Bow Your Head and Join With Me

I spoke with Ms. F., Mr. R's roommate, this morning and we have made plans to get together for dinner and catching up tomorrow evening. That's a lovely thing to have set up for the first day of a new year. No guarantees that he will be around, but he may be. It isn't the point, though. I will finally get to see her and I haven't for a couple of months. She has become engaged to her boyfriend of two years since I last took her face in, and I need to know the story of his proposal.

This is the last day of the year, and what remains is simple.

Love.

Did I say I felt warm and fuzzy? This too, is now up for revision. I feel instead some variation of cheated...prevented....barred. What kind of world do I occupy where my best friend gets to have an outing to the art store with the man I love while I sit at my pointless job doing not much of anything? I am not jealous of her with him (I think). I am instead, jealous of the time, jealous of the opportunity. I have not seen him for over a month, and have no immediate plans to see him...

I feel my neck tightening.

When I came home I was starving so I ate a peanutbutter & jelly sandwich with an English Breakast chaser. It has quieted the growl of the desperate animal that lives in my abdomen. Now I am watching syndicated television while reading the memoir. I feel fortunate when it comes to literature these days. I already have a new book in the queue. Devika's gift of Black Girl in Paris is the light at the end of my tunnel today.

New Year's Day, 2002 Revised

Instead of turning on my worn heeled shoes after we finished smoking our cigarettes I would have looked at you in that way that said succinctly kiss me. I had been waiting all night for you to ask me to go out into the cold with you to inhale poisonous vapors, I wanted to shiver with you... but instead I was coolheaded, and I distracted you from your desire to clasp my mouth with yours by sharing weird observations, signaling with my body that the moment was now over. So we went back inside, and settled for the tame gesture of letting our shoes touch, like our shoulders and knees touched when we sat on couches together the night before, the same night I unceremoniously took your beer from your hand and had a sip before carefully placing it back–as though I did that all the time...

I would have held your gazes longer, I would have been one of those girls who knows what to say to make a man foolish and sick with love. I felt you wanting to close the gap between us. I would not have let another whole year of the earth's turning pass without knowing the rhythm and pace of your heart.

When the clock struck midnight I would not have been standing alone in a maelstrom of confetti and kissing couples, wondering why you were no where near me in the crowd of your friends. Rather, you would have come to find me, taken my hand, and said softly 'happy new year.'

Black Coffee: No Sugar, No Cream

I've made it through 81 pages of Rebecca Walker's memoir. My morning commute was productive in that sense. Yesterday I completed Nick Hornby's How To Be Good, which was by turns delightful and frustrating. But it was supposed to be vexing--you are supposed to struggle, along with the central character, while her husband grows a conscience and makes her suffer through his impractical schemes to rid the world of all its social ills.

Sarahbina and Mr. Renaissance are going to the art supply store together today. Remarkably, this fact makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside (two years ago it would have made me feel undermined, blind with jealousy). Two of the people I care most about are doing something together--purely out of convenience--but still, it seems like a nice development. The Sarah-one needs to buy water colours, and Mr. R was going to go anyway... so, voila! Field trip.

When he returned her call last night he still had not replied to my edits of his letter via e-mail. After their conversation about paints and brushes, he asked to speak to me. In the course of this conversation (if it can be called that, given its brevity and my monosyllabic responses), he thanked me for my help, told me he was going to make all the changes I suggested, and would keep me apprised of the fall out. I told him that would be wonderful, that it was a great letter, etc.

I wanted him to e-mail me all this because as sick and twisted as it sounds, I prefer e-mail to actual contact with him. Because e-mail is the theory of a relationship; it is the hope of contact; it is something I can save for the files of my mounting evidence of his belonging with me; it is the buffer that keeps me from having to be my physical self to him. I am eloquent on paper, but I fear something gets lost in the translation of my bodily presence. I get nervous, absent minded, I can seem like a real stick in the mud when confronted with his physicality because I am trying desperately to keep myself in check, not give the appearance of wanting things I'm going to be denied anyway, keep my hands to myself. Whatever.

