tomorrow, maybe?

can you hear me, major tom?

2010-05-21T08:55:00.124-04:00

Hello folks,

Please forgive my radio silence for the past three months (three months! How did you manage without me, blogosphere?!). Life has been...a roller-coaster of emotions to say the least, filled with personal transition, transience, and transgression (more on this later). I've been working on a poetry project (I even did a reading...more on that later, too). For now, may I leave you with a tidbit? A work in progress? A savoury morsel of a future poem bonanza...yes? yes. Feedback, as always, is much appreciated.

you sing sometimes, late at night,
with a book for company, cigarettes at hand,
and a candle casting shadows that keep time
with songs you don't know the words to.

your voice is high and thin, as uneasy sounds weave into the air.
you sing of loss. you sing of roads.
you sing of memories that are distilled and untold.

even in your sleep

you fight a war that grinds the enamel off your teeth,
and wake with jaws clenched and your mind spent
wondering how many dishes you have broken this week
in an attempt not to break yourself.

all the therapists in the world might say,

"maybe your anger is good...
maybe your rage
is you emerging from the cage

of everything you've been."

but when the doctors called saying
your father's falling in love with an eternal winter,
you wiped your tears away
you knew it was going to be more than "OK"
it was going to be perfect
your denial made you feel
like the first time you rode your bike

without training wheels-

immortal.

your scarred knees tell a different story.

you swore you'd never lie to yourself again
you cried and talked of taking time

to learn your hidden face, the one

you see reflected back in puddles on the road
or in his eyes as dulled by longing
as yours.

pinot noir and paramours pt. 2 (don't speak, mnemosyne)

2010-02-21T07:16:00.014-05:00

her story, like life, is wrought with disclaimers,and her breath a train she just can't catch.

she rambles on, desperate, like a candle
that doesn't know how to stop itself from burning

but the truth is, she just can't bear to live
another holiday without a destination.

"her sweater and her eyes were blue and her
hair like buttercups spraying out the mouths of doves..."

she incompletes herself
with sad songs and recycled insults

swaying to the acoustic snowflakes

and drifting on the weary winds

of might-have-been.

she'd do anything to sing her that one song,
but she'd forget the words and have to hum
that unknown verse, in tune, but off-key

like her socks that never match.
and when she's done, she'd watch the lines

around those pale cerulean eyes
form rivers when she cries, making her feel

at once 40lbs too heavy and light as a feather,

but still 20 years too young.

oh, the stories she holds...

she's got her reasons for feeling so old
her body craves those warmer days,
but it's not only the seasons that change
when she wants them to stay.
her heart aches while her bones break
into song, and she knows: her breath
will turn silver when your hair does.
she'd spend forty-four lifetimes with her head
thrown back, trying to drink the sea
so you won't have to anymore. but for now,
it's two hours and ten drinks past midnight
and her knees are bent like the pages of her favorite memoir,
the one whose title and ending she can't recall-
can't even remember reading the damned thing-
but while saudade and imagination
weave through her soul and
flesh out her memories,
she'll be holding ( )
your place.

pinot noir & paramours pt.1

2010-02-10T18:06:00.023-05:00

"Aphasia is a condition characterized by either partial or total loss of the ability to communicate verbally or using written words. A person with aphasia may have difficulty speaking, reading, writing, or understanding what others have said..."

if this condition were not further described as having been brought about specifically by a stroke or traumatic brain injury, i would have no problem self-diagnosing. the past two weeks have been such a roller coaster of emotions for me, that i have given up trying to intentionally process what's going on, because it just leads to self-deprecating thoughts (e.g. the common denominator in my failed relationships -platonic or otherwise- is me) or credit cards being maxed out at my local liquor store (hasn't happened yet, but the week is still young). i have no words of my own today, so i planned to present a cento poem. a cento, from the Latin word meaning "patchwork", is a poem that is constructed entirely out of the words from poems of other poets. but i didn't have the energy to do that, either, so here instead are excerpts from very unrelated poems that nearly describe some of my thoughts. with that said, if you see me in the streets, please offer spontaneous hugs. or a plane ticket... i will accept either at this point. the cento will be up in a few days if/when i get my coherency/heart/sobriety back...
alas, alack.

there's a bluebird in my heart that

wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

-- from "Bluebird" Bukowski

And if you come I will be silent
Nor speak harsh words to you.
I will not ask you why, now.
Or how, or what you do.
We shall sit here, softly
Beneath two different years
And the rich earth between us
Shall drink our tears.
--from "If you come softly" Audre Lorde

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh ... And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new

-- ee cummings

My Secret
My soul its secret has, my life too has its mystery,
And she who was the cause nor knew it nor believed.
Alas! I shall have passed close by her unperceived,
Forever at her side, and yet forever lonely,
I shall unto the end have made life's journey, only
Daring to ask for naught, and having naught received.
These murmurings of love that round her steps ascend,
Piously faithful still unto her austere duty,
Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her beauty,
"Who can this woman be?" and will not comprehend.

