Because I Have No Braincells But Desperately Need To Remember Things

Wed & Thur

+Hooping (so much hooping!), then Belmar to see Mike
+Belmar beach, pizza, & Social Network

Fri

+ Work

Sat

+ Coffee with Sandra
+ LOTR Two Towers live with the parents
+ Chill time with Tony

Sun

+ Crazed work day
+ Whiskey & Guiness with Jahmaalah & Tony
+ Taco Bell
+ Woody's with Dave & Eric
+ U2 Kareoke until 4AM with Eric & friends ("Can't Take My Eyes Off of You" & "Kiss Me Deadly" for the win)
+ Danced like Madonna
+ Slow danced with Eric in the laser lighting like it was 1988

Mon

+ Watched "Hoarders" with Mom, had a great, ground breaking talk with her ("The ones who leave you, why is it that you can't you just turn them off? Your truth is your truth unless you change it.")
+ Lip-synced songs with Mom on the Path train, then windowshopped the giant Macy's
+ Diner con madre
+ Listened to awesome chick artists, walked from 34th to 15th and visited Tony, Marge & Jenny
+ Went to Williamsburg with Tony to meet up with Meredith & friends at The Knitting Factory
+ Turns out they were having a Buffy Trivia night...between Meredith & everyone WINNING the trivia game, they also had bobbing for beer & a pumpkin pie eating contest...which was freaking hilarious, everyone got so into it.
+ They played Dr. Horrible's Sing-A-Long Blog which was amazing, we all got so into it
+ Chilling with Tony is the greatest thing ever, I seriously absolutely adore him I couldn't ask for a better friend who I can COMPLETELY be my fucking retardely ridiculous self with, on top of being able to laugh ALL the time and still talk about serious stuff. Amazing.
+ Anyway, I went into the bathroom & tagged the shit out of the fogged window, before coming back out to find everyone dancing wildly in the middle of the bar, so of COURSE, I joined in
+ I started dancing (like I do) and everyone started to cheer me on and told me I was really good at dancing! And the host told me, "I don't know which compliment you want first; how your outfit is awesome, or how good at dancing you are!"
+ Everyone ended up leaving, and I stayed to continue dancing with the host, and the DJ wound up playing Toots & the Maytals & the Clash
+ The host winds up telling me his name is Jeremy (the Jerm) and he met the DJ in the seperate ska bands they were both in from Austin, TX
+ When the set was finally over, he said, "how about a round of applause for our last dancer, and life of the party tonight, Ryan!" and some British guys sitting at the bar clapped while one said, "Thank you so much, cheerful girl, for your crazy dancing and your aura of energy and happiness!" Oh, gosh, man it made my freaking night.
+ I wound up talking with Jeremy for a while, we exchanged e-mails, and he wants to throw a wild dance party at his flat in Green Point soon, have the DJ (who's name escapes me now) DJ and have me bring all of my friends and my "wild dancing" to start the party! He took a pictre with me and his friend & his DJ& it was, ah, just magic. So much fun. What a night, what a set of two days!

Tues (tomorrow)

+ Work
+ Hooping with Kayla & Sara at Central Park

Wed

+ Hiking with Eric
+ Over Brandon's

Thurs

+ Spend the day with Brandon

Fri

+ Work

Sat

+ Work
+ See Eric's band TVTV in Willyburg with Tony, Sara, Kayla (hopefully), Jenny & who knows who else..


Just...just awesome. Over & out.

Today

I thought, for the first time in my life, that I understood death as a much quieter response to living. Today, I understood how the eager soul-flame waivers in the quiet complacency of utter comfortable misery intoned in the every day. Today, I sobbed in the workroom bathroom then stood in freezer choking on water as I tried to drink inbetween cries. What if she lost her hands? Today I embarrassed myself. Today I didn't tell people the whole story, for the first time. Today, I opened the fridge and for the first time, bare feet cold on the kitchen tiles, I stared at liquor and considered taking it up as a hobby; alone. Today, tonight, as I wipe the snot and the mascara from my face and notice the utter pain in my whole body from anxiety, I think about the worry and the guilt and the should'vebeenthere's, should'veknown's.

Tonight I went back to the fridge for a second time, held a liquor bottle in my hand and then slammed it back on the door and made for my hammock.


There are already enough fucking miserable alchoholic writers in the world.

Your Abstract Painting

Maybe what scares people the most about liquor, isn’t in fact the consumption. It’s the social situations that drive us to the drink, or perhaps, what’s worse, when we don’t drink enough; the sole, little amount of liquor quickly giving us a clearer version of what’s truly going on in our heads. The meat of the situation is, there’s a whole wide life out there waiting to be lived and one day, taken down off the board and there’s this little five foot tall girl I know hesitant to start the walk even though she’s twenty one years down the line. Fact is, the little lady knows more than she should, and less than she will hope to ever understand. There are large shears tearing away at the suspension cords, and as I float my head quivers with the sudden satisfaction of the cool collect of dissonance. There are things to be done, places to be seen, and moments to be had just the same as these and theres and yet the road seems distant and the feet to get me there seem already, sole(soul)less.