Earlier this winter I realized that I have a driving need to bring to an abrupt halt any event, relationship, or experience that is making me happy. I cannot be lulled into a false sense of security by bliss, because I have learned that despair is always waiting to blindside me. I spend countless hours trying to divine the method, time, and place devastation is going to occur. I can't relax into sing alongs, quiet moments of killer eye contact, or even pleasant dinner party conversation because I have spent my life listening for dropping shoes, doors slamming shut to me, finding out, by accident, the one piece of information I'll forever wish I didn't know...

But I want to be a real woman to him; I just don't want him to reject, again, that woman.

Griffin and Sabine

These two names were first mentioned to me in 1997. A work colleague asked if I'd ever read the trilogy by Nick Bantock... this in the context of my mentioning a series of poems I'd written--functioning as "letters" between two characters I'd named Anna and George. I had not at that time, and in truth it is only now, 5 years later, that Griffin and Sabine have actually made their way into the inner sanctum of my literary experience. I have a theory. Sometimes information gets passed to you, years before you need it, as a deposit of things to come. So that when you do experience what was foreshadowed, you can see how your whole life has been rushing you furiously toward the place you presently find yourself standing.

My tortured relationship with Mr. Renaissance that is comprised of e-mail and artistic bartering is reminiscent of this fictitious, intuitive love affair. I read the copies I borrowed from a friend greedily--in one sitting--and felt the bells of recognition tolling for me. I don't think I am seeing my often frustrating connection to Mr. R too fondly. In every way that matters, it may as well have been our story I was reading. Of course, he's promised nothing, and has certainly not moved between worlds to get to me, but the soul of what is unfolding between us was there, waiting for me to find it. Another way for me to hear the same message.

Don't give up.

Emerson Was A Transcendentalist

Ralph Waldo Emerson is the most quotable individual who has ever lived. I know, I know. He had his faults (and was probably unduly prejudiced against the Chinese), but how can you not respect a man who said "I hate quotes; tell me what you know."? Or, "Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."? Or, "Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist."?

I think he also said "Make yourself necessary to somebody."

Mr. Renaissance has typed up another of his famous scathing letters, calling attention to discrepancy, social/academic injustice, and blowing the lid off of farce. And he asked me to review it for him (as I have reviewed other documents of his in the past). This is my role in his personal revolution, that of editor-in-chief. Last year at the New Year's Eve party we attended he introduced me to people as someone who is an editor by trade, but who is really a poet. Or, quite possessively, once as "his editor."

I feel the most useful, the most in my element, when I am helping him with something, advising him, praying for him, correcting his grammar, etc. Or, conversely, the most challenged when I am showing him a poem for the first time, when I am listening to him discuss the work of his art, and what it costs him.

How could a woman not want to make love forever to this man?

Because I'll Never Hold the Picture of the Whole Horizon in My View

Caryl came in with me to work yesterday; we were both so tired, having gotten almost nil sleep the night before. We were only able to stick it out for half a day, so we left early and went to see Two Weeks Notice, and then headed to a popular cul de sac in the city to meet a dear friend for fresh mex food.

I finally made it home at about 7:10 in the evening (having parted ways with Caryl on the Subway), and proceeded to look over the mail (a "thanks-but-no-thanks" letter from a company I applied to 3 or 4 months ago, a bill, and a postcard from one of those video/cd clubs), steep tea, and wrap up a few ad hoc presents I purchased for Sarah.

I talked briefly with Sassafrass Teawrap, and afterward I spent some time in prayer and worship. This morning, I am back on the job, a styrofoam cup of coffee at my side, and the beautifully repeating refrain "because I'll never hold the picture of the whole horizon in my view; because I'll never rip the night in two..." swelling and soaring in my ears... because I'll never.....because I'll never.....

I do not see all of what is transpiring in my life to make my story what it is going to be, so I am going to divest myself of the burden of trying to make it all make sense.

I am better rested, but still needing more sleep, I am hopeful in a quiet sort of way. No pyrotechnics, no off the charts excitement, just in a state of belief for the things I desire.

I called Mr. Renaissance. I felt him slipping away and I needed to know he still existed, was not in another woman's arms, and still knew my name. We chatted for about a half hour on Christmas Eve about the trappings of family gatherings, how he's feeling about leaving school, ran down the lists of presents we bought our nearest and dearest. I was disheartened actually... Not sorry I called, but I chafed a bit when he said it was "neighborly" of me to telephone.