-- from "A Secret" by Félix Arvers

six a.m. sestina for sweetness

2010-02-02T06:23:00.003-05:00

a sestina is a highly structured poem consisting of six six-line stanzas followed by a tercet of three lines for a total of thirty-nine lines. The same set of six words ends the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time. sounds difficult? it is. here's an example:

These are merely pleasantries, yes, sweetness.
They're okay for those good enough,
at least decent, good enough get-offs,
but the myriad pet names, clever and otherwise,
cutesy, dumb, or 'quaint and curious'—
the treble in your voice, turn it down.

I know we met on a kind of down-
beat sorta day, when that sweetness
drifting from a baker-mom's curious
son's steamed wet window was about enough
to keep a one afloat—a really off
day. I would have probably caved otherwise.

I would have had to get all warm and fuzzy otherwise.
These tendencies I keep tucked way down
in my insides' (button fly) jeans' 5th pocket boil up, and off
I go! Just hang on a second, sweetness.
The getting goes tough then soon enough
the toughies go to getting gone. Curious

about all these "I miss you's." A little curious.
Just a taste. Pencil tip on a tongue and, otherwise
healthy, just mentally gonzo, I guess. Enough
"I need to see you's," too. Deeply down
there somewhere there's a certain sweetness,
maybe, but I just don't see it. So I'm off.

I've thrown on some Lizz Wright, so back off
for a track...Okay, so back to that curious
way we/you/I/she/they could squeeze the sweetness
from a kitty cat. I'll go, I mean, otherwise
I'll stay. It's a whatever kind of down,
down, down, down day. I think it's broken.

No, hang on—"enough, enough, enough." I went off.
I'm sorry. It's this letdown ending part, all curious
and crushed up, but otherwise touched. (signed)
Sweetness.

dopplegangers.

2010-01-20T01:26:00.006-05:00

for Elizabeth:my sister, who knows.

erelong our buds will blossom into buttercups.

life's too short for me not to say that

i...well, doihavetosay? won't this poem do? 'cause the

zealots with their branding rods have

anchored us together, like the extra A between your names,

but brazen, you dare not drown. you say, think quick, for

even as our lives are taken out of context,
there is still a literary chance - we
have yet to be mollified in Flanders

now, i see that some days
are far worse off than others,

but if disaster strikes on monday
would we leave our A's behind
two Gretels grasping for breadcrumbs
on the other side of the week?

now i feel that when we speak
our zaftig shapes sway to the beat of
dangerously different drummers

even our discord is divine
just know that i too taste it,
our friendship bitter-sweet
and while you've never seen me weep,
during nights of fitful sleep
i hear your whispers - how they
tranquilise and fortify me...
saying shh, just listen: you and i?

we're just a couple of fellows:

fellow, "don't you know each other?"

same glasses, different mothers

fellow black, up-and-coming

twenty-somethings. my fellow,

"you look like a fella, girl!"

we take fellow clumsy steps,
unstable we fall feeble over fabled

fields filled with
flourishing blossoms

and buttercups.

yet brazen, we dare not drown.

on the shine i've taken that won't dull down.

2010-01-16T13:15:00.019-05:00

The characters in this poem are fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.*

Special person,
if I were you I'd pay no attention
to admonitions from me...
...To love another is something
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
-Anne Sexton

dismissal, devotion.

each blue eye

on the same bright face

nulls the space that lays

numbed by her candor which

echoes- rings out - in ardor, in ardor, in ardor

ebullience. 'til an ending.

no one knows that i will

never match the rhythm of her heartbeat. with

one pound and three-quarters of premature chagrin i

expect the question; maudlin, mirrored:

do i? i think i do

for her smile's the same at six as it was at two,

her hair shimmers its blonde good morning.

we stroll for one night onto hard-pressed streets,

and onto my pages she comes pouring.

the gentlest glance turns to the softest blush

and i'm soaring...

i'm soaring...

i'm soaring

*except, of course, if i'm referring directly to You. which i am.

lunch in a parallel universe.

