Ode To An Unexpected Feast

For the sweet drink of gods that tints my

lips with grape and that

warms me

happy-hearted with

spirits to the sky

like the bird I did not eat and

For the red beast and pink

succulent shellfish that I did.

For the white meat beneath  

brown flesh and earth that I

peeled and rinsed from it

and then pounded by hand

to a buttery pulp

and creamed and

For the gold that comes as a gift from the ground

wrapped in green textured papers.

For the night and 

the one two before with all its 

Freedoms of

pressing himself against me and

religion not tying me down

For all its pursuit of pleasure.

For the feast it seemed would not exist, but did and

For the warmth and abundance that exists

even in its absence.

Tattered Book

i thumb through You

excitedly pulling Your front cover open

i close my eyes and smell You

old comforting pleasure

mingled with unfamiliar new

and Your plot line falls apart

as i tickle Your pages

fingering through

the first few lines of dialog linger repeated

repeated

as i flutter past the mundane

into the open moments of suspense

where my heart

like antelope in the plains

beats its animal hooves

wildly on the trembling ground

away

from threatening claws that clench me near

and sharp teeth that may shred me

but the pages have been past wet

and the words begin to fade

bringing about my withheld breath

for the story tells the weak do not prevail

and here i have pranced over the beast

and landed on the page instead

where i die a painful death

not by gash but from internal wound

a clumsy gazelle who ran into a tree

self inflicted injury avoided

had i been attentive enough

to bright yellow caution tape

wrapped tightly round

You my favorite

story of the recent past.

+ This poem was written as an assignment  for my creative writing class. The assignment was to incorporate extended metaphor. This was my first attempt, and was written in 10 minutes with no previous meditation on the assignment.. 

Key Chain of Events

It is you, oh tangled chain

that I cannot live without

For you, jangling in my memory

and not jingling in my purse

halt my world

You dangle before the silk screen of my mind

casting shadows of doubt

questioning your whereabouts

and I simply cannot leave.

It is you, oh silver, rusted star

encrusted with broken jewels

who lights the darkness

to beckon me toward my vessel

You who opens doors

To the happiness of home

And locks my muscles with your Gold

medal of a gym card swinging

gracefully upon your rings.

Provider of entry to happy open roads

Warrior guarding the gates into my fortress

Tiny trinket of unknown value until you’re lost

Never leave me again.

Phallic

Puzzle to my piece you are

warm and full with pleasure

I tremble for you

desirous of palms caressing

your gently wrinkled silk

skin cascaded in your milk

pouring out with the feather of my touch

Peg to a hole

you do not slide but hammer in

hard redwood fibers burn

the delicacy of rose pink flesh

Pounding and clenching her petals

As you and the night glide beyond

Key to a lock

You are irreplaceable

Never could your part be played

By the falseness of plastic

Or models fragile as glass

I cannot break the spell you cast upon me

Oh slithering poisonous snake

You have me writhing for your venom

Let me kiss you with my lips

And take you between my breasts

As we slide into oblivion.

Taking and Running With It

Been down that road before

Dying,

killing potential

to win the race

Running a marathon with untrained

wobbling stilts for legs

screaming to

STOP

S l  o   w     d     o      w       n

But pushed on anyway

to a quick end

peeled up from the pavement

skin sticking

blood dripping

heart bruised from the pounding

grounds of dirt and memories

the wound took in for

permanent decoration

losing dignity and the pace

to move at all toward the goal

STOPPED

S l  o   w    e    d       d        o        w         n

one

step

                mile

                                stone

at a time

I’ll run past

The Finish Line

Harmonica

She breathes in slowly

Wide open lips

plumped with action

from its rubbing on the skin

In the darkness

all eyes on her as she

blows

and sucks

the bitter limelight

She’s a black little kitten

stretching out, tail in the air

and she digs in her claws

All aboard the whistle screams

a train song

and the cling clang

of metal circles grinding

on hard rails

begs me to 

come 

along.

*This poem was written in reflecting on the fun experience of having heard my favorite poet, Kim Addonizio, play a song called "Train Song" on her harmonica. 

Kim Addonizio is known for her bluntly honest, raw and sexually charged poetry. A fan of the latter, hearing her play, I had been certain that "Train Song" had been an analogy for foreplay, sex, and orgasm. When I asked her about it, however (yes, I did) it turns out, it was 'just' a song and not about sex at all.

It left me, none-the-less, inspired. 

Rainy Day Paper Presentation

You awoke to thunder

bolting you awake in bed. Body quivering with the first kiss of the rain

trembling with desire for lightning rods to be shoved

into your eyes

streaking from the sky as you beckon the chills

to come

from head to toe

between your sheets.

pouring into them, your soul,

drenching them in your wildest, most exaggerated dreams.

Not purified water that showered you clean,

but frigid acid-laced drops which, stinging

fell in quarter sized plops upon you rough

before you got Kinky

multiplying

your creation in a glass room filled with humming,

vibrating machines, allowing you to plug an apparatus,

press their buttons and do whatever

you want with love notes scribbled on recycled paper. Anything

involving the pierce of a staple, or a clamp for thicker tissues pinched together,

perhaps some binding apparatus or a thin plastic wrap

All for additional cost, of course.

