S is for Sara, which I've decided is Synonymous with bull Shit. I've known dozens of Sara's, Some with meaningless H's attached, and only a minuscule percentage of these women-like creatures have been worthy of my respect. Sara Ashcraft. She's a good one. I don't talk to her anymore... but Still, that's one out of many I don't hate, So it's worth mentioning. The most recent Saras of my life are ugly and dirty and most definitely confused with another 4 letter word with the Same beginning.
S is for Sex in the City, which blocks out the endless pollution of "I'll Be There For You" from the full Friends DVD series, which Bull Shit watches on repeat and nothing else. It Started 4 months ago and I thought it'd be harmless, but as the Song goes, "no one told you life was going to be this way..." So thank GOD Sex in the City trumps Shit.
S is for Sixteen and Slamming doors. S is for Stupid passive aggressive and caddy behavior. All three of these Special words, in combination with a lame roommate, prove me witness to the most callow and Senseless Situation I hath ever Seen. I am one quarter of a century old, which is too old to revert to the Social mistakes once made in high School. I passed drama then, but I'll Skip it now if that's all the Same to you. Besides, my home is not my job.
S, perhaps most of all, is for Survival. And maybe for good Stories, too. Either way, I am happy to end this chapter like So. In fact, I recently found myself Sifting through old notes, Scraps, and private memorabilia when I rediscovered a 7-up ad that promoted "Change it up!" The ad is colorful and happy and Sums me rather Simply, yet true, So it Stuck to me. I've collected a number of ridiculous tales in my 2-point-Something years of life in SF; and Surprisingly my heart is Still beating and I am Still Smiling, and the insanity of everyone else will continue to Slip off me like oil on water. I'm not a Sadist. This bull Shit and Sex in the City trumping Star-crossed Situation is just one more battle Scar - my medallion of warfare. And from here on out, I am Sure to be Super, Splendid, and fucking fantastic. You can bet your S on it.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
I really need to know...
"I'm stretching again, but my resilience is long gone and I can't bounce back. It's tiresome dragging around the excess, yet I'm unsure whether it's safe to cut it off. What if it houses my essence, or the directional portion of my id?"
They say every 7 years you're a completely new person. They say that every year - every day for that matter - you are physically different from the time before. That makes sense considering my hair has been falling out in handfuls and silent waves that lay across my carpet like shadowy ghosts upon the shore. (Scary.)
I'm shedding. But it's not just my hair. I shower, of course, and when there are witnesses near when I'm through (which is rare), they'll comment on the red lines reaching across my arms and back and chest. "You're scratched!" they'll proclaim as if they discovered some forbidden treasure to my personal life; but they're wrong. It's just the marks I receive from delicately pealing back my old skin. I know the image seems more tragic than my words admit, but I'm pretty sure I bathe and lather and rinse like most others. I have a loofa and I sud it with Oil of Olay moisturizing body wash, yet all I have to do is attend to an itch with the passing of my finger and a trail of skin comes pealing away, resting in the pit of my nail. By the time my shower is over I look like a shiney victim of sado-masachism and there's a body caught in my drain. And every day it's the same. Goodbye Old Meredith, hello New.
It's growing hard to keep up with my development. I've realized for quite some time that my head forges through reality at a rate just beyond what my body will allow - that's why I walk like a ram surging forward, brow heavy, eye on some invisible target. As I drive and press onward, omniously knowing, the rest of me tails behind a little lackluster. The resilience to maintain my form fades out like watercolor, yet holds heavy in the past like a cautioning anchor unwilling to let freedom fly.
At this moment I'm really not sure what I am. Transitioning from old to new seems more strenuous than ever before, even though they say it's a revolving and reoccuring cycle of life and death.
I would like a cut off point.
I would like to know that who I was 3 years ago was a different me, a stupider me, a me that would of course make those silly mistakes. And I would like to know that here, in this era, I am wise and able and if nothing else, deserving of the things hard working adults are owed. Have I not trudged around with an excess long enough? Am I not West enough? Am I not brave enough? When can I say "I am new. I am now exactly here in this fresh moment without a shadow for bagage."?
Well, if the skin in the drain or the hair on my carpet house the directional portion of my id, so be it, let it sit, let it stay. I feel ready to break out into my new self even if it means wanderlust and overwhelmed engagement of the present. I'm eager to face a new reality. I'm excited to see what things await me, and I'm quite keen on having my body in line with my head. It's time to pause the pressing foward, and simply relish in the now with a sparkling new wide-eyed wonderment.
