An Experiment in Stream-of-Consciousness Rambling

my brain flipped a switch and suddenly i'm writing again.

i missed being able to get it out on paper. to close my eyes, unhindered by the downward spiral, and let the words pour out my fingertips tapping away at lightning speeds across the keys, processor barely able to keep up with the thoughts spinning out of my mind.
i didn't sleep more than three hours last night. had to get the ideas out while i could, so afraid that i'd wake up and lose the ability again, crippled by my own intelligence over-analyzing every situation.

as usual.

i blame my brains for the mess i'm in. ignorance may truly be bliss, but i can't fake being stupid. and, although i know i'm barely above average, i'm still too smart for my own good, still dream what i know is an impossible dream that i am powerless to make true. yet. for now.

maybe one day that hippie artist writer actor colony will happen. where everyone can do what they want according to their talents and desires. where egos don't have to be constantly pacified because you have a doctorate degree in education from a state with some of the worst educational practices in the world. where those that like to garden can grow, those that like to cook can feed us. those that like to teach, to talk, to laugh, to sing can keep everyone entertained. where we can all keep learning, never stagnant in our own little skill set, and sing kumba-fucking-ya around a campfire while toasting s'mores.

unless you can't have graham crackers (sorry amanda).

i think what brings me down the most, most often, is the realization that people are not inherently good. people are assholes. stupid, mindless, mob-mentality zombies blindly following the latest trend from corporate masters, wearing Che Guevara tshirts and preaching rebellion while sipping starbucks pumpkin spice frappucinos.

i am jack's bitter beer face.

people are not good. but a person can be great. kind, warm, beautiful, amazing. a person can understand without judging. i think i need to get back to dealing with persons, not people. individuals, not egos or narcissism. and maybe i'll find myself again. i get lost in the anger and hate that constantly surrounds me in my circa 1974 mauve cubicle jungle. and i'm tired of absorbing other people's moods. i'm a sponge, picking up the negative energy until i burst, tears streaming down screaming face, and people think it all comes from within me.

i need to let it out. release the evil. popeye's chicken is the shiznit... cover Winkler with bees.

(even in stream of consciousness i can't stop making random quotes)

maybe the point of all this is i just need better coping mechanisms. learn to not let the man (or woman, hey, equal opportunity colloquialism) bring me down. learn to smile and laugh it off without becoming as uncaring and unfeeling as everyone i never wanted to be. of course the other alternative is to encase my heart in ice, my own fortress of self-imposed solitude, so the world doesn't bring me down to its dirty, gritty level of taxi-cab confessions and street corner hustlers.

i'm trying. i may fail, it might take me a while to get back up, but i won't stay down forever.

... i'm trying.

like finding little ways to harmonize myself with my surroundings:
walk that extra mile to the next bus stop when i'm able, blue raspberry sunshades to avoid early morning squinting as i take in autumn colors, leaves falling in windswept piles of red, orange, ochre, and occasionally green with envy for those suburban housewives jogging in matching spandex gym clothes, Nike clad pedicured feet pounding pavement beside perfectly groomed pets.

inhale, deep, and let the cold damp air cleanse the negativity away.
take time to breathe and enjoy quiet moments of simple beauty; like watching the sunrise pinks and blues, staring through the plexi-window on the hour long bus commute to work, finishing a novel every 2 days instead of every 2 months, writing down my dreams for once, in vivid detail, not relying on half-remembered sparks of imagination 2 years down the line when some idea or word triggers a flash of recognition in my tongue and hands.

today's show is brought to you by the number 2...

and maybe one day i'll look back at the path behind me and not recognize where i was.
maybe it isn't about the destination, but the journey. and all the endless bits of useless trivia and arcane knowledge i've collected will serve a different purpose than over the last 27 years.

maybe, eventually, being a walking encyclopedia will actually help me feel complete and whole, warm and safe in my own skin, and not alone.

Close a door, open a window ... or "Untitled of yet"

She picked a dandelion from the uncropped grass, twirling the stalk between her fingertips.

“You don’t, you couldn’t begin to understand what or who I am,” she said. Her eyes flickered up to meet his gaze, held the look with veiled pain behind the gray blues. She raised the flower to her lips and gently blew, scattering the spores on the soft wind.

“Every possibility, every road we didn’t take is a seed. A gentle breeze - it could be an earthquake at 3 a.m., a common cold, a motorcycle ride on a rainy night; they’re all a single representation of infinite possibilities. Every breath removes a few more spores until all that is left is the root idea of what could have been – dead and lifeless in some child’s hands.”

She tossed the empty stalk away and kicked at it with the tip of her paint-stained chucks. He stared at the awkward movement of her feet, her toes pinching inwards, digging the stem harshly into the ground. He looked up at the sharp intake of her breath.

“On one of those spores,” she whispered, “we didn’t always hate each other; we were friends for ten years. On another, you went to MIT straight from high school and ended up being my TA. One I went to Northwestern instead and we only met by chance at some greasy spoon in New York waiting for a conference. There are only about twenty percent where we haven’t met yet. But we will, I don't know whether by chance or design.”

A sly smile suddenly flashed across her pale face and she looked up at him with her crooked grin.

“Do you want to hear about the world where you and Steve …”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he stammered, shifting his weight uncomfortably in her silence.

“Ok, well on one world you have moobs, one world I have a cock. One world I died of Polio at five. One world you … you were in a motorcycle crash on the way to our rehearsal dinner about three years ago. Simple, small events yet everything is so different. Everything is floating on the wind, waiting to settle in a thousand different locations. Everything produces the same result - more weeds, more spores, more chances, and more regrets.”

She glanced at her watch, fidgeting with the band the way she always used to do in the lab waiting for the program to run. She always had a problem with waiting.

“In about 90 seconds an ambulance and 3 fire trucks are going to go by, there was a fire a few blocks over and –“ she was interrupted by the sound of wailing sirens.

“Guess you were a little off on the timing,” he muttered, “so what does that mean? You can tell the future? Travel through time? If you're theory is right, IF there are thousands of other worlds, how can one spore see where another is floating?”