You pranced in puddles, no protection present, and presented.

White long-sleeved tee painting your breasts black with moist,

shivering, shaking

so hard

that words came out unrecognizable

as your necklace bounced up and down with your quaking breath.

**Decided to try and write a poem in second person. Also decided to try to capture my rainy day excursion to Kinkos before presenting a short fiction aloud to class in an artistic and suggestive way. This was the result.

My Poet Roommate Tells Me

She tramples in through my bedroom door and stands there

in the frame, hair a mess and the plumes of smoke from her

cigarette jumping through her hoops

She looks down at her pint glass—full of what—and dazing,

droopy-eyed,  breathes in the tension in the room.

Then she looks, I think at me, her petite and

boney body pointing a sharp finger without needing to even raise a hand.

She accuses me of “trying to finish a conversation already over”

wanting to “kiss the body of my lover, the one mouth,

the simple name without a shadow” and other countless things

as I tally up THE NUMBERS of everything she’s said so right.

She asks, much too loud for this hour of the afternoon

“WHAT DO WOMEN WANT?” and tells me.

Tells me what I want, as she sways a bit toward me,

arms with fingers, every one clad in silver rings, relaxed at her side

and plops herself onto my desk chair to say I’ve stolen her red dress.

The one that confirms his worst fears about her and

shows how little she cares about him

or anything except what she wants.

And she snickers, bluntly, how poorly it fits…

too flimsy and cheap for me.

She leans back and relaxing into her vodka-drowned mind

tells me that she knows. She knows “I can’t forget…”

she pauses, drifting the Virginia slim back between her lips, and

exhaling bursts out laughing about

“the long vein rising up along the underside of his cock”.

I wonder vaguely if she’s gone and fucked my man

however mine he isn’t anymore….and anyway

She asks me. Asks me to TELL HER if she’s going

to stop thinking about her losses now and listen to mine.

She tells me to tell her how I hurt and to dance with her

“dance with me while we fool ourselves.”

Then she’s whisper silent as she tells me

“starting things up was hasty, love” as I refuse to SPILL

and then I remember again

That she’s blunt and ugly

She lunges to punch me in my gut and sinks it

deep and penetrating ‘til I feel it in my chest,

when I’ve just held it all weighing there between my breasts.

She drowns me with my own sorrows and dilutes my words

to kool-aid while she pours out her straight Jack and I sip, direct

from her pages, hoping to strengthen my own.

+Written inspired by Kim Addonizio, a poet I have to "spend the semester with" as a "roommate" as an assignment for my intermediate poetry class. Really so excited that I chose her. She's going to be an awesome roommate to punch out some words with!

A few lines were "borrowed" from Kim from several poems found in her her poetry book Tell Me.

Social Death and Brain Abuse

The fine print is reading rest in peace

asking if I comprehend

I’m donating my brain

and they need permission to administer

21 units of substance

my heart climbs up in my throat,

constricting and convulsing;

lungs suffocated by my thoughts

burdened by books of biased words, and

sinking in stacks of stapled papers

I sign

21 units

wading through war-zones of un-washed  laundry

knee-high and wasting in the ground

mixed with smells of last week’s dirt and grime

from both the humid heat and the death of time.

The plague of Troy fogs my eyes as                       ENGL44H             MW 

Freud strikes a fire and fries my mind,                  PSYCH1                TBA

slowly peeling away delectable layers   

to taste the fear of failure as I lie,

mastering my female anatomy                                HLED4                   TBA

while telling tall tales with little words                   ENGL 27B              Th

that tickle the tongues of those thirsting                ENGL 27A              W

for something to compute in labs where               CPAS10                  TBA

tables have no use for chairs

but provide communication.                                   COMM10                M

21 units of venom sink and slither slowly

until that’s all I am,

fearing falling asleep in the battle-field of class

while running with no breaks

along dotted lines with the zig-zag of my name

signing away my life

just for the semester.

My First One Night Stand

It was late, but not late enough for closing time,

And we were just two young old people

with half too many beers and the heat of cinnamon schnapps

fogging our decisions as we sang too loudly to that Gotye song.

He leaned forward in his chair, beaming grin, stubble on his chin,

and pressed his leg way too hard into my thigh.

Game on, my brows answered before my tongue.

And that’s when we left the building.

For me to make a play and

wrap myself around him from behind.

For his breath to hitch just before he turned

to unleash a trail of kisses down my neck, and

strike a flame with the match-head of his finger, burning

slowly along my desire, down the valley between my breasts,

over the plains of my belly, and finally smoldering inside me.

In a blink we had voyeurs; a mommy-daddy date night,

gone terribly right as some stick-figure bumper-stickered gold Suburban

paused mid-street to enjoy a rarely-seen public mating ritual of the dark and urban jungle.

We proudly gave them quite a show,

until he licked his fingers clean of me while dialing for a cab,

attempting words from his mouth as I distracted him with the

flesh from the back of his neck gathered gently between my teeth.