2010-01-15T22:22:00.003-05:00

Somewhere, in a town completely unlike the one you grew up in, there are two women at lunch- mother and daughter, obviously. The girl is beautiful, tall, twenty-five or so. Yet she can't sit still in her seat. She bounces around, tosses her hair, eats too fast, talks a mile a minute while looking all around just in case there is something interesting she hasn't seen yet and can talk about. The mother is also beautiful, perhaps sixty, her eyes alone are a 500-paged novel. Serene and smiling she is a total contrast to the young woman sitting across the table. How happy she is to be here with her daughter, how proud. Not many years ago this is the same child who frequently tried every bit of patience she had. The difficult student, the one with dyslexia or ADHD, or just wildly impatient about anything that didn't interest her. But now look at her- this wonder, this young woman who is moving way too quickly out of her mother's life and into her own. She has already set sail and we can only watch. But today she's generous enough to have lunch with Mom and talk about things that matter with her first, her greatest pal. She doesn't even know it is a gift. But Mom does.

on the difficulties of living every week like it's shark week when you're the bait (a pantoum).

2010-01-13T20:25:00.002-05:00

Since the last poem made use of the metonym, I decided to opt for a bit more transparency in this entry, which I've actually been working on for a while. At Deonne's reading a few weeks ago, a guy went up before her (or maybe afterwards- there was free Scotch, so who can say for sure?) and read a few poems, one of which was a pantoum, a form in which the first and third lines of a verse is always the same as the second and fourth lines of the previous quatrain. Harder than it sounds, especially when you're not a poet, which I'm not... If it weren't so angry I'd dedicate it to certain FPers who know where i'm coming from and help me see where i'm goin'.

my bad habits and i,
we may need couple's counseling
i can't always be "on" or "off"
moods shifting like swedish seasons.

we may need couple's counseling.
at night when we turn our backs i say
i can't always be "on" or "off"-
i smell blood in the water,

at night when we turn our backs. i say-
i plead with you to leave me-
i smell blood in the water!
my tears bleed through your pillows.

i plead with you to leave me
"the sharks," i say, "they're circling"
my tears bleed closer to your pillow
but like bait, you've thrown me over

the sharks!! i say, they're circling!
as i'm clinging to your pillow
like bait, you've thrown me over
i swim towards them, i'm a martyr.

as i'm clinging to your pillow
they tear me limb from limb
i swam towards them, good little... martyr.
i hope they save a piece for you

god, how they tear me limb from limb!
it's nothing i haven't already done
i hope they save a piece for you
self-flagellation's not just for christians,

it's nothing i haven't already done
anything for you to love me.
self-flagellation's not just for christians
your reticence keeps me under

i'll do anything for you to love me
so my moods shift like swedish seasons
as they devour the final piece i think
yes, we may need couple's counseling.

an advisory note to a certain city by a bay.

2009-11-29T23:00:00.005-05:00

No. 29

distance aids, abets

these feelings under rugs swept;

sleeveless hearts abound

but if i had sleeves, i'd put my heart on 'em.

"that's what she said"

2009-11-28T02:47:00.000-05:00

No. 28

"hold it against me"

entendres doubled over

taking it...the blame

...what? don't hold this haiku against me. unless that's what yr into.

on wearing more hats than immelda marcos's shoe collection

2009-11-27T03:32:00.001-05:00

No. 27

i'm worse for the wear

no time to sleep nor to sneeze...

what day is it, please?

...but really, what day?

pardon my turkey.

2009-11-26T20:14:00.000-05:00

No. 26

me and macaulay:

irony, i'm 'Home Alone':

ennui not prevented

...erm, Happy Thanksgiving?

the consequences of a sea-sick sailor.

2009-11-25T09:08:00.000-05:00

No. 25

you will rue the day

"ships are fallible," i say

this one's sailed away

wherewithal: the lack thereof

2009-11-24T01:18:00.002-05:00

No. 24

peeves shouldn't be pets
like sleeping dogs, let them lie
put your mind to rest

a(n) historical haiku

2009-11-23T03:00:00.002-05:00

No. 23

my petulent young son

fought the british and one, but

we've all lost, bar none

lady lazarus 2.0

2009-11-22T22:22:00.000-05:00

No. 22

when men offer to

'make a woman out of you'

breathe, count three, "ach, du..."

Sylvia surely said it better...

on the physics of pigs in flight.

2009-11-21T10:10:00.004-05:00

No. 21

the day that i find

a world i can count on

time sure will stand still

trauriger Panda.

2009-11-20T21:35:00.003-05:00

No. 20

divulging this loss,
this "unbearable lightness"
needs more syllables.

word of the day: saudade - a vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist ... a turning towards the past or towards the future

currently reading Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being. it's so brilliant, i think i'll write a review on it later... "later" meaning after i write these 4 final papers for my classes plus finish reading/editing the second pass of King Kong Theory- which is fantastic by the way, can't wait to see the final result.

happy weekend, everyone. i hope you're doing more fun and savoury things than i, as my weekend will consist mainly of attempting to breathe through my nose whilst not coughing up my lungs and catching up on hundreds of pages of reading.

revelations of a cultural poseur.

