Monday, February 28, 2005

Weird things about me

When I'm at home, I eat with chopsticks, now even more than I used to. In my first apartment, I always ate pasta with chopsticks, but I now eat everything but soup that way. I've discovered it's a really great way to eat salad.
I have to shut and lock the bathroom door even when no one is in the apartment but me.
I now leave the door open, though, just during showers so I can hear the cd-player. (keeping a cd-player in the bathroom didn't work well - the steam killed it).
I keep new toothbrushes in the cabinet in case of guests.
I like the TV on when I read. I like to have something to do while watching movies (ie, draw, sew, read, eat, etc...) I get one channel on my tv sometimes. It doesn't always come in.
Sometimes, in times of stress, I stand on my head. I'm not very good at it, but it's a focusing thing.
I kick the upper kitchen cabinets shut. They're little ones above a window so they're rather high.
Certain doors have to be open, certain ones shut, door handles straitened.
I like to eat in the tub, but I never take baths now. This tub doesn't fit right (too used to claw-foot, I'm spoiled). I don't eat in the shower, but I do sometimes bring beverages.
I sometimes sleep with a kimono still on over my nightgown. I sleep better on dark-colored sheets. I can't sleep unless I pull the sheet over my mouth. (ie... I hide)
I never bother to change purses to match an outfit, but my undies usually have to coordinate with my bra.
I cry in the shower, unless I'm singing. I laugh at funerals. I laugh when I'm nervous, often can't cry if I'm sad, but I do cry when angry. My chest turns red when I'm excited. If one thing after another goes wrong (like car breaking down on a rainy day and I'm stuck walking for hours) I laugh like a mad-woman. I bite. I talk to the cat like a person. I talk to myself. I never get into my car without first looking into and under it.
I drink milk directly from the carton, but wont serve guests milk from a carton I've chugged from. I like to see how many grapes I can fit in my mouth at one time.
I dream a lot. In a one-hour nap, I'll wake up remembering tons of different dreams, usually insanely detailed. Sometimes I have a hard time figuring out something is just a dream, as they're very vivid. I hate polo-shirts on men. I like button-up shirts a lot. I have a drawer in my dresser that contains nothing but turtle-neck shirts and it is too full to shut.
Another weird thing: I write long, rambling boring posts about semi-weird things.

Saturday, February 26, 2005


Seems someone
is always
playing games
with my head.
But how fair
is dodgeball if
I'm duct-taped
to the wall?
Keep away
is a favorite
they like
to tease me with.
My heart in jeapordy,
and they play
"liar's club".
Riddley Riddley
Riddley marie...
I see something
you don't want
me to see;
to scrabble
my cranium.
But I guess
you've got to
slide into base,
this is, after-all
the all american sport
and I am only
the ball.

Friday, February 25, 2005

Thank You

Something happened... felt like a big fat post shoved through my lungs was suddenly pulled out. It had been there for a while. Suddenly, I could breathe again. All I could do with all that new air was ball like a baby. Thank goodness my coworkers aren't here.

thank you


I was wondering what it meant, some of this desperate crying in very old (no longer here) posts as well as things from years before.

I've been fighting so long, struggling, steering, myself... I can't stand being around people when they want me to control them and I don't want to be controlled either. But, I have to be so alert....
I have to watch every move... don't slip off a cliff, don't step on anyone's toes, don't walk too slow, don't miss this opportunity, don't rush, don't vear from your path, etc.....
It's as if I'm being constantly hunted and every muscle and nerve is always ready to extend, retract, react.... I've been that way for 30 frickin years.

Have you ever wanted to be held so tight that you couldn't move? Just so for a few minutes you would have no reason to think about which way you're supposed to move? Maybe that's how kids feel with their parents. My earliest memories of mom holding me, I was paying attention because she'd go from sweet mommy to mommy dearest so quickly. She was a good person, but I always had my guard up with her. I trusted Dad more, but dad's don't do the long-hold thing. They hug you, but when your mind moves like mine does, you only feel hugs in retrospect. My mind is so busy, that I can't soak in a hug until it's over. It takes a few minutes of holding before my psyche will relenquish control of my senses and let my body stop and just absorb. Maybe that's why I want to lean on people and be close to them, something sustained enough that even I can absorb it.

I want to trust. I want to not think for 5 minutes or so. People see "holding" someone as only a prelude to something else. I see it as a moment to trust someone and let them take away, if just for a moment, that horrible constant responsibility to be in constant control of every inch of myself. To take away that constant paranoid watch I have to keep on my surroundings. Of course, it only works if you feel like you can really depend on that person.

ok, so I was just analyzing old writing, there. I aint askin for affection. It never really means anything anyway, does it?