And when the cab arrived, there appeared no driver present

as we tinkered and played with one another in the back seat of the car

before unwrapping each other as candy

In the industrial concrete stairwell of his building

where the current could no longer be contained

between our male and female circuitries.

We nearly melted the metal rails we held to,

As we soldered ourselves together.

And then: everything the way it was before.

His door closed, our clothes off, contemplating the pleasure of the couch,

but pulled into that too-familiar hallway on the left, and the room directly to the right.

Into those same blue sheets, nibbling, pulling, drinking in

the man I’d missed for months.

Mine, again.




+Written on 8/30/2012 for Jeff Epley's Fall 2012 Intermediate Poetry class. The assignment was to capture narrative elements in the poem.

On Cat Boxes and Laundry

She looks at me

Big green eyes made smaller, slightly,

slighting me a little.

I know she’s thinking

Why the fuck the dog

Gets fresh-cooked chicken

In extra virgin olive oil

While I scoop what we call

“chinese food” in her bowl.

A small helping

Of essentially nutritionless

Sawdust and pulp.

The package says chicken

But we aren’t entirely sure she

Isn’t eating cat

At ninety-nine cents a bag.

And I know she figures

If the dog does something annoying--

Say, persistent whooping cough

Or whining as bulbous glaucoma

Squeezes out her eye--

And gets a treat

Maybe she’ll receive the same.

So she stares at my mom—

The queen of the house—

As she enters into her bed chamber

And squats

To piss

On the queen’s

very treasured

Crown

pillow.

Dear Change

Dear Change,

I’m sorry but I

Can’t explain the

Strong aversion that I

Have for you and your

Inconsideration

Toward normalcy.

I get comfortable with my

Pocketbook and you come and short

Change the situation

With your lack of

Balance and stability.

I get comfortable with my

Man and he

Tells me he can’t

Change…when that’s the

Last thing that I would

Ever want him to do.

I get comfortable with a

Schedule (that I don’t follow

Anyway) and you come in and

Disregard my disregard and

Change it all around.

I don’t want things to always

Be the same

But I don’t want them to

Change

Me 

I feel…

Sincerely,

Stuck.

Socrates

"The hottest love

Has the coldest end."

Said from the first drop of grain

In an hourglass full of sand.

So, that explains the

Fogged mirrors in a room,

And the bed with no covers,

Soaking wet brows, and red panting bodies 

As the winter blew through open windows.

And explains, now

Clear reflections from the

Icy moisture-glazed eyes

Goosebumps and shivering body

While the heat wave should be drowning.

Sometimes, Life is Like a Movie

So, there I am, talking about my "conflicted" life on Facebook and on Instagram with a photo revealing that I am reading both the Bible and a raunchy s & m fiction book simultaneously. Well, here's another little scene to paint a picture of my character:

It is noon. I've decided to tan in my skimpy-ish little animal-print bikini. Push-up top with thin straps, bottoms with little pink ties. I lay on the grass and opt for my sultry and "sinful" reading. After having had a few much-too-revealing conversations with my grandfather, picking up the book in such little clothing feels...a little strange. But I go for it. This is me. Age 26, sexy, in shape, tan building steadily like it never has before. And moreover. sex deprived--for two whole months!

I lay basking gloriously when my grandfather comes out on the porch. "Have the sprinklers sprunkled?" he asks. The ones that wet the mulch have been on throughout the entire duration of my bronzing, so I answer yes, as water from the nearest contraption gently trickles down my ankles, barely there. He nods and explains that he will be downstairs watching a movie if I'd like to join, and in response, I inform him that I'll be down in about 30 minutes, returning to my dirty erotica.

About two minutes later, I wonder how the grass stays green in this ninety-something-degree heat, if the sprinklers only reach the mulch.

And as if on cue, the real sprinklers turn on. COLD! Fifty-something-degrees of cold--rather ironic since I'm reading Fifty Shades of Grey--showering atop my baking body!

I rise up quickly in reflex, forgetting that my top has been unfastened, and my bottoms have been wedged in my ass crack for maximum sun exposure. As I spring forward, my breasts become exposed. I try to remedy the situation while simultaneously realizing that this act, without re-fastening, will be unsuccessful. I give up and, instead, reach for my towel to cover my breasts, but I'm standing on it and nearly catapult my own body straight into the ground. I jump off, gather my belongings, grasping them to my chest in a grip that I am positive has me looking as if I suffer from cerebral palsy, and run, wedgie-assed and topless onto the porch, yelling repeatedly "shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!"

Here I am, "sinful" smut reader in "god's country", running around topless in the sprinklers.

I suppose I can honestly say that this book really has got me wet!

ba-dum chhhhh!

Little Packages

Old Spice for
an old flame;
Nivea beard scrub to
face the harsh reality;
Manchego cheese
with my whine,
hoping to let the man go,
but he's still there,
A Creeper in my mind.

Magnum says
he's too big in my head;
Sunscreen because
I have no protection;
Pathfinder as I
find my way without him;
Pinot Noir for the
dark alleyways he still
absently walks me down.

It's the little packages
That bring the biggest pains.