“I told you that you couldn’t understand. I’m not from a spore. I’m from the stalk, the root, the original. And every time I find you again, but it is never the same. You … we’re never the same. And so far every version of us I’ve gone to ends … badly.”

“You’re telling me we always end up meeting , we always affect each other in some way. But you’re the only you I’ve met. Are you trying to tell me you have a clone somewhere out there, that we’ll meet and bad things will happen? Do you really expect me to believe that every relationship with you ends that way”

“ yes.”

“why?”

“it isn’t that simple-“

“You’re a scientist, give me proof.”

“… statistical analysis predicting future events based on past findings. And current.”

“current?”

“that fire. I … the me from this spore … she just died. The experiment created a feedback loop that just happened to travel into my, well HER, kitchen. The house burned down. I – she – was electrocuted. You caused it. Your experiment was enough to count as contact with her on this world. And it ended … very badly. Enough proof?”

Swing Away Girl, Swing Away

Sara sat in the rubber paddle seat, the plastic wrapped chains digging harsh frowns into her palms. She squeezed hard, hoping that maybe the sharp stab would wake her up, force her sleep-filled eyes to open. She’d realize this was all some horrid nightmare destined to be forgotten in the early morning sunlight streaming through her second story windows with the bubble-gum pink curtains. She hated pink, but her mom always insisted she’d grow to love it. Every inch contained some piece of pink - mauve carpets, pastel walls, or rose metal daybed frame. She couldn’t escape the Pepto Bismol feeling whenever she set foot inside her own bedroom. The chalky aftertaste sense memory rising as her feet stepped over the threshold, from neutral to frilly in 0.6 seconds.

The biting chains didn’t help; she didn’t open her eyes to a surround-sound diarrhea commercial. It wasn’t a nightmare. This was real.

Crap.

She pumped her legs a little to give herself some air - barely moving, but just enough so she didn’t look like she was moping. She didn’t want them to know how badly she hurt right now. They didn’t need to know she was fighting the urge to cry, choking back the tears and biting her tongue to keep the sobs from pouring out of her. They didn’t need to know.

Pretending to tuck an errant hair back into her messy pigtails, she brushed away the lonely teardrop that had passed the gauntlet of self defense mechanisms. Sara looked down and noticed her knee was bleeding. She must’ve fallen harder than she thought, gravel cut like knives into her soft skin. Too soft, she was too soft.

Not for the first time in her short life, Sara wished she could be stronger. Not muscular or scary, just … strong. Strong enough to let it roll away without obsessing over what happened and why. Strong enough to just let it be and not care what anyone thought of her. Strong enough to just be happy in her own gravel-bruised, porcelain skin.

Sara wasn’t strong. And they all knew it. They looked at her swinging back, pigtails flying as she tried to build up height and maintain the illusion. Adam kicked the gravel and spat in the grass. Jamie laughed. She sounded like a hyena, but no one ever seemed to notice, or were too afraid to say anything if they did. Sara pumped her legs harder, hoping the built up speed hid her flinch at that evil sound. No human should laugh that way.

She focused on her shoes moving up and down to stop the shaking when they started in again.

“Soooo weeee! Sara Swinegirl! Sooo weee! Here Sara swine! Soooooo weeeeeee”

The pink plastic toes were scuffed from falling off the monkey bars. The buckles needed stitching, they were starting to fall off their bands.

“Saaaaraaa! How many rolls does it take to fill out Sara’s dress? I don’t know, too many to count!”

The white socks with frilly tops floated like bloated jellyfish with each pump of her legs. The shoes were losing their shine, she’d have to ask her mother to polish them soon. Patent leather is so hard to keep looking new.

“Cankles, Tankles, how do you walk on those Sara Swinegirl?”

The socks bunched unevenly at the ankle straps. It looked like marshmallows escaping a pastel s’more., oozing all over and scalding if you touched them.

“Jiggly Wiggly Sara on the swingset. Jiggly Wiggly Sara pumping high. Jiggly Wiggly Sara’s gonna break that swing and die!”

She pumped her legs harder. She was flying high now, her plaid jumper dangerously far up her legs, threatening to show everything with one false move or slip.

“I hear that squeaking - Sue, do you? I think Sara hears it too. A few more swings, a few more tries. A few more pumps and Sara dies!”

Sara couldn’t stand it any longer. She alley-ooped, somersaulted as she reached the top, and soared into the trees. Her arms bent, retracted, curved and flattened. Her legs shrunk in - cankles, tankles gone forever - and tucked up and under her plaid jumper dancing in the wind.

They all stared: Bobby and Adam, Jamie and Sue. Sara was shrinking into herself, escaping her oversize clothes that never fit quite right even on her most normal day. Her red pigtails turned to crimson feathers, wings flapping happily out of her clothes. The plaid monstrosity fell helplessly to the prison yard below, shriveled and empty like a snakeskin left behind. Sara was free.

She chirped happily, sang her little song as she flew off into the trees. They’d never see her again, she’d stay this way as far as her little arms could fly. She’d start over somewhere new, where she wasn’t Sara Swinegirl; somewhere Sue didn’t call her piglet and Adam didn’t pull her pigtails. Bobby wouldn’t throw gum at her new dress, Jamie wouldn’t steal her diary and read it to the entire playground at recess.
She glanced back at their staring faces, at jaws wide open in wonder at her amazing feat. They’d know how great she was now that she was gone. They’d miss her when she wasn’t there. Wouldn’t they?

Below her and far behind her wandering, the school bell clanged the end of recess. Sara stopped pumping, her little legs forcing her to a halt. Delicate human hands in pockets, she shuffled over the gravel to line up in the grass with everyone else, studying her shoes like she always did waiting in line. Adam placed himself alphabetically behind her, gave the left pigtail a sharp tug and chuckled as Sara jumped in pain. He yanked the other one, then sighed with disappointment when Sara didn’t flinch.

Clenched fingernails digging half moons into her palms, Sara walked single file back into the prison, back to her plastic desk in the baby blue classroom. Someone, probably Sue, had drawn a pig with curly pigtails on the chalkboard. Everybody laughed. Sara sighed. Bobby had stuck gum in her seat.

