Growth is what I aim for
wants
Growth is what we aim for

Recollections of a Familiar Past

1/9/07 - NH 59 - Early PM

My stomach won't release whatever tightness it seems to have so friendly with in the last several days.
I have no doubt that the bowl of cinnamon Puffins & milk along with the reheated (and let it be known overly large) portion of last night's lemon, cilantro, tofu shell pasta have some part to play in the present exacerbation of this discomfort.

Damn appetite.

But the altruism in me tells me that if pain and my stomach have become amiable I really have no place telling them to stop being friends.
I would hate to be told not to continue a new friendship. I feel like a parent and my stomach is my child.
The pain is that little boy with the dirty hands and the mismatching shoelaces who eats more than one cookie without asking or saying thank you.

But my child is homeschooled, afraid of people I don't introduce to him and cannot continue a friendship with pain away from me.

I kind of have to be friends with pain, too.

Pain left & now my stomach is mine again. It seems almost Oedipal, our relationship.
Perhaps that's why stomach has seedy friends from time to time; to keep me from being too completely attached. To make friends with other stomachs.

Smote In the Darkness

It had been days, weeks, months since the peasant boy had seen anything other than bleak hilltops hemmed in by cracked and dry valley floors.

Little comfort, little attention, little solution.
He felt little in so many, many ways.

Thus his whole person gave way to a frailty matched only by the withering plant life sparsely peppering the deathly landscape.

He was wilting away much like the now prostrate ferns once so lush and mysterious.

No crown, no royalty, no little blue flame in the palm of his hand.
Only the memories of these.
Memories seeming now torturous at their present lacking.

His whole being ached of loneliness even though he was so close to many sets of eyes and ears.
Those with whom he occasionally found his path combining held him up while his bloodied soles drank in a temporary relief.
But what of when he was alone?

His pace grew slower and more demanding while his thoughts grew heavier and heavier, weighing his head down until it bobbed consistently upon the flat of his chest, his chin bruising his bony ribcage.

Finally he stopped to rest and for a second caught the briefest whiff of the life he had led prior to the Downfall.
And then it was gone, the taunting reminiscence dancing from shoulder to shoulder until his head grew tired of turning and trying to follow it.

He knew he couldn't stay motionless and yet for that time he felt it the only way he could even partially collect himself.

If only the blue flame would come back again.
If only he could be a prince again.

In considering the dawn

Waking this morning I felt something of a blithe reticence to leave my bed.
It wasn't anything about getting more sleep or languishing in a cuddling lethargy, I felt it more like a pull, a gravity toward the state in which I found myself at that waking moment.

As I silently considered the reason for my slow-to-rise presence I realized that this was a sacred moment, a carefully constructed time for me to dance on the hem of the skirts of meditation.

I allowed the seconds to pass, each considered a gift.
I held to a sense of appreciation for the beginning of an all new day.

Aslan's insistent and annoyed scratching at the door offered opportunity for me to turn my newly wonted peace into action as I waited for his patience to halt his noise. Once he came to a quiet rest (sitting rigidly, staring at first me then the still closed door as if to say, "no, really, take your sweet time. It's simply peachy having no opposable thumbs,") I shuffled off my red boucle blanket and opened the wooden door, allowing his feline pride a sense of satisfaction and reiteration that he did, in fact, control everything, including me.

At that point I decided to appease Newton and stay in motion. I followed Aslan, further opening the wooden door, smiling to myself as it's reverberating creaking once again reminded me of the chuckle of an old gypsy hag. Once in the kitchen I set to grinding the Stumptown beans and filling the pot.
With the coffee brewing I started the shower water and sought a fresh towel. Seeing as how I had neglected to do my laundry the night before I was forced to reuse the bright yellow picnic blanket-sized terry Mum had gotten for me before I left for school the first time.
It always had a way of comforting me with more than its absorbency.

Throughout this whole series of actions I somehow managed to maintain my calm inner flow. My zen, if you will.

And this brought about an unexpected, although much appreciated opportunity for me to once again deliberate to keep myself from judging.
As silently as before I said to myself, "today I will not judge, today I will not judge."

It's no Buddhist chant but it seems to work for me.

And now I'm into my full-fledged day, looking forward to my next interaction, my next moment, my next treasure.

A Sinking and Swilling

Expectations make me sick to my stomach.

And I do mean quite literally.

When there is some sort of a perceived external requirement for me I become far too worrisome and end up losing what little focus I might have had to accomplish in the first place.