2009-11-19T22:00:00.001-05:00

No. 19

tabloids strewn at home

overzealous, still falls short

"oh, that Katie Holmes!"

a haiku for my canadian grandmother, wherever she may be.

2009-11-18T01:30:00.004-05:00

No. 18

i'm not insincere

Roaring Twenties, changing face

i'm my youngest friend

Thanks to PN (see, still sort of anonymous?) for providing material which can be disseminated into about a week's worth of haikus/blog entries. The next one is about Tom Cruise's wife-- you know the one. I hope you're well rested...

Yours, sincerely.

a haiku of the unspoken.

2009-11-17T01:30:00.002-05:00

No. 17
the real sickness here

has grown for 25 years:

fibrous reticence

an appeal for full disclosure.

2009-11-16T11:30:00.007-05:00

No. 16

maladroit master,

inept interlocutor

teeth shouldn't be pulled!

an existential haiku

2009-11-15T13:00:00.002-05:00

No. 15

distant as i seem,

my body is a Stranger;

i carry with me

confession of a sleep-deprived susan

2009-11-14T03:45:00.003-05:00

No. 14

"Not myself," I say

shady, contradictory

inner thoughts betray

the somnambulist.

2009-11-13T10:30:00.001-05:00

Lucky No. 13

if sleep's a crutch

then i'm a paraplegic

deprived of too much

...'nuff said, really.

parce que je veux qu'erialc reste ("7:01")

2009-11-12T00:30:00.000-05:00

No. 12

those quick witted quips

run through your lips, like quicksand

in your arms i slip...

...when you come back from california

"this one goes to eleven..."

2009-11-11T10:00:00.019-05:00

No. 11
without an accent

i portray myself each day;
a one-woman play

did anyone get the Spinal Tap reference? ...anyone?
i have been way too busy to write proper entries lately, but this is National Haiku Writing Month and anything else is actually gratuitous (count yourselves lucky, i say). i've been cheating and writing the rest of the entries a day later and pre- or post-dating them. it's a neat trick, really. i wish it worked for homework, or apologies, or any other time-orient(at)ed obligations.

anywho, a professor of mine and i were talking about my accent the other day - or rather, my lack thereof. she basically said something quite true: i concern myself almost obsessively with my accent and how i come across to people and it is often to them so insignificant that i'm basically fussing over nothing and constantly being paranoid. it was she who first observed (or at least told me directly) the fact that i'm essentially playing the role of myself every day, measuring my tone, emphasis, intonation and that it was exhausting just to think about. when she put it that way, it made plenty of sense, particularly when she followed up with the fact that everyone knows of my englishness either because i've said something (or many somethings) pointing out my difference in nationality, (e.g. "oh it's like that in england" or "i'm awkward because i'm english" or i quote entire scenes from This Is Spinal Tap - not yet, but i can), through my orthographical differences, or my quirky and compulsive out loud self-corrections with my pronunciation and the fact that other friends and colleagues tease me on a regular basis, mostly as a result of my own insecurity and bashfulness. i was with her up to this point, then balked at the idea that i should switch back to the original accent and not repress it/deny my upbringing (since i'm doing such a poor job of blending in, as is the 'true blue american way', was my understanding). to me that would seem flat out crazy, borderline multiple personality disorder. she said that i'd get a lot of attention (allegedly positive... i still don't want it) but alas, for now, you'll just have to wait until i'm a little drunk (on water, of course. what? it's possible), spontaneously reading aloud, or sleep-deprived like everyone else, madam.

uninspired haiqua

2009-11-10T01:30:00.001-05:00

No. 10*

writer's block

stopped clock

words

escape

...i'll write a better one...tomorrow, maybe

vexation over veneration

2009-11-09T18:30:00.008-05:00

No. 9

my main problem with

intellectual crushes:

can't make-out with brains

...i mean, you can, but that'd be some hannibal lecter-type craziness.

ra-ra-radicals.

2009-11-08T18:08:00.004-05:00

No. 8

if you're feminist

then please raise up your fists, in
solid-dairy-tea!

solidarity. it's a word that has been reused and appropriated by many groups, cultures, and subcultures. but among the feminist press staff and interns i feel this is where the word "solidarity" rightfully belongs. here i've met my sisters, my brother (sorry, you're the only male intern, peter), friends that have the potential to last a lifetime. this is yet another short entry, but i wanted to gush a bit about the communities that i happen to fall into. there and in bluestockings...bluestockings! another rad place to be. i'm not really religious, yet in the friends department i feel truly blessed, at least today.

the meta-haiku

2009-11-07T12:15:00.003-05:00

No. 7

do you feel it's strange

that i think in syllables

words numbered, arranged?

syllabic symmetry with alternate rhyme scheme (A-B-A)? way to unleash the inner poet in me, National Haiku Writing Month! i was telling someone at work yesterday how i don't think these are very good, but thoroughly amusing. i'm admittedly easily amused, but this haiku thing may be something. i'd write more, but i've only allowed myself 30 minutes of internet lollygagging while my tea brews, but i spent most of that time on facebook (for shame). now, it's make to work! look at me, all productive-like.