Doodling in cursive lettering, she chirruped once under her breath and snuck a glance out the window at the V flying over the electric lines. Sensing Adam’s eyes on her, she coughed away her grin. They wouldn’t stop until they thought she was completely broken. Best to let them go on thinking that…

Silly girl, dreams are for the birds

silly girl, you should have known to keep your feet planted and your head out of the clouds. eye on that pie in the sky, never noticed that the roots were slowly twining, slowly climbing, wrapping 'round flesh and bone, snapping sinew, twisting tendons, disfiguring and dislocating. you never asked to be planted, never asked for this tiny little patch of grass, never knew that while you stopped, standing here, transfixed by all the endless stretch of plains before you, you'd never move one inch from where the seed was watered, fed, and grown.

silly child, you should have known you are your parents' progeny. unmovable and unmoving, yet you keep reaching your stubby little fingers to the heavens, desperately trying to grab the nearest star, arms too short to even reach beyond the treetops. ocular refraction, you gaze through coke bottle lenses, maneuvering a path through the galaxy's defenses: planets and asteroids mooning you in childlike defiance, shooting stars on a collision course to never-never-land, but burning brighter for 15 minutes than you ever could accomplish in this oxygen-depriving state.

silly girl, you should know better than to dream, to let your mind wander to the what-ifs and maybe-could-bes. maybe, only not for you. look down. look at the roots, twisted and tangled, crooked to the planet's core. stop thinking of everything you'll never do and never be. it just isn't possible, you see? for the likes of you, with roots like yours, with feet so firmly planted and arms so short, your dreams will never be reality.

so just stop reaching.

so just stop moving.

so just stop. just stop. and realize that you are all you'll ever be. and any hope you might have had, the idea of transplantation to another field, another crop, another stock, another state... any idea of maybe being more than you ... well, that's what is funny too. had you tried a little sooner, had you realized you were so firmly entrenched, had you only ...

but what's the point in what ifs?

they are simply never-will-bes, silly child, and no amount of wishing on those swiftly burning stars will ever change the fact that your own roots betrayed and trapped you. and you are you. and you are here.

and here and you are all you can look forward to when there is no hope left inside you.

Baklava Induced Ramblings, or You Say You Want a Revolution

i woke up this morning with a jolt, startled from my slumber by two realizations:
1) it was very light outside and
2) it smelled like rain

in my not fully functional morning mentality; windows to my soul still foggy, i ran a systems diagnostic. i lay in bed staring at my closed blinds, blue denim curtain rustling in the artificial breeze from my borrowed window unit. my apartment felt stuffy; i kicked off the comforter and lay on my back, fully exposed to the cold drifting air in my black and blue x-men boxer shorts and black wifebeater covered in latex stains.

(not that type of latex, perverts. i work with makeup prosthetics.)

my eyes squinted, searching for the nonexistent clock i don't let keep me awake in my bedroom. i dimly wondered what time it was, how late i had slept in, how late i would be for work, how that ONE person would stare at their watch as i came in the door, no matter how many hours of overtime i had put in the week before.

i breathed deep, popping 3 places in my back just from inhalation. certainly that isn't healthy, but i can't exactly afford a chiropractor on my current paycheck.

i stretched, toes to the bathroom door, arms wide, fingers spread out and pointing to each side in the typical "LOOK AT ME I'M FAMOUS" pose. groaning slightly, i sort of undulated in the lazy girl's equivalent of effort.

i think my face scrunches up from the strain of a really deep stretch, makes me look like i've just eaten a lemon whole and had an allergic reaction, all while slowly morphing into james carville. i'm not pretty in the early light of morning.

i turned to my side, curled back into my usual fetal sleeping position, then elongated back into a swan dive preparation. pushing up on one arm, the way Andrew Gaupp taught me back in voice and movement class, i rose to seated and fell forward over my knees, dangling feet and arms off the edge of the unkempt bed. slowly, i realigned myself popping my spine back into place and ending with a wet-dog shudder to shake off the dreams.

these weren't particularly bad, just kind of random. parkour. leito. a community center in peril. dance dance revolution to save the day... yes, my District B-13 residual dream somehow morphed into Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo. I'm still avoiding the urge to put on a hot pink headband and walk around in a skimpy tights/leotard combination.

i slipped my feet into purple flip flops to avoid cold tile on my sleep-muddled senses and shuffled, nearly tripping over a pile of laundry left-to-do, over to my borrowed window unit. i flipped the switch, peeped through the blinds...

it was effing pouring rain. in austin. in summer. on my birthday.

i opened my back door and bathroom window to let the saturated air flow through my apartment. i noticed my alarm clock, safely nestled by my sink so i don't stare at the flickering numbers in yet another fit of insomnia, was blinking angrily a nonsense time. the power must have gone out at some point from the storm.

i still haven't reset it. it isn't looking at me, and i can't see it from my current vantage point of my blue comforter twin bed, staring out the back door at cars and people tearing through the rain.

i think today will be a timeless day. with no ticking of the clock, no alarms set with deadlines and meetings and to-dos and must-finishes.

i ordered lunch, for i will do no cooking on my birthday - it is a rule i just made up. i took a shower. i towel-wrapped my dripping hair and changed into a sea green tank top and black yoga pants, neon green toenail polish staring up from the purple flipflops. i don't match at all...

so now i sit, hair slightly curly and still a little damp. stuffed full of red beans and rice, a little tabbouleh, and 1 piece of baklava - what can i say, i come from a mixed heritage out of louisiana. these are the comfort foods i crave. cajun, mediterranean ... and donuts.

freaking donuts. jelly donuts. ich bin ein berliner. with a little want thrown in there.

i think i'll hide my toolbar on my computer. listen to the rain while i stumble in the dark recesses of bookmarks and favorites, finding links i never knew existed and having nothing that needs to get done right this second. i think that is what really makes people unhappy - the lack of freedom that comes with being an adult.

as a kid, you had a curfew, you had a bedtime. you had playtime, you had school time. then you had homework. then you had test preparation. then applications and SATs and standardized tests to make your eyes bleed. you went to college for NINE FREAKING YEARS to get two degrees that, although interesting while pursuing them, ended up not getting you jack in terms of useable experience. you're now a secretary, not that there is anything wrong with that, but you were always told you had so much potential. you are jack's wasted life. 8 to 5, but really more like 8 to 7 most days. so tired on the weekend from trying to do everything that you just can't let it go; so you sit and tune out reality with netflix and streaming radio, never really progressing because you know, in two days time, you'll be back on someone else's schedule doing what they need done when they need it and ignoring your own ticking time bomb inside you.