The sad truth is that I tend to over-inflate, if not fabricate altogether those perceptions all on my own. I make them, project them onto others and then they return to pile up on my shoulders and head.

I just want to find status quo.

I'm Too Tired For This

I am in the middle of one of those times where nothing seems inspiring enough to write about.

Even as I write those words I know them to be untrue.
Only a couple of days ago I saw a woman get on my bus and a little girl excitedly ran to the window and reached through its open space to touch the hand of the woman in a jubilant final contact.
Additionally, I watched a little girl at Bijou, Cafe with s tiny dress, a tiny set of brown leggings and a tiny pair of shoes climb on and off of her bench.
She had a single band aid on the back of her left foot and I wanted to know why.

I've been seeing James again, slightly.
He kissed me.
I kissed back.
We went to the movies.
We went to dinner.
We talked.
We walked.
We kissed a little more and cuddled for awhile while talking of former mistakes and modern misgivings.

And yet I'm left with this torturous ambivalence.

Who even knows?

If and When the Daisies Blossom

Holding to a firm understanding of the fact that I still need to accept and learn from the trouble and tribulation that this time of my life has offered, I must say that I am quite relieved to know that I have a job...in the nominal sense.

I look forward to seeing how the job market changes in my favor now.

I'm finally crying

I feel alone.
I feel somewhat worthless.
I feel incredibly helpless.

I'm a burden in so many ways...even to myself.

Everything in me just wants to shut down, to crawl beneath the covers as it were.

I can't stand this horrible existential state.
I want to make decisions to change but it seems like so much is out of my control.

Fuck you, Karma.

Two Months of My Life

Thus ends the saga.
I finally pushed it too far...and now I've lost him.

The pain I am now feeling is different and the same all at the same time.
It's like I was broken a little and then I was set to rights only to break myself a little again.
Only now the bruise is deeper and the throb more persistent.

I hate what I've done.
I do not hate myself. I am smarter than that.

But I do hate how I have made this whole drama to play out in such obvious and predictable explosion. I should have known.
Had I only paid more attention to the overall than the now, now, now.
But alas, that's the fall of one who plays too hard at something only meant to be done in tandem with another.

Love cannot occur alone.
It is meant to be an exercise of unity.
Not always untrying of sanity.

I've fallen, fallen, and fallen again.

Only now will I be able to rise from the little puddle of Noah I let my self-serving sympathy melt my heart into forming.

This is the beginning of something uncomfortable in its newness but necessary in its existence.

I hate heartache.
I genuinely hate it.

It's a hungry pain that makes me sick.
And to think my own actions precipitated this dull pressure.

I'm disgusted with the whole thing.

A Night of Random Gladness

Having just spent the evening with Melissa Mary Springer, Tiffany, Gayle, and a lovely musician named Jon Garcia, I must say that I am feeling rather refreshed.

That's a marvelous word for today: refreshing.

Although I did miss my morning class because I was doing its assignment and I finished only to find that it was released early, I was able to spend a peaceful time in the park blocks just sitting, daydreaming, listening to music and smoking.

Yes, I call smoking peaceful.

I made the spontaneous choice to go and see the Degas exhibit at the Portland Art Museum this morning. It was fabulous.
I was so impressed by the display of various beautiful pieces.

I think that I've found a new couple of favorite artists.
I was so excited by the style of Forain as well.
And while I don't remember his full name (I know there was a hyphenated double last name beginning with "Toulousse") I really enjoyed the third featured artist as well.

I proceeded to spend the evening with Melissa during which we went to Edgefield, listened to soothing live music, I had a Manhattan, and the evening was complete with tots.

I'm tired now and going to bed.

Why Do I Think of You

I just had a memory of Chris and I running along the waterfront; him getting frustrated and grumpy because I ran more quickly and with more perseverance while I just tried to accommodate by slowing down, taking shorter strides.

What the Hell makes me couch this whole memory in an "I'm so good, he's so lame" fit?
I'm not contented with being the child looking back on something and thinking of themselves as innocent.

I'm not innocent.

I haven't been innocent.

Perhaps of his betrayal...but then again that's over.
Why do I not embrace that it's truly done?

One Bad Apple

Brian Cartinella is a truly heinous individual.

Writing it out seems slightly more cathartic than I had originally anticipated.
Something that I'll never be able to fully wrap my head around is the ability some people have to forget about others.
When a relationship with someone forms there's a tattooing of connection, commonality, combination.