Perhaps I just need a tangible villian to release the tension of all this guard on. No intangible villians (like Cancer, human unreliability, my own shortcomings, etc...) but a nice big angry henchmen staring me in the eyes. Someone to lay into with all I've got. Whether I won or lost, for once I'd be free of the things I carry in me.
I've started over
so many times,
the beginnings
and ends
blend to mud.

Another Kigo-less Haiku

Sometimes I feel like
a disposable person -
tired of being tossed.


In some ways, I'm kinda starting all over (yet again)

New blog, new topics, etc....
I keep trying to think of general things to write about (nature, time, human-nature, etc...) and am running out of ideas fast.
So, should I return to old habits and write something personal? I'm still plenty willing to do that so long as it affects no one else, but there's not much going on inside the noggin. That's the problem with washing off the old chalk dust and making room to start over... you come up with a lot of blanks.

Well, blanks can be good. They can feel empty, but they leave lots of elbow room.
Anybody up for pizza and beer?

I'm going to GameWorks tomorrow. Going to hang out with Brandi :D I'm excited. I see so very little of her.


When I was little, I had a jewelry box. When you opened it, this plastic ballerina would spring upright and spin slowly around to the tinkling tune of "raindrops are falling on my head". When you shut the box, she folded away and the music stopped as if she ceased to exist.

Now and then, men marvel at me. "What a precious Ballerina". They open up my trust, and I dance. The look at me with admiration in their eyes, as if I'm some etherial princess, some fairy tale. Then, they learn I am more than plastic. I know more than one song and I can do lots of dances. When they see I have much more to offer than an unmoving plastic doll, they become bored. Some people are mesmerized by the fake and one-dimentional, and bored with the vivid. So, they shut the box and trot away. But, I don't cease to exist when the box is shut. I'm fully aware, there, in the dark.

I'm not saying all men are like this. Most are, most people are, maybe. And it isn't always romantic relationships. It's just how people often treat people.

It was just a thought. Of course, I wasn't big into balerina's, so the jewlery box was mostly fun for the music and for being a special place to hide things. My alarm clock was much cooler. I think this is the same one. Talking Batman/robin clock. It's quite cool, check it out.

Anyway... I saw something online that reminded me of the stuff my mom painted on my jewelry box which reminded me of the little ballerina, so that's how we ended up here. :)


I sit here,
running threads of grey
through my fingers.
Everyone wants me to cut it.
They say I’m too old
for long hair.
But I always liked grey.
It’s a soothing color.
And even now,
I am still a child
stubborn, willful…
There is no “time” to me.
Today I fell from the tree
and gasped – windless.
Today I held my first kitten
and promised it
I’d be a protector.
Today I lost my innocence
but the man went away.
Today I was wed,
full of hope, trust, and faith.
Today he told me
he’d want no woman like me.
Today you are a friend
and not - and are again?
Today I held Victoria
and for a moment – time bowed.
Today I am child,
woman, writer...
Today I am everything
that I can be
and yet still
I am nothing.
Today I am a fairytale
cut loose of time,
As I have felt cut loose
of humanity
all of my life.
Today I wonder
what it all means.
They say time will tell.
but I’ve seen through time
and it says nothing.


these things
I once thought
were ingrained…
Instinctive traits
of the human heart…
Perhaps they are.
But, if so,
then the human race
is inhuman.
We were raised
from dust
to living men.
Humanity has sunk
from mankind
to stone.


I had a very strange dream last night.

I'm sitting on the couch at this guys house. These guys I know are shouting at the tv (x-box, I guess) and one of them comes in and gives me a fudge-pop. I burst into tears, not sure if I'm crying because of releif, anger, sadness or what (this would not happen in real life - people aren't allowed to see me cry).
Anyway, so as I'm stuck in this moment, the dream flips and, instead of him giving me a fudge pop, it's me giving David C. a coke. -this really happened. And so the rest of the dream just played out an actual memory, from my meeting David C until I last saw his likeness.
the memory:
I met him when Amy dated him. Huge, tall, threatening-looking hood, this guy was. Everyone either loved him or was afraid of him. (I never much respected popularity or intimidation). Eventually, he broke up with Amy and she cried and cried. She was really crazy about him. I hated him for this. Who did he think he was, anyway? Mr big-shot, humph!
Well, he was friends with everyone else we hung out with. Amy, being part of the group, treated him as friend too. He may have even dated April after that (the only other chick in the group), but I don't recall for sure. But, I was always butting heads with this guy. I would be intimidated by no-one, least of all some ego-strutting hood. (well, all my friends were hoods, but that's irrelevent). I gave him hell. One time I smarted off to him and he said something sharp-tongued back to me, so I poured his milk all over his lunch. I wasn't going to bow to any bully.
Well, eventually it just dawned on me - I was the bully. I'd never been a bully to anyone before, but I was totally unfair to him. Whatever he did to make Amy cry, no matter how much she hurt, he did innocently and without mal-intent. My treatment of him, however, was hateful. He should have kicked my tail. He was intimidating, but never intentionally. He was a nice guy and Amy knew it, she had become good friends with him.
The next day (last day of school that year) I had a spare coke and I walked up to the group at the lockers.
"I got an extra coke, anybody want it?"
Everyone held up the drinks they already had, except David, who had none, said nothing, and did look at the coke.
"You want it?" I said to David
"Uh.. sure" He said, looking totally perplexed.
I walked away swearing I would never again in my life treat someone like that. I never had before him, and I'd never repeat that mistake. I was not a snob and I wasn't going to act like one. I swore to myself that next year I'd tell him how sorry I was. Next year, I'd be nice and make it up to him and tell him what a jerk I was. Next year, I'd talk to him about it and be a friend to him.