I will write all I can, though it be 2AM, though I be exhausted, in order to figure the truth about what is going on in my head. Well the truth is, I have no clue what is going on. I’m further from being in the know about I feel than I ever have- mostly, I’m sure, due to the fact that I haven’t been able to barely catch a minute by myself. Even in my own room I feel I am getting stared at at every angle (which technically, I am; most especially from Gabba’s walls), and I hear the constant noise of others around me who I have probably seen at least half a dozen times in the last week and I know their toilet rounds and heeled afternoons, most unfortunately, by heart. I am surrounded by people who assume they know what is going on. More specifically, those who assume they get me. I am surrounded by an institution who keeps forgetting my credits, or how many courses they need me to take or…what major are you again? I’m sorry…and what did you want to do after college?

All I wish to do is cut the crap away. I’d love for people to be straight up with me; maybe then I would know exactly how I felt about each and every person and each situation. Instead I will sit here, smile and act pretty because that’s what I am here for, isn’t it? To listen and give my frank two cents, even though everyone thinks me cutely kind for it. I do it to prove nothing. I do it to solve only what little problems I can help with and hope that one day, one singular, future day, will hold better things with bigger problems with people who need help with mending that cannot be taken care of in a single-sweep coffee conversation. I just broke the fourth wall; spoke in earnest and was unforgiving with my words and now THE TRUTH IS OUT! We can start to no longer trust her again, and thank god, she was becoming too honest for our own good.

No. I do not expect anyone to “understand”; no, I don’t particularly--no-- I just honestly care, not a bit. This game we play of collegiate mess is a tricky thing to figure; pretend we can play Russian Roulette with each other’s hips and fingertips in order to shove the opponent off the socio-emotional board. I wonder, often, how many people I will actually correspond with after graduation; and then I remember how fleeting such connections are and add in my head the miles growing between us and them and already.

I wondered if I wanted to take anything seriously, today, as I walked back from class after a test I crammed for a few hours for and finished in twenty some-odd minutes. I wondered if I cared it went anywhere and when I realized I truly didn’t, I wondered where a part of my heart went and thought it was stuck somewhere in my shoe before remembering it was placed quietly behind my ear. I wondered then when I would care if anyone truly saw who I really was again before remembering I don’t care now so how should I expect a reciprocation of such said caring.

Bitterness is a molecule that when force-fed correctly to other molecules, subtly creates apathy. The hardest science fair project is to debate the where and how passion does not drizzle and freeze into being apathetic, and where the twists are in the plot of bland living situations in order to make us mental bank.

I used to want to eat love for dinner. Hope it made me feel something, if not, full. Instead it gave me everything I hoped for and more- it taught me something then reminded me I had to one day, show up at my own door and remember to love this selfsame chick again, somewhere, burrowed under all the lesson plans for future manly endeavors. I know now giving in to unexcitable love is the rule for those who’s flames have been licked out by a duller turn in life, and I only hope to never be the other side of the lonely chosen one. What is dedication to another, do I even remember the term any longer? Now that I’ve realized I’m more like the last one I loved than I had ever imagined, and finally know I’m no greater than the wisp of wind he as a dipping, spinning leaf turned on? I am a little, awkwardly blurting, cheeping bird who knows no distinct migratory pattern; who expects no hand to sooth her wayward, miffed feathery coat; who figures it smarter to peck at the choices far from her, the seeds of a distant ground more tempting and less apt to be a stage five clinger.

If you want to remember freedom, I will give it to you; it rests between your sheets the day you wake up and find cotton stuffing as your head about the fact you sleep and you sleep alone. Your heart swells with pillowcases soft and lavish in all your glory of alone-ness; of all the sweltering heat you could’ve friction-forced adding legs and crossed fingers into the illusion of a fully good-intentioned night.

If you want to remember prison, I will give it to you; it rests between your sheets the day you wake up and find the most detailed stranger etched before you streaming their snores all wireless and without connection.

If you want to remember me, I will not be able to give me you, or give you me. Whatever anyone will remember me by, I surely will never tell.

I am a detached, naked and shivering fledgling, excited by the prospect of using fake Keds for jumping ropes, and using all the heart in her kindness to fix the broken hands of the ones who need building.

For once I don't give a shit about being loved, but what the fuck, gentlemen? Would someone hurry up and get the fucking point already? I'm earnest as shit, but woah boy the more honest I am, the less I make sense so treat me as I am and hang me up as your abstract painting.