These things may change over time but the originals will always organically and immortally exist as the precursors to everything else.

People like Brian (and I have encountered more than just this spineless, ego-centric, pathetic hypocrite) have such a brilliant ability to demonstrate their truly soulless, inhuman disconnection from veritable feeling.

I don't care for him or for his opinion...I think more than anything I just want to inflict physical pain upon him.

Not that I ever would.

I would be reducing myself to his level and I will never allow myself that kind of degradation.
Brian hates life, his job and himself.

At least I only hate one of those three.

Indescribable

There's something going on inside of me that I cannot really describe.

I'm having a difficulty with Peace.
I feel such an anger, a discomfort, an indignant boiling.

I feel tight and ready to blow only there's something holding all of this hot, hot air within and it's causing my skin to feel like it's the only thing keeping mask on a very ferocious beast.

I cannot feel this for much longer.
I don't feel capable of holding this.
It's unwieldy in a way that should only be called unhealthy.

I don't know if it's because of one or many things.
I'll list.

-So many people at my house when I intended on going to sleep
-Seeing Chris and Jenny
-Seeing Anna (and having her want me only for my alcohol and cigarettes)

Wait.
That's it.

It's Anna.
She deposits in me the keenest unhappiness.
I'm feeling used.

That's IT!

I'm feeling used and it's removing my comfortable and established order.
My control is in question.

I need to let myself realize that I was used.
I was used and I must square with that.

Sadly I now know that Anna must be told of how I feel.
This will be painful for both of us but the outcome, I am sure, will be far better for me than for her.

This feels wrong and yet I know it must be done.
I know the feeling of wrong comes only from my auto-pilot comfort-others mode.

I still feel all tied up inside but it's beginning to lessen somewhat.

Short Stories vs. Chapter Books

I like short stories because you can feel a sincere opening and a sincere closure all in the time it would normally take you to get a single piece of a complex plot from a larger, longer written work.

Not to speak against those lengthier options, it's just that sometimes I need to experience the overall much more quickly in order that I be reminded that it's alright to feel.
To be.

Just to feel and be
and be and feel.

Never to do with my right what I may with my left.

Swimming In The Wake Of A Doubtful Schooner

I can't seem to separate myself from this feeling of foreboding about John.

I don't really care all that much about trying to debunk the idea that this isn't going to work which is of concern to me.

I feel like I'm so taken with him, I'm so invested.
But then a part of me doesn't feel that same emotion returning from him.
I know he takes time to think about things, especially when I tell him flat out that I think he's beautiful, that he makes me happy just for being.

But I want to hear it back.

I want to be fed.

I feel a little starved of late.

I feel like this is something of a problem that I have.
As if I should be seeing things differently or behaving with a more carefully constricted reactivity.

I just want to be wanted like I want.

"I want,"... "I want,"... perhaps that's the whole issue here.
It keeps coming back to what it is that I want, that in some manner I feel like I deserve.

I don't really know how to properly react to this feeling.
Or should I say, these feelings.

I was so excited, I anticipated so much.
Right now I am experiencing an excruciating standstill.

I want to keep moving.
I want to move with John.
I want John to move with me.

There I go again with the "I wants," perhaps it's that I don't actually know what I want so I just indiscriminately throw things about which I think I want.

There's my frustration.

A Final Cut

Having finally reached the point at which I deleted both my Myspace and my Facebook accounts, I have to say that I feel a tension-ridden expectation, an anticipation of just how this whole idea of cutting off is going to be for me in the long run.

I hope for the best.
I really do.

But sometimes I guess I feel like he still has some sort of "one up" on me.

Lord knows he's just as hurt and lost as the rest of us.

Whenever It Seemed Right, It Was

I'm really growing quite tired of being disappointed by Christopher.
It's like he's repeatedly (and successfully) attempting to place as much purposed distance between us as possible.

I'm at a point where I'm frustrated with his behavior last night with regard to leaving Jina with Rod.

Thanks for the trustworthiness.

Now I just want to be through with he, Jenny, and that whole mess of a past.
I've never fully understood the whole "be careful not to cut off all of your old friends 'cause when the new ones leave you'll be all alone" concept, but right now I think I'm starting to see why it is that some choose not to heed such warnings.

Maybe I just need to lose myself in what I'm doing.
Work a lot.
Get prepared for school.
Spend what time I may with John.