The Many Ghosts of You

Pillows no longer suffice

for tangled up legs and bodies,

and delete buttons only exist

on keyboards and

not in the mind.

Matching puzzle pieces almost

always fit together in that

unchanging way.

Maybe we were pressed against one

another

just hard enough to seem

like our colors and lines were meant to be.

A false connection.

And among all the uncertainty

when it's dark and quiet

and the lonely night is

tugging at my brains,

the one thing that I know is this:

blankets pulled tight over-head

won't suffice in protecting me from

the many ghosts of you.

Girl Brands

Pamper’d with

Mr. Bubble 

Bath & Body

Works cited

for a DUI

InStyle with

metal bangles and chains

right on Target with the trend,

wanting hot Coco Chanel.

PDA suffocated by PTA

Chex Mix-n it up with

Mommy ‘n’ Me and

Gymboree so there is no

Gripe Water works

Aunt Flo-ing

as she Playtex-s with her man

in 500 thread-count Egyptian cotton

she saw in O magazine

Barbie queuing

Behind fifty pounds of extra

WeightWatchers

And Curves she hates.

Some guy named Steve

Madden-ing her with

Fisher Price(s) she can’t afFord

So she’s Pamprin herself

with movies to tell her

how to AMC life positively,

Starbucks in her eyes

Pantene-agers hand in hand

In a Mini…

van much to their dismay.

One-A-Day at a time

Icy Hot has new meaning

joints no longer heal, they hurt

and the men’ll pause when she does.

Met-Life and it wasn’t how she planned

but answers “how are you?” with

"Am bien"

Til one day her family has to

Kaiser goodbye Permanente.

Reset Button

Reset button.

I keep looking for my reset button.

I’m full of all these push me points

that every body seems to find

but none of them can press rewind.

I guess we’re all not built that way.

No fast-forward. No pause.

No eject button to push some person out of a soul.

What use are all these buttons if not for those?

Reset button.

I keep thinking I have a reset button.

It’s got to be somewhere, up there, in the brain.

I keep thinking, hoping, some

surge of energy will come upon its wiring

and ignite the start of a total system reboot.

But I can’t complain.

I somewhat like these memories replayed.

Reset button.

Not even the robot on my favorite tee

is in possession of a reset button.

He or she wears its heart on its sleeve

(just like me)

cassette wound tight in the stomach,

Teeth in its smile all gritted, biting at life.

And it’s cluttered with details its

creator felt were all essential to its being.

I am not sure if I wear the tee or if it wears me,

we are so close and tight and pressed together.

I don’t want a reset button.

To Love Me More

Walking around with my head

toward the ground,

trying to be rid

of my upside-down grin

and my jaded crown.

I am the queen of aloneagain.

It feels like I am in a pawn shop

with some valuable I’d like to hold

yet knowing that for

something more vital,

I need to let go.

The transaction, you see,

has already been done.

You traded me in for some other one,

and that said more than enough.

In fact, it rather said it all.

So, I left you sparkling behind the glass

where I can no longer run my fingers

over you, my favorite jewels.

I’ve locked you up, a treasure,

I had thought, far more valuable

than the heart of gold I presented you.

But then I saw it sitting by you

in the case,

and I took it back, explaining

to the man behind the counter,

that I was there

To trade you in.

So as I move on,

it isn’t that I love you any less;

just that I’m beginning

to love me more.

Non-Fiction Writing

Several hours spent

Sitting scrunched up

Staring at a blinking cursor

And a blank-again computer screen.

All the words that come out

Want to point to you

But I’m writing fiction

Not to be based on truth.

Realizing that I’m writing

With no success

Because I want to be writing

Straight to you.

And just as I go to close this window

That song I called yours and mine

Comes up to play in tune with my heart

All hopeful but sad and blue.

"True Love Will Find You In the End"

I was hoping it had found me

Turns out it’s still searching

For me and for you, too.

The Empty Glass

I walk into the bar.
I comb the room.
Exhilaration runs through me as
I browse the faces of those I never knew.
And in that moment I've tricked myself
Same as everyone else.

He isn't there.
Not in the crowd
Not in the empty glass at hand.
Like my numbing friend,
I've enjoyed too much of him.
And he is gone.

My Men Are Like Blankets

My men are like blankets.

I grow attached to every thread that makes them up.
On the threads lay oils of scent which I crave.
Scent which I crave and rub my nose into,
Inhaling the essence of where he's been today or the day before. 

I want them to cover me, to warm my body
And lay with me.
Lay with me in bliss, lay with me in sadness or in fear.
In the dark, protect me when I'm scared.

The feel of the fabric against my skin,
The warmth of the personality that dwells within the fibers. 
Some parts scratchier or silkier than others.
I let my fingers rove frequently and slowly over my favorite spots.
And I love every flaw because
As I discover them, they become more "mine".

 I need a blanket.

Like Aloe to a Sunburn

Like aloe to a sunburn;
Only it is he who scorches my tender skin,
And only he who can apply the moist nectar
Necessary to heal it.