"parents just don't understand"

2009-11-06T23:35:00.000-05:00

No. 6

sickly sweet nicknames
no interiority
i'll always be twelve

before you ask: yes, dinner with my dad was as awkward as you could imagine it to be. and then some. it also ended rather abruptly. that's all i'll say about that for now. first, i have to go see a man about a horse*.

*(translation key: man = cabinet. horse = glass of scotch)

keeping up with yesterday, avoiding today

2009-11-05T08:00:00.003-05:00

No. 5

"...tomorrow, maybe?"
to trifle with time is fine.
compelled; must tarry

so, i'm starting to worry about my chronic procrastination. it's easy to do and perhaps everyone does it at some point or another, but i've eased my way into the upper echelon of procrastination that is borderline frightening. there are some days when i have to put on three or four hats: at the feminist press; as an esl teacher (where i use proper punctuation, i promise); as a grad student with four classes, at schools in two different boroughs no less; as the zine/volunteer person at bluestockings books...and now a bartending job on weekends. i know others have had to deal with an equally hectic workload and have managed to keep on top of things, albeit with a minor relapse or two, but my "To-Do" lists just pile up and collectively spit in my face. they glue my head to my pillow, tie my shoelaces together when i'm not looking. it's thursday; i cross off tuesday's list and start anew, including last tuesday through friday's list of tasks. it's a vicious cycle.

one of my main problems is the internet and other immediate technological distractions. another over-arching problem is why said bits of technology are so appealing to me all of a sudden. i mean, besides the obvious expansiveness of the internet, the 'into-the-rabbit-hole' feeling that i've not quite shaken since i first got a computer, the 'connectedness' that you supposedly feel with people of any time zone... i used to be much more comfortable with a book and a cup of tea. now i can't seem to get through a book unless it's for class and even then i'm not moved to write anything altogether insightful. i try reading on the subway and wind up listening to music for most of the trip. besides the feeling that i'm losing motivation, getting dumber, and not stimulating myself intellectually, there is that of complete and utter dejectedness that i feel after having procrastinated on a project or missed a deadline. they say that procrastination is a lot like masturbation; it feels great at first, until you realise you've just screwed yourself. from here on in, i'm going to try a different approach, or maybe revisit an old flame...i think i'll give that To-Do list another chance this weekend, but along with the basics of a positivist mindset and a nice cup of tea. tomorrow, definitely.

ode to grandiolquence.

2009-11-04T08:00:00.008-05:00

Haiku Day 4

well, i'm sorry... who?
will you inform me or leave
names dropped on the floor?

a haiku for those perplexed by pretense.

NaNoWriMo: Cityslicker Edition

2009-11-03T09:57:00.011-05:00

so, because i barely have time to shower, i'm going to try NaHaiWriMo (National Haiku/Haiqua* Writing Month) instead of the traditional novel business, that i'll leave for the true talents (read: teenage fanfiction lovers, legitimately aspiring writers or both). i'll give a nod here to my brilliant friend rick whose idea i think this was (if it's clever, amusing, creative, or awkward he's likely behind it). i'm already several days behind, so I'll do three haikus today, all equally lame, and/or amusing, then i'll try to keep up for the rest of the month (we all know this will not happen, but humour me, will you?). occasionally i'll try to use the haikus as an epigraph so some overarching theme of the day like my awkwardness, feminism, socialism, other -isms, -istics, or -ologies, etc. it may be interesting. or ridiculous. only time will tell.

*for those of you that don't know, a haiku in english traditionally has a syllabic symmetry of 5-7-5 or 3-5-3, whereas a haiqua is a haiku of four lines with one or two words per line. i will be doing different variants of the haiku, you know, to shake things up a bit.

"Yes, Feminist Press?
how may i help you today?"
...wait, where's my stapler?

Unduly awkward,
always the penultimate
i just make mixtapes

I did tell you I
understood your English, but
misplaced, commas, why?!

curiouser and curiouser...