breathe.

i wasn't really cut out for this type of society. i wake up at 3 am, more productive than i've ever been, but can't get the words out or put the picture down on paper because i have to be awake in 3 more hours to make myself presentable for work. shower, shave, makeup, hair pulled back because you're just too lazy to style it. wait 20 minutes for a bus that never runs when it is supposed to, when you could have walked to work in 30 if it weren't triple digits sweltering outside.

maybe society is the key to all this, the answer to the question i've been asking all this time - what am i supposed to do with my life? maybe i'm supposed to eschew society as we know it, start a revolution, redefine how we live our lives and how we measure our success. stop being a cog in the corporate machine. stop determining a person's worth by the size of their bank account or the classification number after their job title.

become a community of free thought, free speech, free education, free pursuits. where anything and everything is attainable to everyone. where knowledge isn't copyrighted and it doesn't cost $150,000.00 for three years and two letters after your name.

just artists and thinkers, builders and designers, revolutionaries at odds with how we're supposed to live and how we're supposed to be.

maybe the problem is with them and not with me.

What-ifs and Maybe-nevers

i wish i could make my brain shut off and stop playing chess in my head. if i make this move, this could happen, which I would then counter with this action... 3 or 4 steps ahead in what-ifs and maybe-nevers. I see the options laid out like little tightropes before me, criss-crossed in places and disappearing in spaces. Unknowns and wrenches spinning through infinity, life's debris waiting to knock me off whichever course I choose.

Life is what happens to you while your busy making other plans. John Lennon, smart man, shot in the head, very sad.

I need to put away the pen and paper, graphs and lists and diagrams of Venn. Just be me, but I never quite learned to go with the flow... how to give up and ride the current wherever it may take me. i always wanted some semblance of control in an uncontrollable environment, a computer light flashing that I have an option to push this button or pull that lever and set myself on path again. I like to pretend I'm in the driver's seat, although I never learned to drive and this 1957 Chevy with red leather interior is speeding downhill with no brakes.

Might be moving to swiftly on this one, jumped the gun 3 years out of desperation and depression. The realization that everything and anything I want or need to be just won't happen to me if I stay stagnant in this murky blue of run-together days.

Nothing I want to do is ever taken lightly; and while my decisions may seem nonsensical or rushed to some, every one is carefully mapped and planned with a choose-your-own adventure range of scenarios. I dream in technicolor, 3D road maps of where I am and where I want to be. Google maps in my unconsciousness, from here to there by public transportation, change the arrival or departure time to figure out just which route to take to avoid downtown city traffic or high school kids running naked from their schools. Get off my lawn you damn kids, I'm trying to get somewhere and be someone... sit down, you're rocking the bus. Public transportation depends too heavily on everybody else's schedule and plans...

So maybe I want the private option? slightly better, same cost. start over fresh in new state and new state of mind. but I don't think I'll ever escape the me I've become; and as much as I may wish to be someone else on all these just-another-gray days, I'm Eeyore for a reason. the experiences and skills I've learned wouldn't stick with me if I were another drone, a clone of some bubblehead in a magazine or flat glossy image from my tv screen.

I guess what I'm trying to say is I'm just confused and can't suss it all out, can't determine what is best because best right now might be worst in 3 years. too many variables and my brain, though super, is hardly a supercomputer for mapping out that many strategies.

I may be able to kick your ass at RISK, but I'm kind of afraid to take that risk myself. especially when it all could blow up in my face and leave me homeless, lying face down in a gutter, drowning in my own student debt that no amount of bankruptcy will erase ... until I'm forced to fake my own death and live off the grid as a former French stripper named GiGi LeFriebusch. Dealing out diner advice in a sweet southern accent at greasy spoons nationwide, packing up and leaving before I get too settled and Uncle Sam comes knocking for his kickback, a bank named Slickback in a purple pinstripe zoot suit riot.

... I have way too many obscure pop culture references in my ramblings...

and I think this all would be easier if it were socially acceptable or economically feasible to be a renaissance woman in this day and age. but the people want specialization, bounce from idea to idea too many times and they begin to think you don't have focus or stamina. But in reality, I'm just pulled in a thousand directions at once because I want to do and experience everything in my brief time here, three quarters of a century and one of those split spent in diapers and drool (part crib, part raisin ranch).
Maybe it is time to put away childish things. Pick me to be and let the other ideas die. Not pursue those little whispers that this might be fun or that could entertain.

But somehow I don't think I'll be happy just being one thing. Swallow my soul in self denial, slowly fade away and become the dimensionless character we watch every night with popcorn and soda and 3D glasses to make them somehow seem real.

I am complexity. I am insanity. I am abnormality, abstrusity, absurdity, acerbity, adaptability, ambiguity ... and that is just the a's.
I am too many things to define.
I am me.
... and right now, I am confused. *sigh*

Ajwa or Medjool?

my bathroom looks like a crime scene

half used bottles strewn across the counter,
crimson dripping down the drain,
the reflection in the mirror of that
shy, quiet, crooked smile as i contemplate my
over the counter how-to kit for getting away with murder

drop dead looks for 9.95 at your local drug store
i'll cover up my flaws with warpaint
draw their focus where i want the most attention
a flip of a tress, the strapless dress, the eyelashes
batting behind square frames that somehow make me hip

my bathroom looks like a battlefield

bits and pieces of discarded mental visions
strewn across the floor like malformed bodies
clawing their way to heaven at my closet door
kicked aside when they didn't provide that perfect look -
the semblance of low maintenance after hours of preparation.

i'll squeeze into my weekend warrior, evening uniform:
baby smooth legs raising up on too-high heels,
chest heaving in the dress that stops traffic-
the homegrown grays i wear to fight my blues
until johnny comes marching home.

my apartment looks like a nuclear blast site

so hot, i scorched my curtains; the paint burned off the wall.
not an inch of dust in sight, just in case that certain someone knocks
three times on the ceiling, or waits three minutes at the door
while i slip on the finishing touches, and no one likes
a girl that rushes to answer the first second you arrive.

a text to say they're on their way, and i feel the inner tigress rising;
knicks and knacks flee in terror to hide from the clicks and clacks
of my runway goddess strut down the tiles of my apartment,
pacing in my bedroom cut straight from better home and gardens
magazine and hoping i didn't get all gussied up for nothing yet again.