I'd like to know that it's safe for me to stand here, bare, without my anchor... but I do know that it's time for a new adventure. So here I am.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Perplexed and Puzzled
Sitting on the slope of Alamo Square facing a row of painted ladies, I am stricken by how perfectly the pieces fit together. The roofs fade into another, the complementing colors of each door and shutter cast along the San Francisco street like a very befitting rainbow. Is it one house or many?
He grabbed my hand, if nothing but to compare the length of my thumb to his, but once our fingers touched they locked like two puzzle pieces that belonged to no other. Are we designed to be this way or is it forced or by mistake, like all the other tries before this?
In my apartment, 2000 tiny cardboard cut outs with jagged, squiggley edges decorate my kitchen table. 2000 specs of a Starry Night, scattered and confused but in my touch. I bought the puzzle as a means to get away from the norm of my computer and my cellar-room walls, and to remind me of the virtue, patience. It is a worthy pursuit, especially considering the like colors, repetitive edges, and limited space. I'm still wishing upon stars to find the matter an accomplishment. And this, too, is befitting.
The question pokes at me: What fits?
My life was picked up and put back down on the edge of the world, in a pointed corner on a hill dubbed Frisco. The houses and skyline and trees all certainly fit together with a balanced equilibrium that on a regular basis brings happy tears to my eyes; yet me within this puzzle, I doubt my place.
In my home, or space presumed a home, I'm next to another piece that looks like it should match. It's the same color and shape and age... and for over a year I've tried to connect my ends to its. For over a year now I've felt that even though I should fit here with her, and even though we're close with very little space between us to suggest it's wrong, some pieces simply do not go together. The looks deceived me. My personal puzzle will never be complete with this mismatch jammed inside me.
So I seek outside my self for matching neighbors and connection. I seek solidarity from friends and dates and fingers intertwined in mine. What troubles me is that it's still so hard to tell if these ties are true, and correct, and meant to be as if it were written in the starry night... or is everything in this city forced for me?
I can't find the last edge piece of my puzzle. I'd feel a lot better if I knew it even existed and could contain all the other loose ends. But at a certain point, you have to work on the tiny aspects in the core, and get to the external surrounding in its own time. I don't know if the whole thing will work out. I don't know if all the houses at Alamo Square are connected - I don't know if that hand in mine is meant to BE mine - I don't know if my apartment will ever be my home - I don't know if San Francisco is the place I fit in general.
I do know that I can only take it one step and one piece at a time. It's a practice in patience, after all. I vow to my self and to the knowing thing within me that even when the pieces get mismatched, I will fix them, and some sweet day, I'll have the big picture in place.
He grabbed my hand, if nothing but to compare the length of my thumb to his, but once our fingers touched they locked like two puzzle pieces that belonged to no other. Are we designed to be this way or is it forced or by mistake, like all the other tries before this?
In my apartment, 2000 tiny cardboard cut outs with jagged, squiggley edges decorate my kitchen table. 2000 specs of a Starry Night, scattered and confused but in my touch. I bought the puzzle as a means to get away from the norm of my computer and my cellar-room walls, and to remind me of the virtue, patience. It is a worthy pursuit, especially considering the like colors, repetitive edges, and limited space. I'm still wishing upon stars to find the matter an accomplishment. And this, too, is befitting.
The question pokes at me: What fits?
My life was picked up and put back down on the edge of the world, in a pointed corner on a hill dubbed Frisco. The houses and skyline and trees all certainly fit together with a balanced equilibrium that on a regular basis brings happy tears to my eyes; yet me within this puzzle, I doubt my place.
In my home, or space presumed a home, I'm next to another piece that looks like it should match. It's the same color and shape and age... and for over a year I've tried to connect my ends to its. For over a year now I've felt that even though I should fit here with her, and even though we're close with very little space between us to suggest it's wrong, some pieces simply do not go together. The looks deceived me. My personal puzzle will never be complete with this mismatch jammed inside me.
So I seek outside my self for matching neighbors and connection. I seek solidarity from friends and dates and fingers intertwined in mine. What troubles me is that it's still so hard to tell if these ties are true, and correct, and meant to be as if it were written in the starry night... or is everything in this city forced for me?
