I am packing up my apartment. Its quite a process. If you would like to help me move several pieces of heavy furniture, please let me know. Lighter stuff is going into boxes now. One of those lighter things is a scale I was given for Christmas by one of my best friends. The scale is purple with black fuzzy foot spots and zebra print. Instead of numbers, it says things like “foxy”, “dazzling”, “classy”, and “perfect”. I love it. And I love my friends. And I love when the world seems to have its priorities in place. Who decided numbers could adequately describe people? Every time someone throughout history has tried to exchange identities for numbers, it seems to end badly. For all involved. Words are so much more beautiful and meaningful. Even words like rude, delusional, and egocentric carry more meaning than 124.2, 34, or 60k. Numbers have their place, but people have their words.
I have another sting from a nettle. This time it is on my toe. The second one in on the left foot. I like to call that one my “stately” toe because it seems very long and graceful. I call the fourth one my “golf ball” toe.
Some people talk about wearing rose-coloured glasses. I wear sepia-toned spectacles and I will not take them off.
Diet Coke has become my soda. Not because of its lack of calories, but because I genuinely prefer the taste. And probably because I miss Jenny Wilborn. Long stemmed roses aren’t for me. But I love a bouquet of gardenias in a Diet Coke bottle perfuming my room.
The last time I was on Malarone, it did not make me aggressive or give me hallucinations. However, I had lots of dreams about weddings. A particularly vivid one was about Ross and Amanda, whom I had not seen for eight months.
I people-watch like its my job. And I would love if someday it could be my job.
On the subject of jobs, throughout the course of my childhood I have desired to (and looked into/studied) work in nearly every aspect of film including historical consultation, make-up, score composition, stunt work (yes.), prop design, direction, writing, and acting.
I have no idea where I will put all my stuff next year.
I’m desperately looking for a home for my pet rats for next year. They are middle aged beauties who love to cuddle enthusiastically. They take it in turns to be the dominant aggressive one in the cage. Gully is most often, but Fern will also take her turn. They always turn their hot pink igloo upside down.
I worry a lot about what I wear and how I look. And that is silly. But it is me.
I love ballet slippers and still refuse to admit that I would not have been a good dancer had I been given the chance. I prefer to live in a dream world where if I had just had dance lessons, I would be Julliard bound.
I have more favourite sweatshirts than any other article of clothing. One was my grandmothers and it has pink and purple handprints all over it from my siblings and I. One is an old teal sweatshirt with the Luther rose printed on. One is a red sweatshirt that is oh so soft. It has two fuzzy scottie dogs on the front with rhinestone collars. I used to wear it with a dark long, loose braid and diamond earrings and feel Hollywood glamorous. Sweatshirts are an easy way to break into my heart.
I think if I wasn’t so afraid, I could feel lovely. And I could look at you and love you too. And I’d accomplish so much more that way.
When I was in high school, I babysat a little boy named Francis. Frankie, as he preferred to be called, was three when I started taking care of him and was smarter than I currently am. He had the coolest Legos and the hippest parents. When I read him books about dinosaurs, he would correct me on my pronunciation.
Before going to bed, Frankie had to brush his teeth, put on his pajamas, and read three books. He got to pick three, then he would crawl up onto his bed, turn on his cd player, and wait for me to read to him. He usually picked that ridiculously long book about the Easter bunny that has a million children but pursues her dreams about delivering eggs and almost fails but perseveres through a hurt foot to hop a beautiful egg up a hill to a dying child. He picked this book just to stay awake longer. I would skip pages. He never noticed.
One thing Frankie would always ask was if he could keep the books in bed with him while he slept. I have no idea why. But I always said no. Because they had sharp corners and it just wouldn’t do for his parents to find him the next morning with a bruise in the corner of his eye or something. Lynnea says unsafe.
But last night, I was in my bed reading. And yes, last night as I was turning out the lights, instead of moving the book to the bookshelf or at least dropping it on the floor, I just tucked it under one corner of my pillow and curled up with Kurt Vonnegut all night. “Welcome to the Monkey House”, my friends. My Kurt Vonnegut obsession has begun.
i always wanted to be a doctor. i had a little doctor’s bag as a child with band aids and a plastic stethoscope. i was cpr/first aid certified for seven years. i went through an ill fated attempt to try to fit a pre-med emphasis with my bachelor’s degree in history. i gave up on that dream. it was doomed from much earlier.
maybe it was the part of me that wanted to fix everything around me but be invincible myself. because that desire didn’t fade. stereotypical doctor god complex.