Maybe tomorrow will be yellow

Sara got there in a panic, fist pounding dully on the paint-chipped steel door. The apartment numbers squeaked and turned under the force of her shaking fist; she barely noticed 66 had become 69 and stored away the perverted laughter. No one was answering. Breathing fast, she kept hitting, alternating between bare knuckles and flat palm until both flushed crimson. Tears streamed unheeded down her cheeks and into the corners of her pursed lips. Still no answer, she hiccupped to force the cold fear back down her throat where it belonged.

Out of desperation, Sara tried turning the knob. It turned. She pushed and caught the chain lock. She pulled the door back almost shut, then slammed her full body weight into it. The chain ripped off the frame and Sara tumbled unsteadily into the hallway. She shivered. The AC was on full cold blowing frigid air from the vents directly on her still dripping wet hair. Preoccupied, she set the half-closed umbrella and her handbag in the cheap, plastic fern by the coat rack. She tried to collect her thoughts, think clearly, tried to figure out what to do next. She had gotten in; now she had to find her.

Sara called her friend’s name, meaning to yell but barely forcing a whisper. Afraid of what she’d find, she tiptoed down the hall and into the unlit living room. She cursed herself as she tripped over a pair of paint-stained Chucks and almost knocked over an expensive-looking glass lamp. She quickly steadied it and flicked the switch. With a long sigh, she realized her friend wasn’t here and went on to search the next room. Slightly braver with the growing urgency, Sara took full steps and softly called her name again.

No answer.

She paused at the closed bedroom door, studying the Mardis Gras beads hot glued together into a frowning tragedy mask. Her hand was trembling again as she wrapped her fingers around the cold metal and twisted. Slowly, she stepped one foot, then the other, over the threshold. She whispered the name, terrified of what she wouldn’t hear. Forcing her jellied legs to move, she hobbled to check the other side of the bed. She dropped, already exhausted, to the floor and lifted the white lace dust ruffle to peek under the unmade bed. Pushing up on hands and knees, she crawled over the sleep-wrinkled sheets and into the bathroom. There was no sign her friend had ever lived there. She pulled back the shower curtain, half expecting the girl to jump out laughing and wielding a plastic butcher’s knife. She could hear the “jiff jiff jiff jiff, pop pop pop pop” Halloween music in her head and anticipated the relieved giggles as she was finally let in on the elaborate prank.

Her friend wasn’t laying in wait for the perfect moment to make Sara scream.
Sara turned around and faced herself. She felt the panic rising again, tickling the back of her tonsils, threatening to escape in a long, agonizing scream.

“Calm down,” she told herself, “Breathe. Just breathe and think and solve this. You can solve this. You solve everything else.”

She twisted the left side faucet and let the icy water flow through her spread fingers. She choked down a smile at the reversed plumbing; everything was backwards here. Forming hands into cups, she splashed water onto her eyes and cheeks and let it drip down into the clamshell sink. With each dousing, she thought a little clearer, baptizing herself in the dirty city water pumping through the pipes. Sara blindly turned to the side and dried her face on the hand towel hanging from the hook. When she opened her eyes, she noticed it was yellow. She hated yellow; it was too bright and sunny for this dark life. No one is yellow all the time unless they’re on Prozac. Life just isn’t that shiny all day, every day without some serious pharmaceutical intervention. She ran just dry fingertips in circles along her temples, staring at the reflection, trying to find the answer.

Sara’s bloodshot eyes grew wide as she remembered the kitchen light had been on when she broke down the door. She turned and ran out and down the hall, slipping on a random polka dot scarf lying on the tile. With a groan, she lifted herself up and knew she’d feel those bruises tomorrow once the adrenaline subsided.

Peering around the half-open kitchen door, Sara saw her.

Her head was in the oven, feet dangling out like a macabre Wicked Witch crushed under Dorothy’s murderous intentions. Pain flooding from her eyes, Sara inched over and tentatively touched her friend’s cold arm. She pulled back with a gasp; then, finding courage, grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her friend close to her chest. Sara stroked the tangled blonde hair out of dull, unseeing eyes and wondered how someone so lifeless could still be so stunningly beautiful.

She shouldn’t look this disheveled, even after all this.

Sara gently laid her friend’s head and shoulders against the hard tile, slowly rose and walked back to her forgotten purse. She dug for a while, producing a tiny comb and a few Kleenex from the dark recesses where the gnomes hid their looted treasure. Shoulders slumped, she shuffled back to the sleeping beauty and knelt beside her unmoving body. Lifting the knotted hair into her lap, Sara numbly combed all the tangles until the strands ran silky smooth in her palms. Salty droplets splashed against unfeeling cheeks. Sara wiped the stains away with the tissues, lovingly stroking the chiseled features with her fingertips. Grunting, Sara picked her up, slowly carried her back to the bedroom, and carefully laid her friend down. She propped her up and smoothed pristine hair out of vacant eyes. One more time, she traced the perfect cheek with trembling fingertips before closing the glass door and locking her friend back in the display case where she belonged.

Panic easing, Sara collapsed with muddy shoes into her unmade bed and buried herself under the heavy quilt. Smothering her face in the fluffy down pillow, she screamed out the last of her frustration then smiled her tilted smile. It was going to be blue today. But maybe tomorrow would be yellow.

Dancing with Invisibility - oldie but goodie

I wrote this last year for another blog. That one shut down and I realized I never posted it here, so here ya go.