I can't find the last edge piece of my puzzle. I'd feel a lot better if I knew it even existed and could contain all the other loose ends. But at a certain point, you have to work on the tiny aspects in the core, and get to the external surrounding in its own time. I don't know if the whole thing will work out. I don't know if all the houses at Alamo Square are connected - I don't know if that hand in mine is meant to BE mine - I don't know if my apartment will ever be my home - I don't know if San Francisco is the place I fit in general.
I do know that I can only take it one step and one piece at a time. It's a practice in patience, after all. I vow to my self and to the knowing thing within me that even when the pieces get mismatched, I will fix them, and some sweet day, I'll have the big picture in place.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Big Versus Little
I get into these little arguments all the time about who's the better athlete, better actor, biggest star, who's the most virtuous, who's the biggest wanker, which roommate is allowed to be more stubborn, what's right, what's wrong, what's funny, what's stupid, what's big and what's little...
It's too bad I have these arguments considering I'm never wrong. That part's not arguable. I chalk it up to my gritty midwest upbringing, jackass older brothers and a natural competitive spirit. Given these circumstances, being right all the time is just a method of survival, and it fits me like an perfect A-line dress.
I guess the only thing that ever makes me hesitate is the detailed difference between big and little. I'm a witness to a big versus little fight on a constant, streaming basis; the battle never stops or ceases to amaze me... and in a war such as this, one could easily assume the big would kick the little's little butt. But it doesn't.
In my brain there are two minds - two voice - two selves, and they often struggle with keeping face. You could even say my minds have an identity problem, which really kind of sucks, and the only way for you to offer empathy is for me to explain, so keep reading. My little self is the voice in the front of my brain. It's the voice that tells me to look in the mirror a second, third, and fourteenth time before I leave for work; it's the voice that hates my eyebrows; it's the voice that tells me I'm too slow to go running, and it's the voice that doesn't always make sense. It's the self that told me to do online dating. It's the self that told me to do it again even after two disastrous relationships. It's the self that's telling me to sign up for two online dating sites now... for being a little self in a little part of my brain, it sure is taking up a lot of space, and it's sometimes all I hear.
The big self is a quite self. It's hosted way way in the back of my brain, like the secret closet in the attic that everyone forgets about and is full of moths and cobwebs. My big self hates that I care so much about my eyebrows. My big self wants to me to run, footloose. It wants me to have the best life, the best job and apartment and relationship, and it knows exactly how I can achieve these things, which is pretty remarkable. It's my big self that is always right when I'm in a sticky situation... it's how I know it's sticky because it pokes at me and makes me hold my breath, makes my body tense, makes my fingers numb... it's the barbaric voice that halts everything else like raising a giant red flag over the world until I pay attention. At least that's my big self's intention.
My big self and it's big grown up voice is hosted so far away from the front of things that it sounds more like an echo than a yelp. It's overly ironic in a way I don't need to point out, but I will anyway, that my big self is so darn little. It takes up so little space that my little self thinks it's running the joint. And my big self, being bigger and more humble, allows that to happen.
Now I get to choose the lesser of two evils: do I favor the little bully in me because despite it's size, it is strong and fearless, or do I favor the little angel in me that's always right but always taking the back seat like a world class pussy?
I am tired. IIIIIII am so exhausted from watching this fight take place in my head that now just the thought of it is knocking me out. My little self is cocky and egotistical and really getting a little carried away with it's judging and pushing and hating on everything else within me. My big self has become so shut down and intimidated by the opposing voice that it almost refuses to sneak out even in my dreams. I, the witness to this chaos, have to put a stop to the fight and lend a loving hand... towards my selves.
Conscience - shut it. Be quiet. Take a break.
Intuition - come out and play again. Remind me of who I am underneath the clothes and skin and ego. Take a stand once in a while, with exaggerated gusto and force if necessary!
This civil war may never end entirely. Actually, I'll probably get bored in a few days and let it revert just so I have some points of drama to hold onto. But all you readers, read this: I hearby declair my big self more rights and space in my brain. I shall allow myself to act on instinct, react to redflags, and indulge in the deep down dirty reality of the world. I shall silence the voice in me that judges every step I make, and in doing so, I will free it from it's burden of pleasing others. I will be me for a while, without chaos, without dopamine-slinging self hate, and without fear that I'm not complete.
I am me. I'm free to be. Just be.
Big Versus Little... hmm... the debate is inconclussive. Perhaps all my voices are winners in their own dumb ways.