Two days later he died when his car wrapped around a tree.

To support my friends, I went to the visitation. They all cried because he was a good guy they all loved. I cried because he had been gentle and patient with me while I'd been so hateful. I cried because I never told him I was sorry, and because I had no right to be there at his funeral, staring into a photograph of him (closed casket) with all those loving, crying people.

Human beings are worth so much. No person should be treated like I treated David. Amy's broken heart was just what happens in life, one of the simple facts of life. I made David the scapegoat for the facts of life. He may not have done everything perfectly, but he was a gentle person and he tried.
That was about 14 years ago, I think. Hard to beleive it's been that long. Amy's married with kids, now, although I haven't seen her in probably 10 years at least.

---Why is it that so many of my life-lessons stories end with someone dead? Have I told you guys the Kevin story? That one's really sad. I don't think I should post two sad-death stories in one day.
I've learned a lot in the past 30 years. I just with no one had to have passed away for me to catch on to some things. I'll tell a snippet of the Kevin story: He was a realy interesting guy I wanted to befriend becuase he seemed really cool, but I was afraid he'd think I was flirting so I never said more than "hi". We lived in a backwards town with little room for creative people. After he shot himself, I regretted never having reached out to him, but regret doesn't bring anyone back. I try to be more friendly, now, but I have an annoying tendency to dole out status reports and point out, to platonic freinds, that it's just platonic. Better than misunderstanding, I figure.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

She said nothing
but watched so carefully,
her eyes sunken in
to weary flesh so deep
they looked like barrels of a gun.
I imagined the lines on her face
were thread-lines, sites to aim
her dark eyes on me.
I smiled into her wrinkled
and stern expression.
With a “Hmmph”
she turned both barrels away.


What trust can mean
Is boundless.
Trust itself
is always limited.
So many facets…
Trust not to lie
is one thing.
Trust to tell all
is another.
Trust not to say
too much,
different still.
Trust to be told
how much
is too much?
Rare indeed.
As one slow to trust
I divvy out little.
As one who doesn’t lie,
I’m used to trust back.
I trust no one
to be on my side.
I trusted my ex,
but the “ex”
shows the outcome.
I trust in only
one thing, with people.
I trust I will be hurt.
I trust that I
will be judged,
and confused
every time
that I dare to trust.
But you can trust
in this;
I forgive better
than I trust.
And if you can forgive,
I can be trusted.

Disclaimer: If you think this is about you, it probably isn't. If you assume it isn't, it probably is. It applies to the world, but was written for no one in it. A friend asked me recently, do you trust me? I couldn't help but think, which trust? Trust not to lie... ya got that one. But there are so many kinds of trust, I hardly knew how to answer.

I dole out trust very sparingly, and yet some of it always comes back to me broken.

So, perhaps trust is over-rated. Compassion may be a better thing. If you have compassion for others, you will do your best to hurt no one. If you have compassion for others, you will have mercy on those who trespass foolishly. If you have compassion for yourself, you will not set yourself up by trusting.

Hello old friend

I slip my hands into my chest, at last.
I pull out a tiny throbbing mass...

"Well, hello you! So small and thin...
Have I neglected you? How have you been?
You poor thing, come here, you must be fed.
Lets snack on wisdom, both known and read,
digest the things we learned together
and set all this drama aside forever."

My heart answers a weak but happy reply
So we get reaquainted, myself and I.