And others.

We'll see how everything pans out and I'm glad to know that at least I'll have Sammy back.
It's comical to me how the situation between Sammy and I has hinged upon whether or not Chris and I were friends.

Actually it's somewhat lame.

But as Joel and I agreed on the phone Chris is by necessity a thing of the past.

We'll see whether or not Jenny and I can salvage anything but I'm sure that guttersnipe, bottom-dwelling trollop of a child formerly known as my boyfriend has already planted seeds of dissent amongst the impressionable troughs of her questionably fertile mind.

A little verbal refuse, if you will.

Anyway, About My Darling Boy

Anyway, about my darling boy...

His name is John Broderick-Kartye and he's absolutely incredible. I know I've already been saying that but it's only because whenever I'm around him I cannot help but have it solidly reaffirmed that he is indeed such an astounding individual.

He works at Blue Hour (a somewhat...no, make that a VERY pretentiously sophisticated upper-end restaurant in the Pearl District of downtown Portland) and he and I met one random Friday (November 30th, to be precise) while I was on break from my job serving at P. F. Chang's. I had wandered across the street to Whole Foods where I typically spend my 30 minutes of free time eating, listening to music and writing about the people I quietly observe.

Sitting there with my Odwalla juice and croissant, journal pages in front of me just begging for ink, I was listening to a song called "Snowflake Vectors" (which is a lovely synth instrumental piece that is very mellow and "soundtrack to life"-esque) gazing lazily over the crowded interior of the store.

The people around me were eating, some checking out, some organizing their backpacks for the bike trips they would embark on after leaving through the automatic doors.
Then my eyes fell upon this tall figure wearing a deep aubergine scarf tucked neatly into the collar of a black wool coat with epaulets and square pockets. His slender limbs painted a subtle, heathered navy by denim disappearing into weathered brown, square-toed boots.
I was spellbound by his calm, innocent face, his graceful poise and elegant, liquid gate as he walked through the register line.
While it is my custom to watch from an objective and demure distance, my would-be glance quickly developed into a hypnotized stare as I found myself completely lost in just seeing him. Just drinking in his organic beauty.
His golden brown hair, coiffed in a pleasant disorder, contrasted with the starry blue of his mysterious eyes and his lips resembled vibrant ginger adding a natural, lush sweetness to the poetic composition of his angelic face.

I was transfixed.

He settled into a chair and began reading as he consumed his recently purchased meal. I could not see the title of his book but I observed his pupils traveling from side to side in a wave-like rhythm as he slowly followed each sentence on the page. It was like his eyes were dancing with the words he read.

In this moment I felt myself come to as if I had been sleeping and dreamt of falling to a point of rousing impact. My focus turned to the open journal in front of me and to the pen in my hand resting patiently next to the leather bound tome.
I began to write about the wonder I had for this character in the momentous theater of real life to which I found myself playing audience. I posed the question of where he was from, what he had been through, who he was inside. I couldn’t persuade my mind from its sprite like flitting around and about this unknown person and felt compelled to approach him.
It was like I was a flower in the presence of fresh and warming sunshine and I was so dazzled I couldn’t bring myself to bloom.

I finally wrote my name and number on a napkin followed by a short message, “I find you fascinating. Call if you would like to have coffee sometime.”

It felt so mundane. So uncreative.
So blandly solid next to his mottled and colorful aura.

I set my small work in front of me and proceeded to wrestle with the thought of actually giving it to him, my reason equivocating mercilessly between the rationale of the path of least resistance being to just follow my urge versus avoid the quite possibly awkward exchange.
Just then, the girl sitting next to me slid off of her stool unexpectedly, her shoulder grazing mine causing me to put new effort into my balanced perch on my seat.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said with an embarrassed smile and genuine tone of regret.
In order that she not feel by any means vilified for her unintentional clumsiness I quickly responded by saying, “No worries, honestly it’s fine,” smiling jovially and returning her imploring eye contact.
Her expression changed to one of relief and then relaxation as she then said, “By the way, I love your hair.”
“Why thank you,” I said with a grateful warmth.
“It’s really, really beautiful,” she continued with an unguarded glance at my tussled dark curls.
“Well I really appreciate that,” I replied, “what a sweet compliment.”
After a briefly extended conversation she and her dining partner across the table rose to leave and I began gathering up my things, once again looking in the direction of the beautiful boy.
He still sat, reading and eating.