There is a long list of categories in which I am not measuring up. I am falling short. And I’ve got the bruises to prove it. And like a million times before, I’m done caring. I won’t be dictated to by the world’s whims or yours. I’m not a resume waiting for your approval or a term paper waiting for a passing grade. I’m a person. Organic not mechanic. I won’t fit in a mold and I won’t fit in a box. I take on the characteristics of the people I love and assume the attributes I admire. I act until I become what I was made to be. And that’s okay with me. I’m bruised and I’m fumbling my way through. And I’m offering that mess to you, world. I have so much I want to do, why do I let fear steal my time?
“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.’ We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we’re liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” Marianne Williamson
Its on the edge of rainy outside. The clouds are dark and thick.
I think I believe in myself, but I’m just not sure.
I cleaned my room well enough today. At least everything is in a place now. But it needs to be vacuumed and packed soon.
Your jewelry made me realize, I’ve never been loved the way you loved her. The way you still love her. Its both beautiful and difficult to see. I wonder what it would feel like and if I’ll ever live that way.
My roommates’ voices are loud and I will desperately miss hearing them in just a few weeks. This place has been home.
I need a spinning top or a gold chess piece. I’m about as grounded as Leo. Sometimes that’s fine. Sometimes, I need the top to give in to gravity.
Summer is here. The longest sunlit day of the year has been punctuated by showers and overcast greys. Its causing the strawberries to rot and mold, but its also washing away some of the dirt and grime off the greens spring left behind.
Come fall, I swear, my nails will be clean.
I wear gold jewelry more often these days than I would have ever imagined.
Honey badger. Honey badger. Honey badger. I swear. If I could turn into an animal…
Its time for a pen.
When did I get so old?
When did life become numbers and charts and measuring up? When did I stop believing? I think it might have been yesterday. Or the day before. It might have happened a million times, but if you clap, children, Tinkerbell can come back to life. You can save her. You know, if you save her, you’ll save yourself too. I heard your wings beating feebly beneath your business casual attire.
I heard life is magical. And from time to time, I think I catch a breath of that fairy dust. You tried to clean it up, sweep it under the rug. Lord knows, it will wreak havoc on the children’s asthma. But you didn’t know that I’ve heard of hope. An old man passed me a treasure map with a compass rose pointing to Beauty-North, Love-East, Justice-West, and Peace-South. He walked with a limp, but his eyes looked trustworthy.
I saved the fairy dust that you tried to hide. It’s in a small bottle tucked behind my matches and old letters. I could get it out, you know. It might come in handy if you wanted to follow that map. It might be dangerous but Tinkerbell drank the poison for Peter. She didn’t die. And maybe I won’t either. Maybe we can believe enough to stay young forever.
When did I get so old?
I think it was the moment I stopped laughing.
Today I took my second bike ride in a row. Second in a row does not seem like much of a row, I know. But when it comes to me and doing sporty things, twice is a record. Or something like that. Moral of the story? I love biking. That’s not to say I’m good at it by any means. But give me a couple years, chop one of my testicles off, and I could be the next Lance Armstrong.*
I biked out of town on N Dakota Ave today. Definitely not “country” country. Too many houses and not enough corn fields, but very quiet and peaceful and rolling and green. The whole lack of a shoulder thing was disconcerting. I also still have a childhood fear of going too fast down hills. However, I also have a childhood fear of braking on hills. Biking dilemma.
More discoveries from my ride today: there is a Reliable St. right near where I live. I like that.
*Not intended to be a factual statement. I have no testicles. Nor would I ever propose to Sheryl Crow. Sorry.
I decided to take a nap at 7:45 and slept on and off til about 10:30. Ugh. Worst idea ever.
Sleeping feels like such a waste of time.
Some days it is hard to be okay. Some days it is hard to be lovely. Some days it is hard to be strong. Some days it is hard to be whole.
Some days I wonder if I dreamed these wings you gave me to rise above.
Some days I wonder if I can fight hard enough.
Some days I wonder if there is enough beauty in me to find it around me.
Some days it is not. And some days I don’t. But some days it is. And some days I do.
And on those days, I wonder if you made me small because you knew I needed to be scrappy.