2009-10-24T21:00:00.004-04:00

**i haven't signed on to this in a year and this mini-entry below was in my drafts. i'll try to be more consistent as it would be nice to have an outlet for the personal/political, music & film reviews, goings on at work, etc. bear with me folks (aka, Steve). the blog is called 'tomorrow, maybe' for a reason**

hmm.. so i'm still lazy, but i'm going to write. hopefully people have given up checking on this blog (the number of hits still increased even though i haven't posted a new entry in eons...). i have given up writing this for You, dear reader, because i am coming to the conclusion that you don't exist. all the better, because it was getting cumbersome to try to maintain some semblance of coherency. at least now i get to throw all sense of caution to the wind am i right? of course i am, You don't have a say in this at all.

i wish you did though, because i'm terribly, terribly confused. i've said to myself, "Self, why have you got to be such a fuckup? Why don't you grow a spine and ask people out. Why do you make so many excuses? Why do you lie to yourself and even more to others?" Of course myself doesn't answer because she's off making bitchy or sarcastic remarks or making angsty mix-tapes with the word "Love" in every other title, so it'd be nice to have you around, you know?

gravity rides everything.

2008-11-27T02:15:00.001-05:00

i am unhappy.

why oprah will rule the world.

2008-08-02T03:41:00.003-04:00

I'm kind of a creepy person, i've decided. sometimes i don't look people in the eye when they speak. i look at their mouths almost persistently, only fleetingly meeting their gaze when i catch myself in the act. i don't know why I do it. i mean, i talk a LOT as anyone at work (or that i randomly encounter) will tell you. i go off on ridiculous tangents and feel the urge to contribute in some way even if there's a chance that i'll come across ignorant or awkward (which of course is generally always). for all this talking and coming across as an extrovert, i still have a hard time looking people in the eye. i don't mind what i see, it's what they'll see that i guess worries me. my insecurity manifests itself in rather peculiar ways i'd say...

i got home from the stephenie meyer's event at b&n tonight. it was pretty lame... but i needed the money. it's pretty ridiculous how people rush about like chickens without a head to purchase a book of such poor quality. you'd think oprah was making them buy it or something. it's a mormonised rip-off of the Underworld movies and it's poorly written with a weak and helpless central female character. way to make a good role model and simultaneously counteract feminism with incoherent drivel. "you're all lemmings!" i wish to shout, but instead i point them past the escalators on to the back of the line. people think they're so cool in this city, but honestly, if someone makes another "witty" and "original" statement like "i bet you cant guess why 'I' am here" while wearing a team edward/twilight shirt during a stephenie meyer book event or smugly inquiring "why so serious?" intermittently, two days straight after having watched the dark knight... i'll be forced to punch you in the throat. maybe then i'll make eye contact, to catch the look of surprise.

the chapstick incident (or how gladys taught me how to win at tetris and at life).

2008-07-27T02:40:00.002-04:00

So. this entry is awesome and random. it's about gladys and it's about chapstick. it's the story of my life. first, my friend gladys, is awesome. end of story. sometimes you have the kind of people around you who are flawed enough to let you know that they're human. she's definitely one of those people. but, in her twenty-one years she still has a peace about her... a kind of unforeseeable wisdom in someone so young. and a confidence that is more often than not, rather unsettling. it really brings out the best in me- or at least pacifies the worst. she also has a brilliant sense of humour that calms my pessimistic or even realistic (albeit cynical) outlook on life. she is perfect and i love her. i've admitted i love her and she loves me too but never in a way that's beyond friendship. and that's what makes me love her even more. our friendship is perfect and complimentary- it's one of the best relationships i've had in a long time, but one of the things i've learned- one of the things she's taught me is that you can't always strive for more. an actual relationship with her would certainly ruin what we have.

i hadn't spoken to anyone besides my insane mother for almost a week. that's enough to drive anyone up a wall of angst and anxiety. sure i received a random text or email here and there but all in all it was naught but her and her passive aggression. on thursday i decided i'd had enough and left, much to her chagrin. i arrived home to an empty house (save for that really gross millipede looking thing - ew). i threw my bags down and sat there dejected and miserable and stayed that way for a few hours. later on, who else but gladys decided to check in on me as i hadn't been at work in a few days. it was the best thing that happened to me. she offered to come over after i expressed my misery and i gladly accepted. my elation at her presence really let me know how much i deceive myself and the world. i pretend as though i don't need her or anyone else but she got me away from what could have turned into an all-encompassing pity party/bout of depression. as i think back, she didn't even do anything major while i was here. she shut down all of my self-deprecating humour but as much as i'm sure that helped my self-esteem and ego in the long run, that wasn't it. we went to the 24hr laundromat and as my clothes were on a spin cycle we sat in silence as i watched her play tetris on her bright pink game-boy. she explained as she reached level 24 for the third time in a row (she's an expert!), "i'd rather have the kind of friends that are close enough for me to never have to talk to". i was confused at first but then i understood. if you're lose enough to reach a new level of compassion and understanding, who needs words? you can just sit and "be". sometimes on my own or with acquaintances i feel the need to fill the silence. it's a manifestation of my own insecurities and lack of trust for others. i realise this, but still i ramble. i decided to give it a shot, or rather... i had nothing to say, and i was okay with that. i sat there for a good 15 minutes, chin on her shoulder, watching her win at tetris with that calm, focused approach. that unbridled compassion and confidence. i didn't envy her like i usually would, but i saw someone i could learn from. i sat there in that perfect quiet and silently thanked her for teaching me how to beat a game of tetris against a computer. and life, which is like a computer with a rogue manufacturer.