It snowed. My mother wanted my sisters and I out of her hair last night so she sent us out in what turned into a blinding snow of fat flurries to watch a movie. Fortunately, we were okay. The movie idea was a bust, though. The theatre was not showing any film that had a start time after 7:30, so we had no options. Instead, we went over to T.G.I.Friday's and ate a lackluster meal. By the time we left the eatery the snow had let up. It was above freezing, so the slushy rain that was left behind did not harden, really. We slipped only a bit.

The Christmas Spirit was conspicuously absent from my life this year, but I'm not the only one who felt this way... My middle sibling kept remarking "It just doesn't even feel like Christmas to me; it's just weird... I don't know...." Anyway, we all opened our presents at midnight, and went to bed.

Crystal (the middle sibling) woke up to go to work at IHOP this morning and didn't get off until about 4. That was somewhat literary. Having to waitress at a pancake house on the day of the Lord's birth.

We did have a lovely dinner of standing rib roast, honey glazed ham, roast beef, and plenty of tasty accoutrements. My youngest sibling Caryl came home with me tonight after a crushing exchange with her almost boyfriend. She will go to work with me tomorrow, and we will part ways at a metro station after meeting a friend of mine for coffee.

So, I hope I get it right before New Year's Eve...

I've Tasted These Days Before...

And I don't know if they are the beginning of better things, or the flavour of everything about to get worse. I don't know if they are all of my worse suspicions confirmed, or the feeling of relief that comes with finding out I worried for nothing. Is this tightness in my neck giving way to wellness after weeks of being sick? Or, is it an indication of new infections, coughs, sneezes... the coming of greater malaise?

Sarahbina and I opened our presents to/from each other last night. Her knowledge of me, the things I want, what will make my eyes sparkle, is a comforting and continually endearing aspect of her.

Today I go home to be with my family, and Tomorrow the Big Day, that I can't seem to really wrap my mind around this year.

In Case I Got Cold (A poem with only commas)

Before you awaken I have covered miles in a drafty rail car
I sleep furtively, brokenly next to strangers
clutching at a ticket to the places I've tried to give up for good
so I can be more fully where you are, sleeping like you do
rising when you rise
waiting for our deep breaths to synch up as they did
the day we were flush back to chest
and I trusted you with my life
letting you be the gravity holding me to the world

every curve in the track bends me back to the ache in the center of your chest
the ache I want to worsen, the wound of yours I share, it can only be healed
by finding the other half of its face in the dark

Before you turn over on your side I have had my first sip of coffee
and hunger has risen in me as a dream in another woman's heart
I remember how you once explained drawing to me

your hand was balled, not really a fist, but closed up
everything is a separate shape
here is one, and here is another
that made sense, the shapes of hands, a hand in increments
of lines and planes

or later
the smudge of burgundy lipstick I smeared on your right shoulder
the same day your fingers accidentally brushed lightly over my bottom lip
when you zipped my jacket all the way up
in case I got cold

Christmas With The Stars

Almost no one is here; This is the best kind of day to be at work. I have a stack of cds (almost all of which are in deference to the upcoming holiday) to serve as the soundtrack for the assignment I'm presently giving my attention. Mariah Carey is serenading the nearly empty row of cubicles where I sit with "I miss you most (at Christmas time)" and I, of course, am thinking of someone who, while presently in my life, is not truly mine.

I am drinking the first cup of coffee I've had in about a week. Funny how being sick overrides the discomfort of caffeine withdrawal. All I've wanted for days is water, herbal tea, and orange juice--the stuff I should be drinking anyway.

So yesterday I had a small scale nervous breakdown (suffice it to say I tried to shut myself up in the bedroom closet but Sarahbina convinced me to come out). But today I am cozy in a new burgundy turtleneck sweater (early christmas present), listening to Tony Bennett, who is heralding Christmas in Herald Sqaure.

I've gotten enough sleep to kill someone. I retired just before midnight last night and slept until about 10:40 this morning. Everything seems to be in limbo; I'm better, but still sick; I've done a lot of my shopping, but feel as though I've hardly made a dent; I'm well rested, but still so tired.

3 Shopping Days Left

A Bing Crosby Special circa 1978 is blaring from the tv set; I am sipping echinacea tea (a given these days) to keep my new cold in check. The tonsillitis has morphed into a sneeze-cough thing. All in all, I'm fine. I still managed to go to dinner last night with Sassafrass Teawrap, and did some shopping around the tourist trap pavilions this morning. I took a cab there and back like a proper lady. I was impressed with myself for being home by 11:30 a.m... just in time for lunch.