It is he who makes me blister and swell
In a moment whence I regret 
Not having applied strict protection;
And yet he over-runs my system
In some sort of "regeneration".

It is he who peels this skin
As I disappoint my own eyes in my mirror.
All the same it is he who sheds the former me
Revealing a fresh and beautiful new shell
In which I will reside.

So that I might move on.

But he's like aloe to a sunburn.

You Have Been Loved

In a way, it is a different and pure form of love for us humans to leave one another when it has become apparent that some particular aspect of our relationships are irreparable.

Even if the word was never uttered, it is undoubtably a form of love to want the best and most pain-free life for those whom we care for. So, when that special someone walks away from us, sharing sincere gratitude for our being and concern for our emotions, it is necessary to take it to heart that while it may not have been the form of love that perhaps we were searching for, it was love enough for an individual to know that we deserved beyond what they could give.

This should be a comfort.  We must consider that we have been loved, and will one day be loved to an even fuller capacity.

Orgasm

Knees bent up like the mountains;
They continue to rise as the sun;
Breathing in his wind ,
Their breath becomes one.

A quake begins to tremble
As if converging plates collide
Rivers start to flow
Still the shaking won't subside.

A twisting of the limbs
Like trees colliding in the sky
Bringing him in further still
Like the pulling of the tide.

The stone of her smooth back
Lifts into an arch
And sediment is placed inside
A crevice in the dark

Until eventually the world described
Begins to disappear
And all that's left, in ecstasy;
Is him holding her near.

Hidden Message

Walking down the street and as I pass someone by, I hear, clearly, as if it were directed to me, "put an amethyst in your pocket." sometimes I wonder what messages the universe wants me to hear & I haven't. This one came loud & clear, though the person completely intended it for another audience entirely.

Failing to Flourishing: A Tale of Tampax & Shiraz.

Today, I found out that the world was ending!

I discovered that I was failing my History class. An honors class. When I had thought that I had an "A."

Like I said, the world was ending. My eyes saw red. My ears pumped out steam. My body shook with such emotion that my chest became splotchy.

I wrote down, on paper, a whole lot of "F" words, none of which were "Fail." I typed the same repeated "F" word on a computer screen, took a photo of it, put it on Instagram...the whole nine yards. I called and/or texted everyone that I knew so that I could get that whole strain of thought out of my head. No one answered. I took this very personally.

And then I went to 7Eleven for Tampax and some Yellowtail Shiraz. Telling, isn't it?

That's when I received the e-mail response from my professor informing me that, actually, I have an A in the class presently. I felt a tear well up. I felt a laugh come on, which created a rather contorted grin on my face.

I've been feeling a little bit like Diane Keaton in "Something's Gotta Give." That scene where she is pouring her heart out in writing and she finds herself sobbing uncontrollably and then simultaneously laughing her ass off, and then doing both at the same time.

Admittedly, I've always been able to relate to the hysterics of that character, based on the idea that it seemed like that was a very "me" action to be depicted in film. None-the-less I had never actually cried hysterically while writing and laughing, except for maybe a chuckle amidst a teary eye.

However, the other day I found myself exhausted, lying in bed, sobbing. And then laughing. And then sobbing and laughing. Not for very long because it occurred to me that this was such a very odd (and cleansing!) combination of emotions. I couldn't help it. My arms flailed in the air from my lying down position, in a "what in the world is going on" sort of movement.

And then I got up and continued the day as usual.

So, as it turns out, the world is not ending. I am not failing in class or in life or in any other manner in life.

Shiraz to that!

10 Days of Yoga: I've Learned To Breathe

A few weeks ago, I found myself heartbroken. I subsequently found--no, rediscovered by a friend's reminder--a donation-based yoga class held in a park walking distance from my home. I found I was out of my mind, realizing that I'd done just what I did at the age of 20 and had changed myself to make some guy right for me. I found I needed to breathe. I found, quite honestly, that I needed to be found!

And isn't that what yoga is about?

I started attending these park sessions. It was in some hip-opening stretch that I found myself listening to the instructor state something that I'd never once considered: that it was okay to be uncomfortable. I cried just a little in silence, my chest heaving as I exhaled as instructed. Then, with the next breath inward, that sadness, to whatever degree, was gone and those words were forever in my body.

I. was. addicted!

Day 10 in-a-row of yoga, and I've rediscovered a more colorful side of myself and realized how actually balanced the true me is. It is only when I try to align myself with who I think another wants me to be that I lose that vibrant nature.

I've noticed a shift in my body's balance, where I used to walk on my heels, I now find myself walking more towards the center of my feet, closer to the ball.

I've noticed my shoulders rolled a little further back and my heart "exposed." It's a vulnerable feeling but one that I somehow know is worth it.

And today, finally, as is one of the ultimate goals in yoga, I have rediscovered my lungs! How easy it is to have that feeling of release of breath! I used to treasure that feeling so much as a child. I'd look forward to those deep breaths in, where I'd breathe out and it would feels as if the whole world had changed.

Like a tingle of hope had crawled in through my nose, ventured down my throat, into my heart, down through the rest of my body, and gathered up any darkness that was residing in me to be released with that next exhale.