With wires wrapped around my limbs,
I bring my arms up to the easel.
A mist directed at my head,
I do my best to force a glow.
My roots are cramped in shallow soil.
My world, a portable bit of clay.
I'm shuffled about often
but I always find new air to breathe.
Some trees know wilder weather than I
So who am I to complain?
Some have solid earth to nurture their roots
Some have drought, some rain.
But I am my own gardener
I will define which way I grow.
I will reach, lean, curve my own way.
I will take this simple existence
And, within these humble confines,
I will make of myself something beautiful.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Time stutters, halts, and grinds,
sand thrown in the gears.
words hang frozen in the air.
time will not retreat to withdraw them,
nor move forward past.
they linger, like a fist frozen in mid-air.
I keep moving, waiting, busying myself,
but the world is halted and untouchable.
I haven't seen the people
that once made time roll so easily.
I hug no warm companions.
I stare blankly into the void
of a computer screen. The only movement
is what I place on it.
Time has creaked into a deathly still,
and I'm left behind...
with books to read, as well as write,
and my will to see stamped out
by my clumsy tromping feet.
When there is no time at all, no motion,
you have all the time in the world
...and no more use for any of it.

Write a story

Rusty, grinding, the shades creek
Like garage doors to some abandoned house.
My eyelids have been open too long.

Screen glare probes my eyes
Through my forehead and out the back,
Piercing with its evil rays.

My neck is tied up with wires
That catch each time I move my head.
They kink and catch and knot.

Too long at the computer
In stale hope of invoking words from my self.
Nothing in me but coffee and regrets.

What tales would I conjure?
I’ve let so many roll over my tired face
My own true stories grind me into the road.

Should I preach a lesson?
Never judge or hate, those should be obvious,
And know when to sheath your tongue.

I don’t want to trick readers
Into my point of view. I’ll watch after my sins.
You watch after you.

Should shovel loads of waste
Until I make you grin? I’m not that full of crap.
The good guys never win.

Slick, hard, lifeless… this box, empty-
a pile of resisters, capacitors, wires, and sparks
I loathe it - baren, with nothing of it's own to say.

I snear at it, so lifeless and square.
And it stares back, despising me for being
an empty pile of flesh with nothing left to say.

Saturday, February 19, 2005

Home/Nature/The Woods/ - I haven't picked a title yet

Whisper an inspiration,
Blow me into motion.
Find me
in this concrete wreckage
they call city.
Reach from the woods,
if your arms this far extend,
and rejuvenate me
as you always have.
Like reverse kryptonite
I am weak away from you.
Nature is my sustenance.
The woods,
air to my smothered soul.
I loose track of who I am, here.
I loose track of what to do.
But there’s never any doubts,
when I’m wrapped up in you.
Alone, no one can hear my voice
but the trees,
and they never judge.
Running free among your pillars,
my fumbling steps
can leave no mark on you.
You are ancient, enduring.
In your shelter I can do no wrong.
On your soil, no cages stand.
I’m made of you,
my flesh just soil with a spark.
I am fed by your gifts,
and with you I will never die.
I will simply dissipate like smoke
to be absorbed
into the heaving, swaying sculpture
that my flesh and spirit
know as home.

Friday, February 18, 2005


Ever feel like you're sitting in a lawn-chair, reading the funnies, while your close friend is next to you wrestling for his life with some 5-headed anaconda from hell that spits fire and has a poisonous scorpion tail?

You know, I wish the things we dealt with in life were monstors and villians. I think that's why I always liked spy flicks, sci-fi, super-hero type movies and all that. I just really want to live in a world where the things that hurt us are tangible enemies we can just plow into with our fists.

So I sit here, trying to focus on good things in life, trying to just wait it out, while this dear friend of mine is getting his face burned off by the mutant anaconda. I feel as useless as if I were reading the funnies and sitting like a lump while he struggles with this vicious foe. If he hollers out for some sort of weapon, I'll give him whatever I've got, but I can't actually fight the beast for him and I just hate that. What really sucks, is I lead it to him. It apparently trailed me in some unmarked Buick station-wagon right to his secret hide-out.

So here I sit.... waiting... hoping that if I stay close by there will be some diminsional shift allowing the monstors molocules to solidify on my plane of existance so I can slice him with my steely claws. Or maybe, there will be some advice pop to mind, from my many years of anaconda-fighting experience, that will actually be of help. Or maybe I can toss him a weapon. I guess, if nothing else, there's moral support.

Yeah.... so here I sit in this lawn-chair. I got me these Sunday funnies to read, and if I get desperate I might even read the real news or the arts and entertainment section. Yeah, I'm totally useless, but I sit here and gesture an occasional thumbs up to my buddy.
"Lookin good! Way to show that snakey bastard!"

*sigh* yeah... real helpful, aint I? Hey... whoever cut that coupon out took the punchline off of funky Winkerbean. Where is it? Anybody want to read the sports section? I'm not really into sports. Ooooo... did you see that?
"Nice Shot there, handling him like a pro!"