Now I think I need a nap.

Othello's: Desdemona - The daughter of the Venetian senator Brabanzio. Desdemona and Othello are secretly married before the play begins. While in many ways stereotypically pure and meek, Desdemona is also determined and self-possessed. She is equally capable of defending her marriage, jesting bawdily with Iago, and responding with dignity to Othello's incomprehensible jealousy. She is strangled by Othello when he is under the impression that she was unfaithful.


* Which Tragic Shakespearean Heroin are You? *
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You are a descriptive writer. An avid reader of Robert Frost, perhaps, you LOVE to use flowery words and use the paper and pen as your canvas and paintbrush. You prefer to paint a mental image rather than simply toy around with people's minds. A very inspired person, you love to be in nature and usually are a very outdoorsy type of person. A writer with a natural green thumb, perhaps?


What's YOUR Writing Style?
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""Which cocktail are you?""
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Which female sex symbol are you?
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December Don't Forget Me...

This is the month that I have endured. I, who am never sick, took ill twice in the space of two calendar weeks. My plans have been stalled; My messages to some have gone unanswered. I did not manage to put up a single decoration, though I made my peace with this absence, the lack of Christmasness in my little microcosm of a world (i.e., my apartment) still feels wrong on a foundational level.

I reamed out my sister, in a manner of speaking, last night. Now that I have my voice back, I used it to tell her that her instincts about men are underdeveloped, and even suggested that she get some counseling in order to help identify and obliterate her destructive choices/patterns. She was practically silent from her end.

I have already gotten quite a bit done at the office this morning. Several packages are in the courier que for delivery downtown, I have run the paces with my boss, and I am ahead of the game on my effort report.

This year's pervasive holiday theme: The Snowman. Not sure why, but they are on my radar in a way they've not been before.

Healing Properties

My throat was swollen; at night I experienced the chills that often accompany a fever; I had trouble sleeping, even though that is what my body longed for more than anything else. I was unconcerned, for the most part, with the goings on of the outside world. I was the kind of sick that makes truly funny, interesting, endearing things neutral. Everything is stripped of its essence. The kind of illness where you cannot imagine that you will not always feel as though you have been run over by an 18-wheeler. Nothing competes with your aches for your attention, because they are so pervasive, you can't remember when you didn't ache.

You don't miss the taste of food or gourmet coffee because the only thing you can force down your swollen throat is an awful hot water, salt, lemon fiasco--a twist on some back water relative's recipe for a cure. I gargled this stuff to no avail two or three times before I broke down and went to the clinic.

I was diagnosed with Tonsilitis. That helped me...knowing I had something real for which there are treatments...

So now it is all about celebrating Zithromax, my current drug of choice, and drinking Echinacea tea, eating softened ice cream, and once again, sleeping like a baby.

Sassafrass Tea Wrap made me a red lacquered letter box for Christmas. She wants me to foster hope by writing love letters and placing them there for safe keeping until such a time as I can give them to their rightful owner... It is a beautiful notion, but I don't know that I am capable of that kind of fancy. The box delighted me; I don't want it to just gather dust, but I fear my hope making a fool of me.

God, grant me the courage to unleash my hope, the peace of mind to state boldly what I know to be true, and the wisdom to know foolishness from faith.

What kind of person can hear news of a close friend's engagement and after the immediate (and genuine) happiness for said friend, quickly start to process the news only in terms of how it is going to affect her socially? Me. That's the kind of person who would do that.

Where to begin? My thoughts jumped immediately to whether or not I will even be able to have a date to this wedding. I met Mr. Renaissance through this friend, so he will be there, but will he be there with me? This dear friend is also Mr. R's roommate. Clearly, they will be giving up their apartment, so where will Mr. R live? Perhaps far away from me, in the suburbs (or the country, more accurately speaking) with his family?

Then I just thought about how much my social stratosphere is changing. How people are getting married, having babies, getting engaged, buying houses, and what am I doing? Well, when I'm not home sick with a sore throat (as I am today), I have a 2.5 hour commute to a job I hate, I write on this blog, and I accompany my mother and sisters to holiday functions, and I still spend new years eve with other WOMEN. I am so sick of this life.