the random bit? the chapstick incident (so named by gladys), happened about a week ago when i was walking around the city with gladys. we'd just left the old navy and as we crossed the street i took out some chapstick to use. and the exact moment that i took off the top and it slipped through my fingers was the very moment i passed a sewer grate on the corner of the street. the timing was so unfortunately impeccable that the top dropped onto the concrete and bounced several times landing precariously close to the edge of the grate before slowly and mockingly rolling one last time to the bottom of the sewer. it's hard to describe but it was amazing, almost purposeful and artistic how the top bounced within my reach only to tumble out of sight. gladys and i paused before we broke into fits of laughter lasting all the way to the train station. "dude that's like the story of your life!" she wheezed in between breaths of laughter. i agreed, it seemed like it was. i continued to laugh although i really got more pensive about the chapstick top and what it really symbolised. moreover, gladys bought me another chapstick, top included. that's the story of my life. surrounded by the ones i love, even for a few hours at a time, that's what makes it all worth it. i may get uber pessimistic, sardonic and downright anger but i Can count a blessing or two. i can sit in silence and just "be" with a loved one. i can laugh about the mishaps in life as small as the chapstick incident. i know that now, i just have to live it. that, ladies and gentlemen, is how gladys grape taught me how to win at tetris and at life. those awe-filled, wondrous moments of nothingness and silence. and when you can say life is hard, but yes, i have a reason to be alive.

bad faith.

2008-07-23T23:40:00.001-04:00

Bad Faith is seen as any denial of free will by lying to oneself about one's self and freedom.

as far as existentialism goes, my faith is among the worst. no matter what i do i feel as though i am doomed to a life of ill-informed yet pre-determined decisions. i act as my own Other and look upon myself with pity and self-loathing. this vicious cycle knows no bounds. it lends coincidence and dismal rationality to every facet of my essence/existence. it renders them equal and they become One, turning my world of absurdity into a poorly tuned guitar, playing to the dischordant beat of another. the Others.

madam, i'm adam.

2008-07-23T13:07:00.002-04:00

Dammit, I'm mad.

Evil is a deed as I live.

God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt.

To be not one man emanating is sad. I piss.

Alas, it is so late. Who stops to help?

Man, it is hot. I'm in it. I tell.

I am not a devil. I level "Mad Dog".

Ah, say burning is, as a defied gulp,

In my halo of a mired rum tin.

I erase many men. Oh to be a man, a sin.

Is evil in a clam? In a trap?

No it is open. On it I was stuck.

Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web.

Be still if I fill its ebb.

Ew, a spider... eh?

We sleep. Oh no!

Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position.

Part animal, can I live?

Sin is a name.

Both, one... my names are in it.

Murder? I'm a fool.

A hymn I plug, defied as a sign in ruby ash,

A Goddam level I lived at.

On mail let it in. I'm it.

Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet!

A loss it is alas (sip). I'd assign it a name.

name not one bottle minus an ode by me:

"Sir, I deliver. I'm a dog"

Evil is a deed as I live.

Dammit I'm mad.

truthiness.

2008-07-19T22:48:00.002-04:00

sometimes when i was growing up, even after a knock down, drag out fight with my mother, i'd still want to ask if she thought i was beautiful. i never did, because i wasn't sure of the answer.

i used to tell people i was an orphan at my boarding school or that my dad had died so they'd invite me to their summer cottage or winter cabin for skiing during breaks. neither my parents (nor my stepfather, for that matter) are dead, but still, i don't think i was that far from the truth.