The wind blew across her face, her knotted hair and paper-thin dress floating in the waterless ocean current. Shivering, she took a few cautious steps from the safety of her back porch, bare feet on jagged pebbles lining the walkway, arms raised in the unceasing gusts. She felt like swimming in the air; it smelled like rain today. Sara inhaled sharply as the music drifted to her, carried in waves to her ears. Hands clenching invisible shoulders, she started slowly dancing with a make-believe partner that never left her cold and lonely in the middle of the night. She buried her tear-stained cheeks in his windy chest, pretending he was holding her tightly to him, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead. His shirt smelled like cut grass just after a sudden summer downpour. He was so tall she had to stand on tiptoes to kiss his cold mouth and smile her tilted smile. Sara lightly ran her fingers along his cheeks, traced the outline of his lips, paused holding his chin to gaze into his sky-blue eyes. No, he wouldn’t be the type to make her cry; he’d always be there for her as long as she could run outside to meet him with arms open wide. She’d know he was hers completely every time that gentle breeze kissed the back of her neck in morning greeting or the sudden gust nearly knocked her over in rough embrace. She wouldn’t be alone as long as she had him to love her eternally and unconditionally.

The tempo sped and she broke away, wryly grinning. The grass felt sharp, yet soft against her scraped feet as she wiggled her toes and stretched her arms to the sky. Surprisingly flirty, she whipped her skirt around her and broke into a pasodoble. Spinning and turning, stepping and posing, her windy partner was both her cape and her opponent in her little backyard arena. She artfully dodged her hidden foe, wrapped herself in his sweet scent only to bounce away out of reach. Her faded dress moved and shifted with each pass of his clever hands. Lost in the dance, her skirt brushed up her thighs as she whipped and pulled it to the rhythm. Unable to hold it in any longer, laughter exploded from her lungs into his eager face. He swallowed her joyous words, carried them off and tangled them in the morning’s laundry still draped on the sagging clothesline.

Struck with inspiration, she fashioned a veil out of her mother’s silk chemise, seized his waiting hand and rushed to the altar of her back steps. Tiny flowers floated up around her face and hands from the pile of clippings leftover from her father’s morning toil. The distant sounds of a jazzy ballad faded in and out as she focused on her silent, ever-present lover. She did, she would, whatever she could, she’d do to make him happy. He’d do the same for her, and ran his hands along the veil, brushing it away from her waiting face. A soft, gentle trickle of breeze passed over her lips, lightly parted them and tickled the insides of her cheeks. He leapt away and she giggled as she chased after him, jumped over rocks and tried to catch him in her arms to pull him close and kiss him again. She collapsed still giggling in the grass, gasping for breath and still grasping for his hands to pull around her waist. He ran his hands down her face and shoulders, cooling her skin but making it flush crimson with emotion. His touch suddenly eased, and as she rose to her feet then up to tiptoe he softly traced the outline of her bra under her flimsy dress. Sky eyes searching for permission, his hands dropped lower and around as he enveloped her. Sara squealed with surprised delight, lost herself in his chilly embrace and again buried her still-stained cheeks into his chest. She inhaled his fragrance, sighed deeply and kissed him one more time as they rocked back and forth to the dying music.

She froze when the first droplet landed on her eyelashes, ran down her cheeks and flooded her heart. A few sprinkles turned into fat puddles engulfing them both. His eyes, no longer blue but nearly black with rising fury at the interruption, bade her go inside. She refused, sobbing and ripping off her dripping makeshift veil. She didn’t want to leave him, didn’t want to be alone again tonight. Lightning flashed and thunder crashed, too close for his comfort. He shoved her hard up the stairs and roughly into the house, briefly touching her lips with a gentle goodbye before slamming the screen door in her sighing face. Sara was alone, soaked through and cold to the bone. She couldn’t move, just hid inside her kitchen and stared out the glass at her no-longer lover. His wrath tore limbs from trees, scattering the laundry along the fence and in the electric lines above. Her wedding veil was torn to shreds and fell in pieces at the rain-drenched altar; her bouquet drowned in the torrent. He raged for hours while she stood unmoving until he finally quieted. He gave a few half-hearted attempts at kicking pebbles at the porch lights, then stopped and stared back into her eyes. His sky blue was returning, but her pain wasn’t fading. She kissed her fingertips, lightly traced a heart into the screen and slowly turned away to shut the door. The wind pounded once, twice, three times in desperation. Sara didn’t relent, didn’t rush into his waiting arms she so desired.

She had found something more unbearable than being alone. She now knew they could never be together. After all, she told herself, he was only a figment of her cruelly vivid imagination.

In which she has a good day...

So often we live our lives in this little shell, cave walls of human flesh. We keep everyone at a distance, afraid they’ll steal our fire and leave us shivering cold in the dark and damp. We paint little pictures with electric needle brushes and metal spikes in various orifices. We hide ourselves with fabric and fashion. We isolate ourselves by choosing ipods over conversation, sitcoms over mid-dinner talks and after-dinner walks. We’ve forgotten what it means to be human.

Or maybe it’s just me.

I had forgotten what it felt like to belong, to fit in somewhere. Forgot that feeling of listening to someone and knowing exactly what they mean, even if they’re speaking a foreign language. Being able to just sit and be in a crowd and not feel out of place or out of time or out of the loop. It is amazing to see simple beauty in everyday life. Hold conversations with friends and colleagues about ideas and ideals. I forgot how to just talk when every conversation I have lately descends into an angry rant about something Debbie Downer did or didn’t do again. I forgot how to not be upset or sad or lonely or depressed.

I had forgotten how to smile.

I went expecting to leave quickly: say a quick hello, have some cake and see her open some presents. I didn’t think I’d enjoy myself much when I only knew a handful of the expected 40 or so guests. I don’t do well in crowds. I don’t do well with new people or new situations or new expectations. And I was dealing with all three in one big fell swoop of the mighty e-vite.

I take the bus, a 45 minute ride through the heart of downtown Austin into the gentler, peaceful setting of SoCo. I pretend to read my “Joy of Swearing” I acquired for a whole $1 at my local Half Price Books as college boys, wearing clothes straight from the dirty hamper, stare at (drool over) my pigtails and superman t-shirt. A few try to hit me up, swing and miss and strike out with one icy eyebrow raise and a flip of an unread page. The older ones, those that might’ve already been adults when Star Wars first hit the theaters, try a little harder and are harder to ignore. I smile, blush and stare intently at the words I’m not really trying to comprehend. I pointedly look at the floor, the window, anywhere but those winking crow’s feet and tongue-flicked smoker’s lips. They eventually get the hint and search for more naïve prey. I turn the page and stare at the passing block signs out of the corner of my squinting eyes, desperately afraid I’ll miss the stop and get myself completely lost and completely screwed.