Rebel Yell

You pushed your glasses towards your
face and drew me in with a
Pandan icecream afternoon with the words
"Give me a kiss, first" before we
left the Samurai sword dancing
man behind us for
saki.
Your lips were true or
otherwise without
chap or giving me lip
"It was my favorite conversation, between
Avenue A and St. Marks,"
you told me,
“The one we had about poetry? Ginsberg and
Buddy?” you added as
I smirked and said “It’s all coming back, a little,”
And you laughed and said
“Don’t you dare take me for a sucker; I know you can’t remember.
There were quotes from a Buddy poem I’d tell you,
If I could remember them, but I can’t. I was going to read
The book by that guy you like, to try to impress you,
But I didn’t find it at the book store.”
“Isn’t that where that bullshit it’s the thought that counts comes in,”
I laughed the words back at you right before the
five hours later we found ourselves
Tongue tied at the 12:49 ALLABOARD sign and you
Signed me off with an until next time,
And we said,
Until next time.

Sophisticated.

We went to a bar where Jimi Hendrix used to drink and drink a lot. We went in after the large man checking IDs asked me exactly how many hearts I planned on breaking tonight and I responded none. We walked in and were a foot and a mile shorter than every sophisticated, 30 something beautiful person in that bar, covered in old framed phots of Grace Kelly, Bob Marley, and some other influenctials. Beautiful people sipped gin and tonics and laughed close to one another's faces as we tried to find a place to cram into in the corner so we could talk above the music. She told me how she didn't see this coming: her psudeo-boyfriend wasn't really working out and I could see her faith in that distant thing called love or a connection fading out as quick and as fleeting as the belief was. She sipped her drink through a tiny red straw as I took mouth fulls of beer and told her I wasn't sure about anything anymore because moving around made you lose your balance, and I was so sick but sure about suitcases that boxes made me scared and boy there sure were a lot of them in my apartment currently. She finished her drink quickly and told me she had to get home. I didn't finish my beer, but still put on my coat and told her, maybe I'd catch her next weekend. I walked past the fabulous people smoking cigarettes and walked the longer way back to my apartment because the weather was warmer for a Feburary night.

Product

I wrote this napkin for you
I created it by mushing paper pulp
Pulled pieces from my parts and
Heart
And licked coffee onto it's outsides
So you could smell me
Stinking right beside--no--
Right in front of you.
Right under the plate holding
Your one-night standards
Cleaning up your grease
This napkin, she was fashioned
Just for you
By the polyurithane company
Don't ask me why
They can't throw me out
But you never exactly let me in did you?
Do you?
Pick me into pieces, keep me in your
pockets--
Who knows;
Maybe one day you'll even use me.

Manhandling Animals

You weren't smoking a cigarette, but the smoke curled around your eyes even though we were in doors. The drums ticked in the background, the clarinet player wildly swinging and jerking his arms around in time. The jazz bar was filled but our friend--my friends-- and you, we sat in the back where old fans and African figurines dorned the walls. The couchs were soft, and I didn't know why, but your drawl kept me listening and my cheeks hot when your breath came too close to mine. The artwork crawling down your arms towards your wrists marked years of terrible ideas and memories you'd maybe rather forget, but you are not bashful. My leggings tucked into my leather boots, my hair tied back in taught bobby pins and you felt every word I said, even though I didn't and don't know why: all I know is it made me feel stripped clean of everything I was wearing and everything I had done. Like you had forgiven me before you ever even knew all the wrong choices I've made because you made the same ones, and often times, worse ones. Cigarettes and caffiene carefully calculate all the years you spent with pills and powders, but you wouldn't pretend you were anything different. You wouldn't make light of the fact either. The fact is it is only fact, and facts are everything, and nothing standing alone. It's only when you've finished talking and your smile fades a little and your crows feet give their squinting happy eyes a rest, that I see right into you, an observative and curious boy peeking through the layers of years all encrusted and mended on top of your blood cells. I can't help but forget much of what we talk about. But I know it is different, and not at once deeper. But you feel me just the same. I never knew I could be felt without someone taking hold of a submarine to reach my depths. My intensity just some old strings left to be plucked running the length of my neck and down to my legs. But you didn't pull on my strings, and for that, I am thankful. That night where we met too many odd strangers who kept your lap for their sitting, we decided to laugh for hours at the most serious movie, and keep the door closed when you slept for 30 minutes and I for none. You held me close and kissed me. Held me there for a moment like you hoped you were kissing through to my soul. Your nose at the back of my neck and your hand held mine close. But I'm no longer the one who needs bandaids and for all the things I don't notice, the fact that I'm alright isn't one of them. I'm doing so well that none of this could matter if it all disappeared tomorrow. But the thing is? They won't. This is the dusty old path that my shoes decided to kick themselves down and you were there, long before I noticed you, plugs in your ears and all. Who you are and what your business is, I may never know. But you are there nonetheless, all smiling and waiting to take your part. I wonder how your years match and outlive mine, by six, and by what standards? Does your age match your mind? Have the decisions you've made waisted your time, or do you like drinking and not eating? Are you the person who likes to make up excuses? Or are you just as down on this earth as I think you are? Honest and open and willing to let things go. Willing to let thing be as they are. Because they just: are.