Like when a toddler has finished sobbing out their angst and has taken in air through their mouth , several breaths within one, and then has breathed it all out in one huff of air, releasing all the tension.

I've rediscovered that ability to self-release, which is a truly priceless feeling that I am presently treasuring.

Facebook-Free for 43

Day One:

I've given up Facebook "for Lent," though it isn't really for Lent at all.

The truth is that my friend Kristina posted that, although she was not Catholic, she was taking on her friend's challenge to give up Facebook for the duration of Lent. I was somewhat taken aback when I read the last sentence of the brief status update on the popular social networking site: "see you in early April!"

I sat looking at my little iPhone screen, blinking perplexedly. I wondered at first, is this a joke? And then I thought briefly, maybe I should do that.

The thoughts rushed through my head. No posting photos? That thought kept echoing in my brain. No posting my thoughts! That would be tough, too. My friends! How would I keep in touch with my friends? The answer was phone calls, text, e-mails. You know, real, quality one-on-one communication.

I then thought about how much anxiety it was causing me to think about giving up this little website for so many days, and that's when I realized just how beneficial it would probably be to to do so and take a step back. In the long run, forty-some days goes by quickly, and is nothing. All it would require of me is self-discipline, something I am practicing having more of these days, anyhow. It would be a big change, but if everything else in my gosh-darned life is changing, why not this, too?

So here it is on day one without Facebook. My fingers rove compulsively over my iPhone's face in search for that pretty little blue "f" button that would instantly plug me into the lives of all of those around me. But it was gone, deleted temporarily from my little digital device.

I wake up to Facebook, I waste my day to Facebook, I walk from class to class with Facebook, I go to bed with Facebook. It'll be interesting to discover what I see and who I meet when my face isn't buried in an application as I walk though these FORTY THREE days of no Facebook.

"Feeling" It.

I woke up yesterday and carefully chose an inspirational card that felt right. Let me say, it was perfect.

The card reminded me that I can only focus on my own happiness, and not on that of others. I looked down at my deep colorful patch bag that I got years ago, when I was in massage school or freshly out of it, observed the yoga mat inside of it and smiled. It occurred to me just how much I like my life, even if it is, at times, uncomfortable.

I'm not sure why it is so easy for me to abandon something that I feel this strongly about time after time after time. For me to be inspired and motivated enough to get up earlier than I usually enjoy waking just to be sure that I am productive and am able to make it to a morning yoga class, is actually a pretty strong statement.

I love the experience of stretching my body and my soul. The moments that I am forced to have inner dialog with it, mastering myself with every thought that comes into mind. A negative thought comes in, I beat it down with breath and release it from my muscles and my brain. Sometimes it exits with a single salty tear from my eye and a quiver in my lip. Other times it leaves gently with my exhale. Others, with a heave and a struggle to let it go. I can feel my muscles holding that emotion back, thinking it needs it to be strong. What I really need is to let it go because it all makes me weak and heavy. When all I am is light.

The true essence of me is a spiritual, deep being, emotional and knowing.

And I know it's silly, but I am reminded of this every time that I look at my colorful bag hanging on my scarf ladder in my room. It hangs there with my yoga mat and my huge water bottle beckoning me to remember and re-embrace the happy, grounded, spiritual girl that I lost when I was 23 years old.

Abundance From A Park & Some Breath

“There is a man-made concept called lack. It does not exist. Some of us may feel lack, but it is a false perception. There is no such thing as lack. Our lives are overwhelmingly abundant.”

My favorite yoga instructor has said this in two separate sessions that I have attended. Usually it comes just at the moment that I’m stretching myself so that my body is screaming at me to stop; that it’s going to break if I push it any further, and I am feeling just that: lack. A lack in ability to cope with discomfort, both physically and emotionally. Once, just when I was thinking this, that same instructor said “It is okay to be uncomfortable,” and it was such a mind-blowing concept that it brought me to tears. Perhaps it was the fact that my hip was aching and pulling at where it attaches on my pelvic bone that also helped to bring about those little tiny droplets of salt water from my eyes. None-the-less it was a very prominent moment in my present-day life. I keep replaying it.

To realize that life isn’t always beautiful and easy and comfortable was one thing. However, coupled with the idea that there is no such thing as lack, the concept becomes completely different! That, for me, was a moment of epiphany, which sounded something like this in my mind:

To be alone…….isn’t……lack!?

Essentially, I realized that the only person creating an emptiness in my life is myself. I questioned myself about what is missing. Friends? No, I’ve had them, I just haven’t reached out (and to my astonishment, they’re all still right there—even new ones—when I’ve come crying to them recently). A social life? No, because I can create one with those friends as long as I do reach out. Money? To an extent, but only because I make the decision every day to go to school and work minimally, providing for excellent grades and ample time for what I consider to be, actually, a rather good balance in my life. Love? I’m missing a lover--missing in more than one sense of the word—but is there an actual lack of love in my life? No, I am also surrounded by that. Drenched in it, even!