Hearing that my friend was engaged at least gave my sick self the motivation to shower and go check the mail. Could I be any more of a loser? Probably.

Lipstick Theory

I slept on my left arm in such a way that it bent at the elbow and could not be extended or straightened without causing me to wince in pain. I finally managed to get it to extend properly by massaging it at the joint. I had to lie with it perfectly straight for a while before the pain totally went away. I finished the book I was reading a few minutes ago. I am waiting for my load of laundry to finish its drying cycle.

In about an hour I am going to do some light shopping with Sassafrass Teawrap. Carrying shopping parcels gives me quite a feeling of accomplishment. It means a need or desire is going to be met, somehow.

I put on lipstick a few seconds ago, which I firmly believe changes everything. If you can still be bothered to wear lipstick it means you have not given up. Besides, I just like it. It gives my face definition, contrast, and makes me feel worth other people's time when I am wearing it. I have found that I look best in the vials that only cost about 99 cents. I have tried name brand tubes that are about 12 dollars or more, but something is always off... I am a dimestore lipstick girl who feels like a cool million bucks when I glide it over my lips.

I've Been Wishing on the Rings of Saturn; Calling on Jupiter and Mars, Praying on 10 Zillion Light Years...

I walked to the library, but did not have a bill or ID card with my current address on it, so I have to go back tomorrow to get a card. At least I know exactly where it is now, and found that like everything else in my neighborhood, it is very accessible to me by foot. I am the consummate pedestrian. I also took the opportunity on my way homeward to go inside the cafe I first noticed some months ago, and look around. It does have seating, though not much. It is the kind of place that is unassuming enough to sit by yourself, but quaint enough to enjoy a latte or cappuccino with a friend. I ordered a delish beverage and got a fat oatmeal raisin cookie (to go, this time since I was just exploring).

I picked up my place in Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies, which has strengthened my enjoyment of her writing, and read several pages before taking a hiatus to do Christmas cards, which I am proud to say, I have already mailed.

Still Life: Breakfast Dishes with Crumpled Napkins

It is a mostly cloudy morning. I am sitting at my desk, in my bathrobe, my hair matted to my skull, except for the fronds at the top and in the front that are shooting every which way. It is a typical Saturday morning. I am nursing a too big cup of coffee, and my belly is quasi full with my new fail-safe treat: oven toast. I am thinking I will walk down to the library today, get a card, and check out some books or videos. Or maybe I will go to Rite-Aid and buy some Christmas lights. I may do neither of those things. The beauty of a day alone is that you are accountable only to yourself, and have no one else's preferences to consider. I find that I tend to do the things I should only when I am alone. Something about having to navigate a space with others in it hems me in too much, and I feel too limited, so I do nothing at all.

Djobi, Djoba

I have a vision for the book I want to write. A newer vision that will illustrate the marriage between poetry and prose. Vignettes, all. Prosaic poetry. Full circle.

My birth father once told me that nothing would ever go right for me until I honoured him as my parent. In his mind, I think, honouring him means deferring to him in every situation, furthering his agendas at the expense of my own, considering his preferences above other people's including my own, taking his religion (Islam), and making my relationship with him more of a priority than my relationship with anyone else. This would hardly be reasonable even if he had been an active part of my life, not the absent ne'er-do-well that he actually was.

I have moments, however, when I wonder if I'm not the unreasonable one. Should I have kept trying with him? I ask myself if I could I have bent on any of my terms if it meant keeping him in my life? But I had reduced my terms to the most basic level, and beyond that there simply was no room for negotiation. What did I want from him? The time and freedom to develop an authentic relationship with him so that our efforts at relating did not seem hollow to me. Upon his release from prison about two years ago, he wanted to jump feet first into my life, not caring that he would be disrupting a lifetime of cultivated, nurtured relationships that prexisted my very tentative one with him.

I told him in the course of a phone conversation that I wanted to wait to visit with him until an especially busy season of parties and events was over so I wouldn't be distracted; I also told him I needed more time to prepare to see him. I think he told me to "take care" and hung up the phone. He called back a few minutes later, but I did not take the call. We've had only one supremely perfunctory conversation since then.