It's too bad I have these arguments considering I'm never wrong. That part's not arguable. I chalk it up to my gritty midwest upbringing, jackass older brothers and a natural competitive spirit. Given these circumstances, being right all the time is just a method of survival, and it fits me like an perfect A-line dress.
I guess the only thing that ever makes me hesitate is the detailed difference between big and little. I'm a witness to a big versus little fight on a constant, streaming basis; the battle never stops or ceases to amaze me... and in a war such as this, one could easily assume the big would kick the little's little butt. But it doesn't.
In my brain there are two minds - two voice - two selves, and they often struggle with keeping face. You could even say my minds have an identity problem, which really kind of sucks, and the only way for you to offer empathy is for me to explain, so keep reading. My little self is the voice in the front of my brain. It's the voice that tells me to look in the mirror a second, third, and fourteenth time before I leave for work; it's the voice that hates my eyebrows; it's the voice that tells me I'm too slow to go running, and it's the voice that doesn't always make sense. It's the self that told me to do online dating. It's the self that told me to do it again even after two disastrous relationships. It's the self that's telling me to sign up for two online dating sites now... for being a little self in a little part of my brain, it sure is taking up a lot of space, and it's sometimes all I hear.
The big self is a quite self. It's hosted way way in the back of my brain, like the secret closet in the attic that everyone forgets about and is full of moths and cobwebs. My big self hates that I care so much about my eyebrows. My big self wants to me to run, footloose. It wants me to have the best life, the best job and apartment and relationship, and it knows exactly how I can achieve these things, which is pretty remarkable. It's my big self that is always right when I'm in a sticky situation... it's how I know it's sticky because it pokes at me and makes me hold my breath, makes my body tense, makes my fingers numb... it's the barbaric voice that halts everything else like raising a giant red flag over the world until I pay attention. At least that's my big self's intention.
My big self and it's big grown up voice is hosted so far away from the front of things that it sounds more like an echo than a yelp. It's overly ironic in a way I don't need to point out, but I will anyway, that my big self is so darn little. It takes up so little space that my little self thinks it's running the joint. And my big self, being bigger and more humble, allows that to happen.
Now I get to choose the lesser of two evils: do I favor the little bully in me because despite it's size, it is strong and fearless, or do I favor the little angel in me that's always right but always taking the back seat like a world class pussy?
I am tired. IIIIIII am so exhausted from watching this fight take place in my head that now just the thought of it is knocking me out. My little self is cocky and egotistical and really getting a little carried away with it's judging and pushing and hating on everything else within me. My big self has become so shut down and intimidated by the opposing voice that it almost refuses to sneak out even in my dreams. I, the witness to this chaos, have to put a stop to the fight and lend a loving hand... towards my selves.
Conscience - shut it. Be quiet. Take a break.
Intuition - come out and play again. Remind me of who I am underneath the clothes and skin and ego. Take a stand once in a while, with exaggerated gusto and force if necessary!
This civil war may never end entirely. Actually, I'll probably get bored in a few days and let it revert just so I have some points of drama to hold onto. But all you readers, read this: I hearby declair my big self more rights and space in my brain. I shall allow myself to act on instinct, react to redflags, and indulge in the deep down dirty reality of the world. I shall silence the voice in me that judges every step I make, and in doing so, I will free it from it's burden of pleasing others. I will be me for a while, without chaos, without dopamine-slinging self hate, and without fear that I'm not complete.
I am me. I'm free to be. Just be.
Big Versus Little... hmm... the debate is inconclussive. Perhaps all my voices are winners in their own dumb ways.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Dear LIP,
I threw your business card away on a Monday night. "Magic-fingers" massage therapist, eh? I disagree. Your touch was pretty meaningless. I realized having you in print would not suffice, it was your words from your lips that I needed, and your insecurity-born silence was too heavy to hold so it fell in the can.
I got your email on a following Tuesday morning. More words in print. The post-it note of the modern man... so 2001. On the positive side, you made me laugh genuinely for the first time since our pseudo relationship began 11 dates ago. You said, "last weeks lack of communication really bothered me."
Your magic fingers were working hard it seems, typing out excuses for yourself sans punctuation. And what was your second reason for halting a potential relationship with me, a "long lasting relationship that you are looking for at this point in your life"? You got mad at an unfilled prescription. Ironically it was just words on paper, but as you said, "The perscription bothered me more than I thought and brought up a lot of bad memories from my last relationship."