I look up at the street before I’m supposed to exit bus right; push the signal and put the book away. Squeeze past a greasy teenager who “accidentally” slaps me on the ass and giggles about it with his emo friends. I jump down from the bus, hurry across the street before a car can finish pulling out in front of me.

She once spent 30 minutes scouring every department for that one desk that had the bowl of M&Ms, so I plan on stopping by a candy store to pick up her present.

I catch up with an old friend and try not to sing ‘the candyman can’ song when staring at his work clothes. I make my purchase, check my map, and walk the 3 blocks west to the restaurant with the backyard atmosphere.

I get there and know four people. Four. Out of twenty already arrived.

I wedge myself at a table between two people I see every day at work and actually like. We chat, I’m self conscious. I get carded when I order alcohol. Everybody laughs as I blush and put away my ID.


But somewhere, between waiting for my drink and sitting awkwardly listening to old friends reminisce about things that happened when I was in high school, I started feeling like part of the group.
I felt like I belonged.
They were playing blues in the background, people’s voices started overlapping in some sort of social symphony. Someone at another table would chime in and then go back to their own little stories. I sat and listened to the gentle whining of the guitar underscoring ten different conversations, smiling and laughing without having to force the emotions to the surface.


Purple and black balloons drift with a gentle breeze. Children scream and laugh and run. Little arms and little legs secret squirrel up sprawling trees. I jealously watch and for a brief instant wish I wasn’t surrounded by people I work with, or that I had better upper body strength to haul these massive hips up those low hanging branches.

I lose track of the time, sipping icy cocktails that simultaneously send shivers up my spine and warm tingles down my toes. I find myself telling a complete stranger details of my childhood; odd, when I can’t even form the words for someone I’ve been head over heels about for nearly a decade. Odder when I’m able to tell people I’ve just met something I couldn’t bring myself to say to him in person. I breathe in life: the sound of tiny laughter, scattered raindrops briefly falling through the trees, the bluegrass band replacing piped in recordings. I savor every bite of coconut pecan cake with sweet Italian frosting, each bite decadent enough to send me into diabetic sugar shock.

And all too soon it’s over, I’m waving good bye and going back home. Alone.

It didn’t hit me until hours later how much that simple experience affected me. I didn’t realize how lonely I am here. I was never really the life of the party, more content to sit in a corner and let the conversation come to me than to actively hunt down a good time. I miss knowing people. I miss sharing meals and ideals and singing badly with that Bob Seger song in the car on the way to the latest sci-fi action flick. I left my friends and everything I knew to move some place I had never been before my interview. I spend my nights curled up in cartoon character boxer shorts and tank tops, ceiling fans on high and Netflix on low. I don’t go out. I have no adventures. I have no life.

I don’t call or message when I desperately want to talk for fear I’ll drive people away. I don’t tell the person I care about most in this world how I have to nightly stop myself from picking up the phone just to hear the sound of his voice because I’m afraid he won’t understand or doesn’t feel the same. I don’t make new friends even though it’s been almost six months down here. I don’t go new places other than home and work and one of three nearby grocery stores.

It is just easier to sit at home and listen to the same recordings of the same songs and read the same words in the same books weekend after weekend, evening after evening.

I forgot what it felt like to be human. Maybe I should take a refresher course or something. But let's start slow, baby steps, one day at a time. Starting today.

Today was a good day.

this blog will self destruct in 5 seconds

i am a walking self destruct button. glowing red while soothing voices tell you you're about to die. flashing lights with epileptic seizures, i count down calmly to my own demise with a smiling tone and a steady eye.

and all i beg is that you hit me again so i can count backwards from 30...

about the time it takes for me to totally fuck up my life.

about the time it takes for me to make a single mistake.

about the time it takes for me to regret hitting send.

about the time it takes to realize i fuck myself over all the time

about the time it takes to know i do it all to myself.

about the time it takes to really start hating how i am.

about the time it takes to really start hating who i am.

about the time it takes to really wish i was someone else.

about the time it will take for you to realize i'm completely fucked
and completely fucked up
and completely fucking insane.

about the time for anyone to decide they don't really care anymore.


about the time it takes for it all to just be over.

A Resounding EFF YOU to Capital Metro

I actually didn't oversleep this morning - a rare thing on a Monday.

I got out to the bus stop, waited the apparent minimum of 10 minutes, then hopped on the 1M to head the 1.5 miles to work. Now, I would've just walked, but that would have made me 15 minutes late and it was cold.

At the normal spot i signal I want to stop, where Guadalupe and Lamar merge ~49th street, I pushed the little signal button and the bus dinged. the sign flashed "stop requested"

the bus driver didn't stop at the next stop - 51st. I protested. Several others yelled "stop requested", he said he'd stop at the next one.

We passed the next stop. Several more people said "STOP". He said he'd stop at the next stop. At this point a few other people are hitting the stop signal, which isn't going off because it is still flashing that a stop has previously been requested.

This continues til Lamar/Koenig, where he only stops for a red light. Someone yells that he'll get off here, it is a bus stop after all. I exit the back door, 4 others pile out the front. Some poor guy gets his bike off the rack and is almost run over as the bus driver speeds away before he is fully out of the street.

now, here it is. 8:05 am, making me late, and I'm a mile north of where I'm supposed to be.

I call work. I walk south the mile. A single southbound bus doesn't pass me in the 20 minutes it takes to walk there in the wind/cold.

I still have no idea what the fuck the bus drivers' problem was. I didn't get his bus # since he left so quickly and I didn't see it. I emailed in and complained, citing the bus route, description of the driver, and what time we exited @ Koenig.

