us. I'm so lucky.
My new boy. He came out of nowhere like a loud, crazy, blue-eyed, confident cartoon character in an old Looney Tunes airing on The WB. He takes the train 40 min to visit me after he's finished with work at 9:45 PM, even if for only a few hours. He makes me feel beautiful. He makes me feel loved again in that way only a man can. He makes sure to take me from Manhattan to Brooklyn in a cab late at night, even though he can't afford it. I see beauty inside of him. And I think I may love him.
I have to work, and I have much more to say, but I know that this is a new beginning. I know that although we make our own destinies, everything happens for a reason. God only wants to make us stronger. I know it.
<3
Isn't that the metaphor for spring? Then what is the metaphor for summer? Besides hot and sticky? No. Not metaphors. Adjectives.
I'm sitting at work, completing the meaningless tasks part-time employees finish when there is nothing else to do. So, whenever the page that I'm updating loads, I quickly type a line here.
My mind has been drifting away with thoughts of metaphors, absolutes, love, family, and summer.
Brooklyn is an absolute for me. I belong here like I have never belonged anywhere. I feel it in my bones, in the salt of my sweat, in my dyed and damaged hair follicles. But with that absolute comes other absolutes. My right contact will always dry quickly; it's done this since the July day in 2009 I moved here, probably due to the pollution. I will always crave Mexican food. I will always try my best to keep my utilities at a low cost.
But in this transition and assimilation to New York, I've also begun to realize how we react to those souls who come in contact with us and the purpose they serve in our lives.
My roommate. I don't think there are words invented for an unbreakable soul such as hers. She's been the best roommate I've had, and she's been there for me when I needed her most. I've gotten stronger and have learned a lot about myself and about life because of her. I know this seems vague and perhaps a bit cliche, but it's true.
My first love. He was there for the transition, the original move. He was there to break my heart. One day, I should thank him for doing so; I learned that I can survive heartbreak. Unfortunately, my damned Scorpio attitude might never allow me to speak to him again. And that's fine by me.
My new friend. The Russian Jew. She's this wonderful, brightly glowing beauty who managed to sneak into my life and into my heart. Although she has a bit of a cynical side, she is my positive energy. She keeps me in balance, and together we learned how to let go of the past, of the men who no longer wanted us. I'm so lucky.
My new boy. He came out of nowhere like a loud, crazy, blue-eyed, confident cartoon character in an old Looney Tunes airing on The WB. He takes the train 40 min to visit me after he's finished with work at 9:45 PM, even if for only a few hours. He makes me feel beautiful. He makes me feel loved again in that way only a man can. He makes sure to take me from Manhattan to Brooklyn in a cab late at night, even though he can't afford it. I see beauty inside of him. And I think I may love him.
I have to work, and I have much more to say, but I know that this is a new beginning. I know that although we make our own destinies, everything happens for a reason. God only wants to make us stronger. I know it.
<3
Friday, May 7, 2010
Huh.
How soon is too soon to fall for someone?
Whether that be falling in love or not, I don't know.
I find myself wondering about this mystery with a warm and continuous flutter in my formerly broken heart.
And I soon realize that I once again have something to write about.
Whether that be falling in love or not, I don't know.
I find myself wondering about this mystery with a warm and continuous flutter in my formerly broken heart.
And I soon realize that I once again have something to write about.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Thursday
The subway car is packed, crowed during the usual morning commute. This particular Thursday I choose the car of the N express that seemed emptiest only to realize a homeless man is asleep on the center bench, leaving me and my fellow travelers to pile into either ends of the car.
A pretty boy my age rolls his eyes at the man wrapped in the only coat he owns. For a brief moment, I felt sorry for this lost soul after I realize that I had had the same reaction when I boarded the silver train and quietly thanked the Lord that the subway car did not smell of urine and trash. I had made that mistake twice before.
I turned, positioning myself with my feet slightly apart so if I had to take my hand off of the metal bar to turn a page in the book I was reading. When you become one with New York City, you learn these tricks.
Tricks and unspoken and accepted rules. You rarely make eye contact with fellow commuters, unless you're offering your seat to an older individual or a woman with child. Unfortunately, I enjoy people watching -- I observe. I smile at the babies sitting in their carriages, the children sitting quietly beside their parents with their little hands folded in their laps. Usually, the proud parents notice, and they reciprocate the smile in the direction of their child.
My eyes dart to a male, black police officer who pulled his flashlight from his belt just as the conductor stated that we were momentarily detained.
"Hey, buddy," he says as he knocks the heavy flashlight against the plastic seat, beside the sleeping man's head. The man, startled from his slumber, bolted to a sitting position and wipes the sleep from his eyes with his dirty hands.
The officer exits the train. The doors slide shut behind him, and we start to move, our bodies react to the inertia.
I felt sorry for the man. But I admit that I sympathize more for those around me, the ones who woke hours before their colleagues in order to take the subway into Manhattan from Brooklyn; these people work full-time in order to feed their families and pay rent.
I cannot tell you what the point of this little rambling was about. Perhaps this is no more than scattered thoughts of a tired production associate while she rides the crowded Broadway express on a Thursday morning.
A pretty boy my age rolls his eyes at the man wrapped in the only coat he owns. For a brief moment, I felt sorry for this lost soul after I realize that I had had the same reaction when I boarded the silver train and quietly thanked the Lord that the subway car did not smell of urine and trash. I had made that mistake twice before.
I turned, positioning myself with my feet slightly apart so if I had to take my hand off of the metal bar to turn a page in the book I was reading. When you become one with New York City, you learn these tricks.