On our 5th date we went for a walk in Muir Words on rainy day. You wore your skater shoes and worried they'd get dirty. My subconscious contracted in laughter. Then I brought up deal breakers, remember that? We laid it all out on the trail. You said, "lying, lack of passion, mean spirited, narrow mindedness..." and I said "lack of communication, drugs, closed minds, judgmental and unsupportive people..." then you said, "Unfourtunately that combined with last friday I think its became a deal breaker for me sorry."
I tested the idea that pasts are not presents. I gave opposite a chance to be my match. But here's what I held back and didn't get to say quite so directly: Your past is ugly. Without Narcotics Anonymous you wouldn't even have a high school diploma, and that is nothing to thank. Your teeth are bad - 7 years void of dentists is not becoming on you. (Or is it 'not becaming'?) Anyone who doesn't like Thai or Indian food, or burgers, or milkshakes, or popcorn, anyone like you is not really worth a second date. You suck at taking Car-Bombs. Your "prison" tattoo is the saddest thing I have ever seen... LIP... below the naval like a tramp stamp for pricks. LIP. LIP? I could hear the drum roll before you announced it's proud meaning, and I can still hear it now...
I got your email on a following Tuesday morning. More words in print. The post-it note of the modern man... so 2001. On the positive side, you made me laugh genuinely for the first time since our pseudo relationship began 11 dates ago. You said, "last weeks lack of communication really bothered me."
Notes: 1) No apostrophe in week's. strike one. 2) You walked out on me when I said I was hurt by your negativity. You didn't respond to my text immediately after. You didn't speak to me until Tuesday. strikes two, three, and four. 3) You wrote me a break up email. That's valid communication after 11 dates? strike 5.
Your magic fingers were working hard it seems, typing out excuses for yourself sans punctuation. And what was your second reason for halting a potential relationship with me, a "long lasting relationship that you are looking for at this point in your life"? You got mad at an unfilled prescription. Ironically it was just words on paper, but as you said, "The perscription bothered me more than I thought and brought up a lot of bad memories from my last relationship."
Notes: 4) Nice spelling of prescription. 5) You were bothered by a doctor's hand writing? I don't get it. 6) You're upset at the memories from your last relationship. Hmm... Is this about me? strike, strike, strike...
On our 5th date we went for a walk in Muir Words on rainy day. You wore your skater shoes and worried they'd get dirty. My subconscious contracted in laughter. Then I brought up deal breakers, remember that? We laid it all out on the trail. You said, "lying, lack of passion, mean spirited, narrow mindedness..." and I said "lack of communication, drugs, closed minds, judgmental and unsupportive people..." then you said, "Unfourtunately that combined with last friday I think its became a deal breaker for me sorry."
Notes: 7) Spelling! Unfourtunately? Punctuation! Commas are not being rationed, use them at your leisure, please. Grammar! "its became"? Oh really? 8) You never mentioned your issues with prescriptions and Fridays. Either these new deal breakers are a lie, or you don't know what you want at all. You don't know what's good for you. STRIKE! You're out.Mr. 31 year old child, you screwed up so colossally! But it's really OK; I realize that it's hard to have skills in this game when you're barely a high school graduate and you have a Calvin and Hobbs tattoo enmeshed in flames and skulls. It must be hard when you're at plate for a thick-skinned woman from the Great Lakes State, with an impressive degree and successful career at 6 years your former. It must be hard to tell the truth in the face of a writer who lacks fear...
I tested the idea that pasts are not presents. I gave opposite a chance to be my match. But here's what I held back and didn't get to say quite so directly: Your past is ugly. Without Narcotics Anonymous you wouldn't even have a high school diploma, and that is nothing to thank. Your teeth are bad - 7 years void of dentists is not becoming on you. (Or is it 'not becaming'?) Anyone who doesn't like Thai or Indian food, or burgers, or milkshakes, or popcorn, anyone like you is not really worth a second date. You suck at taking Car-Bombs. Your "prison" tattoo is the saddest thing I have ever seen... LIP... below the naval like a tramp stamp for pricks. LIP. LIP? I could hear the drum roll before you announced it's proud meaning, and I can still hear it now...
"Living Is Pain"
Well I knew then and there but I kept my own lips shut until I had a story to write on it. LIP below the naval is bullshit. LIP on any part of you from any past part of you is cock-fucking bullshit. It's negative, pessimistic, hopeless, and utterly wrong. You're wrong. You're so so wrong for me.