Then I made a decision to myself. If a girl next to me can step into my little bubble long enough to repair what very well could have been an uncomfortable situation I should have no qualms about following suit in my instance; namely, giving my brown paper napkin to this person.

I felt my blood flowing more rapidly as I slid my journal and pen into my black work apron. My fingers trembled quietly, almost indiscernibly, as I wrapped my headphones around my iPod and placed it with the other item in my pockets. Then my feet began to carry me over to the far end of the seating area where I knew the quietly stationed figure could not help but notice my direct approach from his peripheral vantage point.
I squared my form to be carefully in front of him as I prepared myself to actually go through with what only moments ago had been a defeated plan.
“I know this may seem somewhat forward,” I started, displaying the same nervous half-smile the girl had given me just prior, “but that’s just the kind of person I am,” I finished almost apologetically.
“Oh,” he said in a curious tone with a hint of amusement. He had begun to look at me just as I had begun to speak and at the end of my presentation he accepted the napkin, using two fingers to slide it toward him across the tabletop.
“My name is Noah,” I said, trying to fill the potential silence before either one of us was able to begin feeling that sickening tightness of social invasion.
“I’m John,” he replied with a smile.
“Hello John, it’s nice to meet you,” I said while inwardly regretting the fact that I had just said the most stereotypically Boy Scout response imaginable.
I felt I looked and sounded trite and ridiculous.
Even so, I came back to the moment in order that in talking a bit I might be able to salvage my first impression.
“You seem really familiar. I think I might have seen you somewhere before,” I stated with a playful tilt of my head and a jocular squint.
“Yeah,” he said with a tone of moderate seriousness, “possibly around campus.”
Suddenly feeling like I was actually being taken with some semblance of gravity my whole body relaxed slightly as I grew more composed and confident.
“Do you go to PSU?”
“Yeah- well- I’m taking a break right now.”
“What are you studying?”
“Environmental studies. But I just needed to take some time to myself.”
In that instant I realized that we were actually having a conversation and I was actually caring about what he was saying and asking genuinely interested questions.
“Oh believe me, I understand that need,” I said with a muted guffaw, “I took a spring term off last year and then subsequently went into summer so I had a long time away but it was definitely refreshing.”
“Yeah,” he agreed again with a cheerful seriousness, “I’m hoping it will be for me, too.”
“Well, I need to get going back to work. My break is almost over,“ I ruefully informed him as I stepped back from the table, “but it was definitely great talking to you. And seriously, if you ever want to do coffee…” I finished in what I hoped was a smooth and casual open diminuendo, gesturing toward my napkin now in his possession.
“I’d enjoy that, thank you,” he quickly said, not breaking eye contact, ”I’ll definitely call you.”

With that we said our good byes and I walked back across the street, oddly elated at having actualized my intentions.

Upon returning to the restaurant, I was in such a giddy mood that I had to show the hostesses what I had written about this “man with the bright violet scarf and brown leather boots” and proceeded to read directly from my journal relaying the whole experience along with my undisguised excitement.

The Louder The Sight, The Blinder The Man

I have a strong feeling that whatever it is I choose will somehow end up being wrong.
Whoever I settle on...myself, himself...will be turned into some form of dreaded mistake.

I'm truly confused as to why I was so quickly thrown into this state of disrepair.
If I were to trace a catalyst it would have to be somewhere in the vicinity of Jemme, or possibly Terrie, or possibly Allena...then again, the likely surmise would be to say that all three combined played some cooperative role.

And now I sit here staring blandly at a computer screen while this boy who really and truly wants to know, to make more reason to like me, is laying in my bed getting so close to slumber.
And yet I still feel on edge.

Perhaps I really am pushing myself to know something or decide something prematurely.

If so, I have the faithful knowledge of premature babies who survived and thrived.
Will I survive?
If so, will I also thrive?

Or is that too much to ask?

Naked Truth

I feel like my heart is half-in, half-out of the water right now.
It can't decided to swim or stay dry.
I hate this indecision.

I feel like I am stuck on these feelings of "maybe something better will come along," just because Jarod isn't the stereotypical "steamy, sexy gay man" that I've become so accustomed to in recent bouts with my digital fucks.

I can't see myself deserving to be liked by anyone, but then I'm giving myself these ridiculous ideas of what I should and shouldn't be "settling for" when it comes to standards of beauty.

I fucking hate my surface level, vain, shallow self sometimes.