Tricks and unspoken and accepted rules. You rarely make eye contact with fellow commuters, unless you're offering your seat to an older individual or a woman with child. Unfortunately, I enjoy people watching -- I observe. I smile at the babies sitting in their carriages, the children sitting quietly beside their parents with their little hands folded in their laps. Usually, the proud parents notice, and they reciprocate the smile in the direction of their child.
My eyes dart to a male, black police officer who pulled his flashlight from his belt just as the conductor stated that we were momentarily detained.
"Hey, buddy," he says as he knocks the heavy flashlight against the plastic seat, beside the sleeping man's head. The man, startled from his slumber, bolted to a sitting position and wipes the sleep from his eyes with his dirty hands.
The officer exits the train. The doors slide shut behind him, and we start to move, our bodies react to the inertia.
I felt sorry for the man. But I admit that I sympathize more for those around me, the ones who woke hours before their colleagues in order to take the subway into Manhattan from Brooklyn; these people work full-time in order to feed their families and pay rent.
I cannot tell you what the point of this little rambling was about. Perhaps this is no more than scattered thoughts of a tired production associate while she rides the crowded Broadway express on a Thursday morning.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Taking Risks
I've decided to quit the job that I've been working for the past 7 months. Although the money was "all right," the hours were not. As a 23 year old living in New York City, I couldn't allow myself to work 60 hours a week for basic pay in a cafe; it's not what I want to do.
So, I'm ballooning for a bit, and I hope this break will allow me to not only learn about myself, but give me the chance to spread my roots. I need to step away from the negativity that cafe brought into my everyday life and relearn what it means to be "Sandy."
So, we'll see. Happy Hunting.
So, I'm ballooning for a bit, and I hope this break will allow me to not only learn about myself, but give me the chance to spread my roots. I need to step away from the negativity that cafe brought into my everyday life and relearn what it means to be "Sandy."
So, we'll see. Happy Hunting.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Too Bad
"Don't we all deserve second chances?"
I once asked myself in a pathetic moment of desperation.
At the time, I truly believed it. I wanted nothing more.
I had been denied the opportunity.
When you had returned to me, asking for another chance,
Of course I was wary. But I took the bait.
I thought you'd come to your senses,
Seen how great I really am.
Huh.
I guess you were in it for the sex.
Not the emotion.
Too bad I'm emotionally driven.
Too bad the two go hand-in-hand.
Too bad I was duped.
I once asked myself in a pathetic moment of desperation.
At the time, I truly believed it. I wanted nothing more.
I had been denied the opportunity.
When you had returned to me, asking for another chance,
Of course I was wary. But I took the bait.
I thought you'd come to your senses,
Seen how great I really am.
Huh.
I guess you were in it for the sex.
Not the emotion.
Too bad I'm emotionally driven.
Too bad the two go hand-in-hand.
Too bad I was duped.
Amor
Love isn't logical or rational.
It's blind and deaf --
Blind to color and shape; deaf to harsh words and advice.
So how can one plan it?
How does one keep from falling?
Continuously step backwards until Love grows tired of tugging?
No.
Love plays on emotions and takes hold of the heart.
There is no anticipating.
Cupid's stubborn arrows aren't equipped with hesitation.
The arrows aren't easily removed either.
You're fucked as soon as you're hit.
Please don't tell me we're moving too fast.
There is no set pace.
Please don't say it's not what you want.
We both know we've no choice.
Please don't tell me you're scared.
I am to; I'm terrified.
Please don't say you don't love me.
Love only works well with two.
It's blind and deaf --
Blind to color and shape; deaf to harsh words and advice.
So how can one plan it?
How does one keep from falling?
Continuously step backwards until Love grows tired of tugging?
No.
Love plays on emotions and takes hold of the heart.
There is no anticipating.
Cupid's stubborn arrows aren't equipped with hesitation.
The arrows aren't easily removed either.
You're fucked as soon as you're hit.
Please don't tell me we're moving too fast.
There is no set pace.
Please don't say it's not what you want.
We both know we've no choice.
Please don't tell me you're scared.
I am to; I'm terrified.
Please don't say you don't love me.
Love only works well with two.
Friday, January 8, 2010
I wonder if they knew, really knew what you were thinking when you smiled for the camera or walked into a room wearing your Chanel No. 5 and revealing dress:
Your self-loathing thoughts of worthlessness.
The man you wished would leave his wife to swoop you into his arms.
How much your scalp burned from the bleaching the day before.
The production company not believing you’re serious about your craft.
The half-empty bottle of pills in your clutch.
How much you wanted to have a child to love like your mother never loved you.
No one really knew, but I wish they had. Maybe you wouldn’t have been my tragic heroine.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Comforting
Harleen closed her eyes to the darkness as Pamela stroked her chapped lips. She’d been feeling under the weather the past couple of days, but never sick enough to ignore Pam’s gentle touches and kisses.
She reopened her eyes to see the moon’s light sneaking into their bedroom through the hastily closed blinds. Pam’s red hair seemed to sparkle at night, and her green eyes always seemed to glow.
This was love, she’d been told. Easiness. Quietness. Softness.
Not brutality. Not pain. Not sadistic hilarity.
Harleen blinked and tried to focus on the invisible patterns Pamela traced with her fingertips.
She reopened her eyes to see the moon’s light sneaking into their bedroom through the hastily closed blinds. Pam’s red hair seemed to sparkle at night, and her green eyes always seemed to glow.
This was love, she’d been told. Easiness. Quietness. Softness.
Not brutality. Not pain. Not sadistic hilarity.
Harleen blinked and tried to focus on the invisible patterns Pamela traced with her fingertips.
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