Since I've told others of this story, you've earned quite a name, and I thought your swelling ego should be let onto the reputation you've acquired:
Ass-bag. Chicken-fuck. Douche. Dick-wad. Cock-tard. Bull Shit. Ass-hole. Fuck-face. Loser.
But to me, you will always be known as LIP. Thanks for the words. Thanks for the memories.
Fuck off and die,
Meredith
PS. You have a short stick and no balls. There are certain requirements to play this game.
PPS. If you 'Come Round Soon'...
PPPS. You'll hear my 'True Affections'
Since I've told others of this story, you've earned quite a name, and I thought your swelling ego should be let onto the reputation you've acquired:
Ass-bag. Chicken-fuck. Douche. Dick-wad. Cock-tard. Bull Shit. Ass-hole. Fuck-face. Loser.
But to me, you will always be known as LIP. Thanks for the words. Thanks for the memories.
Fuck off and die,
Meredith
PS. You have a short stick and no balls. There are certain requirements to play this game.
PPS. If you 'Come Round Soon'...
PPPS. You'll hear my 'True Affections'
Sunday, February 8, 2009
One egg at a time
Bruce Wayne: What was I looking for?
Trainer: Only you can know that.
True dat, man, true dat. Though I wish someone could just tell me simply and make the search a little easier.
I'm still a little fuzzy on the details of what I've been looking for, but from what I can muster into words, as a result of my given circumstances, I can say that I've been looking for a positive challenge to pass the time. My arm has been raised up to the gods, my fingers stretched out, my limbs yearning in a specific direction like a flower tilting towards the light, all in hopes to grasp something just beyond me. The effort it takes is an essential point of my personal development, as I know it is the journey, not the destination. Still, I wish I had something to hold onto other than the excess of my past and faded realities. I desire the golden light, a thing who can reflect warmth and love and inspiration...
Sometimes I feel I've stretched so hard to meet the destination that I've come almost full circle and captured what's pooled at my feet, a little below what I am capable of. My head is down. I'm taking what I can get because getting something feels so good, at least it's something to hold onto.
But it's like sitting like a lame duck and settling for easy words. It's like sticking in the pond even when it starts to freeze over. It's not realizing I have wings and can soar above all that, and I can overcome.
Reaching out is a productive use of time for me even if it means at the end of the day my hand is wide open and unfulfilled. When I stand and reach and yearn, even bellow, I am Cool Hand Luke with a cool hand full of nothing, taking bets on how many eggs I can eat. 50 sounds like a nice round number. And even though it seems completely impossible and reasonably stupid, it's a fun way to get through the moments of a lonely and undirected life. Stretching farther than I can reach teaches me my freedom and limitlessness, which is why I live at all.
The right now reality, unfortunately, is that I cannot eat 50 eggs. All those eggs in one basket... it's dangerously full, which I know, yet I try to consume them all anyway, and I fall sickeningly short. And my resilience flops so hard when the basket breaks, I can't pick up and build a healthy appetite. My stomach is calloused now. The eggs are wasted, my shell is cracked. I guess that's just what happens when you reach so hard and recklessly with all your eggs in one damned basket.
I thought I learned this lesson before... to spread the eggs out a little thinner. But stretching for something that full of desire just feels so good! It always seems like a mighty fine way to pass the time before the crash. Today I know: one egg at a time. I'll reach for one egg up on the highest shelf that looks just out of reach... and when I get it, I'll take my time to digest it, and then I'll reach some more. One egg, one moment at a time. No rush. No impossible expectation. Just stretching with a cooler hand full of just enough for now. That's what I'm looking for, and some other day beyond now, that "just enough" can turn into something golden.
Trainer: Only you can know that.
True dat, man, true dat. Though I wish someone could just tell me simply and make the search a little easier.
I'm still a little fuzzy on the details of what I've been looking for, but from what I can muster into words, as a result of my given circumstances, I can say that I've been looking for a positive challenge to pass the time. My arm has been raised up to the gods, my fingers stretched out, my limbs yearning in a specific direction like a flower tilting towards the light, all in hopes to grasp something just beyond me. The effort it takes is an essential point of my personal development, as I know it is the journey, not the destination. Still, I wish I had something to hold onto other than the excess of my past and faded realities. I desire the golden light, a thing who can reflect warmth and love and inspiration...