The bottom line is that the only true lack is in confidence and acceptance of my self. I lost it, honestly, so many years ago, that I’m not sure where exactly I left it. I assume I probably left it in the apartment where I played into the role of the heart-broken ex-fiance who had the relationship terminated on her. You’re supposed to feel a deep lack when that happens, so I made sure I created a giant hole and then buried it up like so many love stories tells us is normal.

Truth is: there’s never been a lack in me. It’s all right here. I just have to have the courage to implement, daily, an appreciation for everything that I am, that I do, and that I have right in front of me. I need to re-discover life’s little pleasures as I used to when I was young(er).

It’s amazing what a park, some breathing, and a number of truly good souls can do!

I am thankful.

Self Safari

Today I took a stroll along the streets of Long Beach, camera in hand. I went out looking high and low for the little quirks in the city.

The city may not always be beautiful. In fact at first some parts of it seem downright ugly with its occasional lack of greenery or over-population of cars clunky, old, and new lining its stretch-marked streets in need of repaving. The unkempt yards—or rather, housing in general—add to the eye-sore and create a definite harshness to certain areas yet simultaneously it is a more endearing metropolis when looked at as the sort of patch-work quilt that it is.

Now, I don’t venture into the ghetto. I only balance on the thread that is between the truly rough and textured patches and the guaranteed silky smooth safe zones of Long Beach. This line I call the edge of nice or, a new term I recently coined over drinks with friends—“demi-ghetto.” None-the-less there is a definite quilting to the city’s ‘hoods.

One square block has been picked up, and cute, charming little places on quiet streets say “this could be home.” You go up and over a block and you have where I reside, an older condo building whose trash can is busily “tagged” in its placement nestled between a printing factory and an apartment building always teeming with screaming unhappy children and overflowing with the scent of some sort of beans and rice dish. Just a few blocks away are what I now would consider mansions, but once would have considered only to be very large houses.

And this, First street, is where I had my little epiphany; this little recognition of perhaps an area in life I could work on. Along first street the homes are mostly beautiful. The streets are lined with big, old, knowingtrees and grassy, sometimes even ivy-filled patches between the street and the sidewalk. Signs ordering cars not to “cruise” stand tall and boast neighborhood watch programs just beneath them as an ornate street lamp stands behind like celebrities behind body-guards. So many older folk promenade along this hushed street, that it is almost startling to find what I did today and be greeted by ten year old girls awkwardly trampling about on roller-skates.

Admiring these beautiful homes, I found myself nit-picking. “This house is nice but could use more windows,” I thought. Or, “that house has a beautiful yard, but the whole look would be more beautiful with shutters. I wonder why the owner hasn’t purchased any yet.” That’s when I realized that I tend to see the beauty in things, and I appreciate it. But often times, I also note too clearly what could improve it, and see it so clearly in my mind that I lose sight of what is actually there and no longer, then, focus on an actual thing, but an imaginary one. It takes away from the enjoyment to whatever degree. Metaphorically, I realized this said a lot about me and the way I live my life.

Oddly, it is at about that moment that I veered away from these perfectly imperfect homes and ventured back towards the mostly flawed areas that I could photograph and appreciate for all their quirks and roughness. I suppose that means that I am, in some manner, in search of appreciation and acceptance of those things in life which I consider flaws.

A little alone time for this reflection with my camera was just the medicine that I needed for the day. Then again, I always find a new reflection of myself through the lens.

I’m glad to discover who is coming about through it right now.

Happy Valentine

I can’t blame the gentleman. When a man knows it is not a fit, he knows just that: it is not a fit. It does not matter if it is but twelve days from Saint Valentine’s Day. There is no use, when there exists not the genuine feeling, in buying a woman flowers. For what reason should he, if he does not mean to say what those petals would whisper to her heart? What benefit could there be if he were to go along with a pointless gesture, only to abandon all of the emotion in a departure from the relationship some days later? He would be nothing but a small fortune less endowed, and she would remain alone wondering if everything of sentiment before this had ever held any real meaning if he hadn’t meant what he implied on the day of love.

It could have been a Sunday or a Tuesday in the middle of June when no holidays were near and I had made no plans. It would still have stung exactly as much. The willing departure of a man from a woman’s life is not the sensation of needle prick, but the lasting sting of a wasp. A man’s termination of a relationship is a pain that persists. A hurt so enduring that when one so randomly cognizes in the middle of some thought or chore, that the end has come about, one relives that sensation as if the wasp had just stuck her and injected its venom. It lingers and lurks, for some time, to know and stumble across mental reminders that she, for someone else, was not “it.”

To know that someone else will one day completely claim, by law and by mutual adoration, the man which she once imagined was her very own, if only for a brief breath in a long series of life’s exhalations, is a sort of injury without a medicine to sufficiently treat it. Like a virus, only time can let the hurt run its course.

English Freak Starts New Semester

It has arrived!

The start of a new semester and new classes. I thought that I was waitlisted for three of the four classes I am registered for this semester, but was pleasantly surprised to find that I am already enrolled in my Literature and Composition class. Of the other two classes which I was waitlisted for, I was able to enter into College Grammar (another English class) successfully.

