What is it he's seeing?

Psychology is interesting...really, it is.
But right now I'm bored mindless.
It all seems so evident and clear, like reading the book will delineate something I already understood.

No, I'm not surreptitiously stroking my own ego, I'm just bored and rambling.

My stomach is growling at the most inopportune times and I'm growing less and less invested in the idea of sitting still, much less paying attention.

I guess this would be a good time to try and start catching myself back up on the life that I have set on the shelf for the last several months.
I shouldn't be terribly surprised, my writing consistency has never been stellar exactly.

I've spent such a great deal of time and energy working at overcoming the weather, the gray malaise surrounding so many of the corners I keep banishing myself into on a regular basis.

All of this gray and ugly weather is making me feel more and more like nothing matters more than sleep.
All I want to do is have a lot of money, little to no responsibility, a million books, a fire and a big plush bed with a handsome "reading partner."

This scene would be appropriately detailed with accessories such as Cabernet Sauvignon, a Toblerone, dozens and dozens of loaves of French Bread, Coffee, those little malty sugar mints that make weddings worth attending (right up there with open bar), and finally, down comforters, chenille blankets, and mountains of pillows.

Daydreaming seems to be the only lasting method of self-medication at this point due to the fact that reality is painfully slapping me in the face with every disappointing glance towards a charcoal-lit window.

I just want some Sun.
Damn it.

One Last Time

Having spent yesterday's counseling sessions recounting much of the topical material from the preceding 14 weeks, I felt as if I were in the last episode of an entire season's serial show.

It was that whole "best moments" program where a somewhat mundane conversation spawns a number of flashbacks to salient instances from previous episodes.

In this case, Rose hearkened back to numerous different conversations we'd had about my self-concept and stasis.
It made me feel well-heard, intentionally paid attention to, important.

I read her a completed piece from the last couple of months and gave her a copy of one of my favorite poems.

It was like paper leaves left behind by my changing foliage.

And now, here and now, in this moment,
I am.

I simply am.

Celebrating The Holiday

4/20: a day when a lot of people who already justify a portion of their lives justify a little more

And here's how it sounded...

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.