Sometimes I feel I've stretched so hard to meet the destination that I've come almost full circle and captured what's pooled at my feet, a little below what I am capable of. My head is down. I'm taking what I can get because getting something feels so good, at least it's something to hold onto.
But it's like sitting like a lame duck and settling for easy words. It's like sticking in the pond even when it starts to freeze over. It's not realizing I have wings and can soar above all that, and I can overcome.
Reaching out is a productive use of time for me even if it means at the end of the day my hand is wide open and unfulfilled. When I stand and reach and yearn, even bellow, I am Cool Hand Luke with a cool hand full of nothing, taking bets on how many eggs I can eat. 50 sounds like a nice round number. And even though it seems completely impossible and reasonably stupid, it's a fun way to get through the moments of a lonely and undirected life. Stretching farther than I can reach teaches me my freedom and limitlessness, which is why I live at all.
The right now reality, unfortunately, is that I cannot eat 50 eggs. All those eggs in one basket... it's dangerously full, which I know, yet I try to consume them all anyway, and I fall sickeningly short. And my resilience flops so hard when the basket breaks, I can't pick up and build a healthy appetite. My stomach is calloused now. The eggs are wasted, my shell is cracked. I guess that's just what happens when you reach so hard and recklessly with all your eggs in one damned basket.
I thought I learned this lesson before... to spread the eggs out a little thinner. But stretching for something that full of desire just feels so good! It always seems like a mighty fine way to pass the time before the crash. Today I know: one egg at a time. I'll reach for one egg up on the highest shelf that looks just out of reach... and when I get it, I'll take my time to digest it, and then I'll reach some more. One egg, one moment at a time. No rush. No impossible expectation. Just stretching with a cooler hand full of just enough for now. That's what I'm looking for, and some other day beyond now, that "just enough" can turn into something golden.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Your Easy Words
"Hiii....." he happily yawlped with a drool as I strolled toward him the third time in ten minutes. "I like yo hat, preddy lady."
I acknowledged his compliment with a slight head tilt, a crocked smile, and a brief moment of eye contact. I had seen this man before - black skin, black rain coat, heavy army boots stained brown from restless, aimless walks with his arms stretched out in hope and desire, his gray-tipped beard spotted with kitchens that made him look like the survivor of a chimney fire - and because his approach deserved attention, I made sure he noticed my compassion even though it lacked monetary value.
As I passed, my faithful friend continued, "I really doooo. What's yo name preddy lady? Preddy hat?"
"It doesn't really matter."
"He-he! Call me! 510...97..." His laughter reminded me of a character from my favorite book, so I turned my head to the left as I stepped down from the curve to cross 20th Ave all so he could see I was smiling. "..6426..." and the numbers drifted off into the distance. For all I know, he rambled 20 more digits in random sequence into the night air, ever hoping for the values to return as little silver coins in his cap at the end of those outstretched arms of hope and desire.
His words were empty and born from loneliness but they made me feel perfectly full. How can someone in so much need himself throw out such syllables and inspire happiness in passerbys when perfectly privileged people spit curses and frowns and poisonous energy around so carelessly? It seems to me a war is on - a battle between the empty, simple men who brim with life versus the fruitful, complex men who are hollow, their love songs echoing. Who will stand virtuous in the end?
"I can hear it, I can hear some words, but I can't DO anything with your easy words."
So let me be direct and to the point because it's what we all deserve. I'll speak to the "you" who sing and speak of passion. Alas...
Your words are meant to mean something serious. Saying that you like me... saying that I bring the best out of you... that means you naturally have a piece of my heart, even if it is a small piece. It's a piece that's pounding and bleeding and yearning to survive in your hands. What hurts is that now that you have me in a vulnerable state, it's clear your words are as empty as a homeless man shouting his imaginary phone number at me from across the street, and at least he does it with a smile. While one hand clutches my emotion, your other is on my shoulder because you're trying to speak through touch that "you're here." It's just that the longer your skin resides on mine, the more I feel the gaps and spaces and emptiness between us through the wrinkles and crevasses and pockets between atoms. You're here, but it doesn't feel present. It's like a memory... like an expectation I'm trying to fulfill for myself. The more time ticks on, the more imaginary you become and more alone I feel.