Honestly, I think that this is going to be quite the heavy semester and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Grammar seems like it’s going to be a blast. The professor is awesome, funny, uppity and so it makes it easy to listen. Besides, this is something that I have a huge interest in as I’ve considered being an editor if my writing doesn’t make it creatively or technically (which shouldn’t be a problem).

Literature seems like it should be okay but I am not yet sure what I think about the professor. She seems scattered, which reminds me of myself and I am presently undecided as to if this is going to be annoying or eventually become endearing.

History Honors seems like it is going to be the most challenging of them all. The four exams, if I understood right, will be 18 pages worth of critical thinking in writing and an additional project as the final.

And then there is the issue of Statistics. Hopefully, despite the huge waitlist, I will be permitted to enter the class. If not, perhaps I will find that my present course-load will be more than enough to keep me busy.

None-the-less I am extremely excited to have begun the semester. Less time to over-scrutinize myself and everything else in life. This sounds amazing!

English Freak Starts New Semester

It has arrived!

The start of a new semester and new classes. I thought that I was waitlisted for three of the four classes I am registered for this semester, but was pleasantly surprised to find that I am already enrolled in my Literature and Composition class. Of the other two classes which I was waitlisted for, I was able to enter into College Grammar (another English class) successfully.

Honestly, I think that this is going to be quite the heavy semester and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

Grammar seems like it’s going to be a blast. The professor is awesome, funny, uppity and so it makes it easy to listen. Besides, this is something that I have a huge interest in as I’ve considered being an editor if my writing doesn’t make it creatively or technically (which shouldn’t be a problem).

Literature seems like it should be okay but I am not yet sure what I think about the professor. She seems scattered, which reminds me of myself and I am presently undecided as to if this is going to be annoying or eventually become endearing.

History Honors seems like it is going to be the most challenging of them all. The four exams, if I understood right, will be 18 pages worth of critical thinking in writing and an additional project as the final.

And then there is the issue of Statistics. Hopefully, despite the huge waitlist, I will be permitted to enter the class. If not, perhaps I will find that my present course-load will be more than enough to keep me busy.

None-the-less I am extremely excited to have begun the semester. Less time to over-scrutinize myself and everything else in life. This sounds amazing!

Show Me What It's Like To Make Love

Show me what it’s like to make love.

Look me in the eye and tell me without saying a word.

Disrobe yourself and stand bare before me as if I were the sea;

And before you plunge into my soul,

Wet your face in my waters

And let my salty bitter flavor run over your lips.

Sprinkle the pieces of me that you want most

Into the bed and enjoy me as you would your favorite meal;

Nibbling so as not to go too fast

Only to arrive to an empty plate too soon.

Kiss my neck as if it were the first time that you

Held an ice cream to your lips and felt its cold sweetness.

Rub your hands along my sides and moisten me

As if were the clay that you mold upon your wheel.

Make me sing in the way that you do your guitar.

Pull my strings and frolic in them,

Play me like nothing else is on your mind.

Put your mouth to mine and drink me in

As if I were unlike any bouquet you’d sensed

In the finest wine you’d sampled.

Test me as if I were the sports car of your dreams.

Rev me up to get me going, then

Floor me until the moment that I roar.

Slowly bring me down to hear me purr

And then just hold me.

Hold me as if time was placed on pause

And everything were completely still.

Show me what it’s like to make love.

A Woman, A Man & Their Cigars

From across a dark and lively room

Her eyes catch to his

Lips gently caressing the brown

Paper wrappings

Of a bittersweet treat.

His cheeks depress concavely

As he draws in smoky air

Sucking in the flavor

From a moistened

Cylindrical tube of foreign pleasure.

From afar, the two minds meet.

An eyebrow lifts as if to

Call him hither.

Yet he does not respond

But with a wink and a tempted grin.

The smoking has begun.

A gentle pulse grows into the night

Until she trembles for his touch

And the flame is struck from his

Tongue pressed and flickering upon hers.

She unwraps her own fleshy cigar,

Tugging at the leather, clasping

Its denim wrapper shut tight.

When he stands disrobed before her

She takes him into her mouth,

Sucking in, as he had his smoky air,

Until she tastes his murky bitterness

In her cheek, whereupon

They both lie wasted.

Anything Else?

I am an old person in a young person’s body.

I am also simultaneously a child in an adult’s body.

These days I feel no more young than I do old, which at times I wonder if that means that I am exactly where I should be. Yet I also feel so disconnected from a major populace of this city.

I could write much more on this issue but that’s pretty much all that needs to be said on that matter.

Essentially, the old me wants to be getting into bed at 9 PM on a Wednesday. I feel like I should have a grand-child, but even my grandmother wouldn't be desirous of bed so early.

The young me is mostly school girl, entertaining way too many new thoughts and experiences, balancing a new social life which she never had and trying to figure out where she belongs in her own life none-the-less everyone else's. Naive as I've always been.

I have “friends” in their 50s. I have friends in their 30s. I have friends my age and friends younger than it. I feel in between it all and it is such a strange phenomenon.

I just can’t wait for classes to start so I can focus on anything else. ANYTHING else.