I am Jack's Homicidal Urge. and I had a horrible, no good, very bad day. I'm sore from the unexpected walk after i restarted strength training this weekend. i'm tired. and i'm angry.

so, in short. FUCK YOU CapMetro. I'm not buying a metro pass next month. i'll start walking to/from work and only using you if it is pouring rain. it is easier than waiting for your buses that never follow schedule, never run on time, and have drivers from hell.

dysmorphia, paranoia, and other such afflictions

it's cold today.

it was summery yesterday. warm, pleasant. sun, fun, children playing, lovers kissing in the park. old women being helped across the street by eager boy scouts looking to avoid their den mothers' calls to dinner. birds dive bombing squirrels, flowers peeking through fences, gentle breeze washing clean the stagnant city air.

last night i walked home, sweater coat stuffed ungraciously in backpack. worn out sneakers pounding the pavement. keeping time with the stoplights, horns blaring as the mainline bus moves slower than these two stubby legs.

my feet rise and fall with traffic noises. left right brakes squeal left right lights change crosswalk beeps shuffle shuffle, don't step on that crack and break your mother's back. she's got problems enough without you adding to the list.

but today, it's cold.

shiver as stone tile touches bare feet. red toenail polish glares against pallid skin. wrap that blanket tighter. change out of thundercat shorts into woodywoodpecker pajama pants that sit low on my hips, 3 sizes too large but impossible to replace without regaining everything i've lost.

its time for fuzzy socks.

i drink too much coffee when i'm cold. shiver from the chill then tremble from the drug. legalized narcotic pumping through my veins. sipping away whenever the temperature drops below tolerable.

today, i'm tired of being cold.

i like myself better in the warm. the way the summer clothes don't hang off me, making me seem loose and disheveled. the way i can walk outside and not feel like a stuffed sausage roll with legs. the way my bulky coat hangs on that metal hook behind the door and doesn't want me to put it on. the way i can actually look in the mirror, cheeks flushed from sun, and not hate what stares back at me.

well, not completely.

i eat less when i'm warm. i feel less guilty with less in my stomach. food becomes more sociable, family dinners and lunch room conversations. swapping recipes with women twice my age but somehow less frumpy than i am.

i tend to eat in private when i'm cold. i gorge in corners, ravenous and never filled. not wanting anyone to see the simple act of hand to mouth. the disgusting scene of large women with large mouths eating large meals. 300 pound children drinking diet sodas with their big macs and fries. a slimfast shake for breakfast and 3 cheeseburgers for dinner.


swallow that one last bite, then push the plate away and exit stage left.

i feel like less than nothing when i'm cold.

like i could shiver away my very existence, fade away into dark nothingness. and no one would notice or care.

the world would keep on turning. it'd be slightly warmer without my frigid flesh absorbing all the heat from the surrounding atmosphere.

the world would keep on turning. the second day of spring, then summer, then the briefest weeklong fall ... 3 months of texas winter.

the world would keep on turning. and after a while, it would be like i was never really here...

Pay no attention to the psychopath behind the curtain...

lying here, can't sleep for all the thoughts running through my head
pouring from my eyes
echoing from parted lips
same old story, same old song.
same shit, different day.

lying here, wetting my bed the old fashioned way
one tiny tear at a time
drop by drop, pillow then mattress
saturated with sadness
this is getting really old

ok, attempt at poetry fail.
i got out of the habit of writing 2 or so years ago
haven't quite caught the swing of things again
the pen doesn't feel quite comfortable in this hand.
maybe i should go back to being ambidextrous

of course if i tell you that i write both ways
you get all these crazy thoughts in your head
pens and pencils, double fisting on college-ruled paper
scribbled, half erased, and ink stained
slightly crumpled indian paper origami

and now i'm not even making sense to myself.
which i guess is par for the course
when it comes back to me.
the more i stop to think it over
the more i'm ever quiet, ever silent

the words sometimes don't fit together
as they leave my lips, jumbled
mumbled, or not said at all
because who could understand me
when i barely understand myself

of course i couldn't blame you
i'm so far below what you'd expect
6 feet under walking in full sunshine
and no one guesses or knows
the full extent of what i feel

because i really can't say it
can't tell you when you're looking at me
why i squirm and look away.
why i want to kiss you with eyes closed
why i'm scared to think you might see me

the most transparent i've ever been
and you still won't look through me like everyone else
and you still ask why i won't look at myself in a mirror
or why i get that haunted look when you touch me
or why i get that quiet pain when i touch you

and it hurts to think about it
it hurts to know you know me
it hurts to know i don't know you
and i'm so tired of hurting
self inflicted, self induced ridiculousness

i bore myself sometimes
most times, straight to tears
uninteresting, unimaginative, and yes
yes, i know ... why try to deny it?
... deep down unloveable.

i don't see what you seem to see
i try and try to describe it
make you realize that i'm damaged
not good, bad, evil, wrong
horrible and whoreable

and not at all what you deserve
nowhere even close to what is good for you
so wrong that i'm sitting here when i should be happy
crying and worried that maybe i dreamt it
and it never really happened

crying and worried that maybe you'll read this
or i'll email you one too many times
or call you once too often
and you'll realize how fucked up i truly am
and you'll finally see me how i see myself

and you'll run away screaming
coconut shells out of time with your feet
and i'll never hear from you again
which is what i deserve and what i seem to get
when i let myself be visible.

life was so much easier when i was ugly
when people looked away out of pity
or just didn't even try to see me at all
when i could blend into the background
and be content knowing i'd never be with you

so here i am fucked and fucked up
crying cause i'm so damn sure that you were just being nice
when you said those pretty words and those plans you had
here i am not sleeping cause i'm fucking insane
and i'm scared you finally figured that out.

and i'm fairly certain i should trust my instinct
that feeling deep inside about you and i
that i had ten years ago when i first knew i liked you
an entire decade spent certain of no reciprocation
... i guess old habits die hard.

and i'm tired of crying
feeling agan like everything is repeating itself
another friendship ruined by a stupid decision
another misconstrued intention, needing intervention
just another day in the life of me

just ashley

i guess my favorite color really is blue.
but i don't know the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow
although a laden spit seems slightly more messy in my mind
and there i go falling back to deep dug trenches
when all else fails try baser senses

sex sells.

and i guess that would be great if i was a good saleswoman. or had a better sales technique.

... and i guess its kinda sad that the one thing i'm good for is the one thing i'm not good at.