I can't do anything with sorrys and excuses - those words are just too easy. I'm looking to grow into the happiest, most fulfilled person I can be. I want to move forward bravely and still look back with a giant smile because I feel - actually physically and intuitively feel - the love you're casting out to the world. I can't live according to the echoes of false intentions, no, not this time, not again; I need to see love. I need to feel and touch love. I need to DO something with the feeling between us to make it stronger and taller and healthier, to turn it into a better love, not just sit and hear the shell of words cracking open into silence... that sound lingers and stalks so hopelessly, like a depressive calling into the past for answers to a future dilemma.
What I need more than an easy few words is a hope that everything you cast out to the world will in turn produce an unstoppable smile and silver pieces in your cap.
Like I need water and food and shelter, I need you to be empty of expectations, simple at heart, and brimming with words that have depth and marrow. I need optimism to overflow. I don't need you to love me now, but I need you to love life so unabashedly that no matter what obstacle is thrown in, nothing can stop that love from growing stronger and taller and healthier, and filling the lonely spaces between us.
His words meant nothing but because of his love, I was happier. Does he win? Or can you, too, throw such crazy things out into the night that make me turn and smile?
I acknowledged his compliment with a slight head tilt, a crocked smile, and a brief moment of eye contact. I had seen this man before - black skin, black rain coat, heavy army boots stained brown from restless, aimless walks with his arms stretched out in hope and desire, his gray-tipped beard spotted with kitchens that made him look like the survivor of a chimney fire - and because his approach deserved attention, I made sure he noticed my compassion even though it lacked monetary value.
As I passed, my faithful friend continued, "I really doooo. What's yo name preddy lady? Preddy hat?"
"It doesn't really matter."
"He-he! Call me! 510...97..." His laughter reminded me of a character from my favorite book, so I turned my head to the left as I stepped down from the curve to cross 20th Ave all so he could see I was smiling. "..6426..." and the numbers drifted off into the distance. For all I know, he rambled 20 more digits in random sequence into the night air, ever hoping for the values to return as little silver coins in his cap at the end of those outstretched arms of hope and desire.
His words were empty and born from loneliness but they made me feel perfectly full. How can someone in so much need himself throw out such syllables and inspire happiness in passerbys when perfectly privileged people spit curses and frowns and poisonous energy around so carelessly? It seems to me a war is on - a battle between the empty, simple men who brim with life versus the fruitful, complex men who are hollow, their love songs echoing. Who will stand virtuous in the end?
"I can hear it, I can hear some words, but I can't DO anything with your easy words."
So let me be direct and to the point because it's what we all deserve. I'll speak to the "you" who sing and speak of passion. Alas...
Your words are meant to mean something serious. Saying that you like me... saying that I bring the best out of you... that means you naturally have a piece of my heart, even if it is a small piece. It's a piece that's pounding and bleeding and yearning to survive in your hands. What hurts is that now that you have me in a vulnerable state, it's clear your words are as empty as a homeless man shouting his imaginary phone number at me from across the street, and at least he does it with a smile. While one hand clutches my emotion, your other is on my shoulder because you're trying to speak through touch that "you're here." It's just that the longer your skin resides on mine, the more I feel the gaps and spaces and emptiness between us through the wrinkles and crevasses and pockets between atoms. You're here, but it doesn't feel present. It's like a memory... like an expectation I'm trying to fulfill for myself. The more time ticks on, the more imaginary you become and more alone I feel.
I can't do anything with sorrys and excuses - those words are just too easy. I'm looking to grow into the happiest, most fulfilled person I can be. I want to move forward bravely and still look back with a giant smile because I feel - actually physically and intuitively feel - the love you're casting out to the world. I can't live according to the echoes of false intentions, no, not this time, not again; I need to see love. I need to feel and touch love. I need to DO something with the feeling between us to make it stronger and taller and healthier, to turn it into a better love, not just sit and hear the shell of words cracking open into silence... that sound lingers and stalks so hopelessly, like a depressive calling into the past for answers to a future dilemma.
What I need more than an easy few words is a hope that everything you cast out to the world will in turn produce an unstoppable smile and silver pieces in your cap.
Like I need water and food and shelter, I need you to be empty of expectations, simple at heart, and brimming with words that have depth and marrow. I need optimism to overflow. I don't need you to love me now, but I need you to love life so unabashedly that no matter what obstacle is thrown in, nothing can stop that love from growing stronger and taller and healthier, and filling the lonely spaces between us.
His words meant nothing but because of his love, I was happier. Does he win? Or can you, too, throw such crazy things out into the night that make me turn and smile?
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