i joked about pretending to be drunk in order to tell her i loved her- i guess it was insane karma that when i DID tell her i actually was. i felt extremely guilty and embarrassed because i thought i subconsciously got myself there on purpose (even though i was told it was a good idea by others more drunk than i). not to mention, she doesn't love me back and i can pinpoint the exact moment that our friendship veered off course

i'm still uncertain and evasive when people ask me whether or not i'm gay. i'm not (at least, not in those black + white terms), but for all intents and purposes the answer (at the moment) is yes. i'm afraid to say so, because no one in my family knows and neither do most of my friends or acquaintances. what if i change my mind? i'm passively out, but i still find myself needing the approval of men, while being equally repulsed by them. this probably has more to do with the fact that the men (if you can call them that) throughout my childhood and adolescent years have simply been absent or disappointed me in increasingly traumatic ways.

i'm often thought of as a token self-hating black girl, mostly as a result of living in america and being unsure of my new cultural standing. i was insecure before but i guess prior to living here i'd been oblivious to the labels. i feel really uncomfortable around the "typical" 50-cent loving, BET watching african-americans that come in to barnes & noble and ask "yo shorty where sista souljah at? where your black authors at?" and i feel extremely guilty about that, but i let them know, unfortunately we don't segregate our authors. i also don't like to classify myself as african-american. i'm not american and my father's hispanic, i say to myself, as i check the 'other' box. when there are three or four people at the info desk but they pierce me with their gaze so i can look up and help them find the latest zane book. with a blank stare, i ask them to repeat it and look it up on the bookmaster. they're in disbelief that i haven't heard of the author. i have but i don't want to relate by running to the fiction section with any kind of recognition or enthusiasm, which says nothing good about my character.

i have insomnia (or narcolepsy, that has yet to be determined). i live on my own in a brooklyn neighbourhood with a reputation that doesn't match the street i'm on, but living here on my own, taking up just under 6 feet of space in a two bedroom apartment, signed onto all the internet messengers with no one signed on at 3am except my best friend in ireland and perhaps emily from b&n... i may talk to one or both of them in a chipper tone of voice as the tears stream slowly and silently from my face.

greggers and the death of the zine.

2008-07-19T04:00:00.000-04:00

so... i decided to start this blog after much rumination.

okay, so i've already lied. i've only thought about it briefly for a few days, but yeah, i guess i decided to start one. i've had my qualms about starting a blog, mostly because of my impression of blog writers and the fact that maintaining a blog must require some degree of narcissism. also, i'm unduly lazy and even though i may have something to say, such thoughts are fleeting. i'm not that funny and more often than not, awkward and obnoxious instead. it's recently seemed appealing after i finished reading a slue of zines from much cooler people. (as an aside, it's interesting how "blog" and all of its variants is a word, yet "zine" is not. so thoroughly has the blog eradicated the zine).

well, i'm probably going to be bored with this fairly soon. i tend to have a really short attention span and also have severe bouts of apathy, so who knows? it's not like i sleep, so why not log on and recount my latest encounter with ignorance, humourous homeless people and other fourth floor scuffles at barnes & noble. it's not even that i'm truly bored, it's that i'm not an interesting person. i know i'm surrounded by superficial people who seem to be interesting. who smoke clove cigarettes and are fashionably vegan instead of politically so. who are fans of dave eggers (and everything else in 'stuff white people like'). these people infuriate me on a daily basis. i feel insecure but it's pretty much unfounded because although they're talking to one another and making connections it's pretty much all bullshit and a waste of my time. conversely though, i try to analyse these feelings and i feel like it's making me dumber. maybe it is, who knows? all i know is this: me being focused on me and not outside news-y things or brain-thinking type uh.. things = me stupid. also, me 'fixing' me and lessening the crazy = me being less interesting... maybe.

to hell with normalcy, right? and by normalcy i mean trying not to be normal just like everyone else. maybe i'll try to be a less awkward/obnoxious hate-filled person. (i'm not hate-filled really, i just have a general distaste for humanity- especially if you're a french, canadian, french-canadian, j-pop loving, sailor moon advocating american, eckhart tolle reading, oprah winfrey book-club loving capitalist who listens to 311 or some other shitty band). i'm a weird girl, to be sure. i avoid cracks even when walking quickly on the sidewalk. i eat ice cream with a knife when all the other utensils are in the sink. i fall hard and fast, and the only way out of that vicious cycle is to find a flaw in you and trump it up so that i'll wind up hating you forever. i love holding grudges. i love meeting your gaze with a withering stare when you watch me reading in the subway. i alienate myself but i really want to get to know you better. i'm judgemental. i'm english but have been here long enough to increase my insecurity and decrease the british humour i love so much. i am probably narcoleptic, but it's largely due to the three or four venti caramel macchiatos i have each day. yeah, i'm a feminist, punk rock grrrl who went to a boarding school in westminster, uk. i have a faux hawk (formerly the real thing) and piercings, but i'm black and try not to speak with an accent so you see 'urban' or 'straight edge' instead.

this is me. well, most of it.. take it or leave it, yeah?