My stepfather and mother are separating. After a habit of sporadic physical abuse that ultimately culminated in his beating up my youngest sister, my mother finally got the courage to divide the joint and marrow of their life together. I decided that I had no father at all the night in late september that my sister called me up crying telling me she'd been punched, kicked, and head butted by this man.

I once wrote him a detailed letter telling him how much his abuse of my mother had wounded me, handicapped me, shaped me as a somewhat emotionally awkward woman. He apologized, asked me to forgive him, and told me I never had to worry about him hurting my mother again. He was about to go into surgery for some illness of his, and sounded legitimately repentant. Maybe he was sorry.

His illness had weakened him, but if I am to be completely honest, I never believed that he wouldn't still hit my mother if he weren't so physically compromised. His attitude, bullying tactics, and volatile reactions to the dumbest things, were all indicators that his "old man" was still ruling him.

When he did act out again, I guess I was relieved, because I was sick of waiting for that shoe to drop, and I also knew that I was going to be free of the charade of having to include him in the schema of people to take into account. I haven't been able to have a conversation with him since I was a teenager, the last time I saw him punch my mother so hard, it deadened her nerves on the left side of her face.

I have the paradoxical freedom of all orphans. No restrictions and familial definition to hem me in; I can cut my own path without a model after which I will be expected to pattern myself. No strength to draw, no resources for me or the children I want to shepherd someday, no safety net.

Coming Slow, But Speeding...

My Lover spoke and said to me, "Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, and come with me. See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves in heard in our land. The fig tree forms its early fruit; the blossoming vines spread their fragrance. Arise, come, my darling; my beautiful one, come with me." --Song of Songs 2:10-13

Well, the ice is melting, and as a result, I had surer footing this morning than I have in some days. My morning walk to the train depot used to terrify me. I would walk quickly and nervously, expecting a demon to emerge from every alley or hidden door alcove; I was like the expendable, 3rd tier character in a horror film walking trough a graveyard on Halloween Night.

I have realized, more fully than I have in many years, that I have a lot more processing to do in order to exorcise my ghosts of shame, rejection, and self-loathing. I never wanted to be one of those chronically self-absorbed people who never gets beyond the psychoanalyst's couch (the ones who are in counseling for the sake of being in counseling; the ones for whom analysis becomes a kind of schtick--like any character Woody Allen ever played in his earlier films), who keeps blaming her parents, kids from gradeschool, and "The Man" for all of her character flaws. I didn't want to be that woman. I still don't.

I have intellectualized my past. I can even admit, now, that my fathers are not the only sources of pain for me. I also feel abandoned by my mother, and am angry at her for some things, like her inability to guide me or be a source of wisdom for me. Before two years ago, I honestly believed I had no issues with her. So, that is progress, right? I understand the affects of growing up in an abusive home--how it belittles the soul in increments, engenders hopelessness, and smears the psyche with confounding mixed messages. It is to yearn while simultaneously cursing the want for anything. I never knew any men that I felt safe loving, no men that I believed loved me, so I became my own man, in a matter of speaking. I tried to emulate what I perceived to be their winning detachment; to think like them, to amaze and wow them with how little I desired anything from them. Of course it didn't work. It just caused me to be hollowed out and bloodless, emotionally speaking.

I scratched the surface of all this in my first two stints of counseling. What a slap! The cumulative year and a half that I spent in counseling was such hard work! The thought that there is more to do pisses me off, so much more, because I have no idea where to start. I don't want grief to overwhelm me; I don't want to live alone with that throat-constricting monster dictating my days and nights. But he is at my heels like a patient stalker. There is this thing in every room with me, sitting with me on the train, a voice of howling wind in my head that listening to music on full blast cannot drown out.

Some days waiting for the bus I feel like I am about to dissolve into endless tears. No provocation except the hounding of memories, scenes and vignettes that fly up out of the cauldron of an empty minute, negative space, from someone else's gestures that place me squarely back in the eye of the storm.

I want to be in love this coming year. The path to love for me, I know now, is having it out with this bone-crushing anguish. And it is something no one can do for me, or with me. Christ's path to the cross was alienating. Past a certain point, all sorrow and suffering is personal and specific, and you have to walk the path of rock shards alone.

'It's Just Rain,' I smiled, Brushing My Tears Away...

Welcome to the most peaceful hour of my day on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Between 7 and roughly 8:15, I can settle into my day undisturbed, journal online, or take care of annoying things like photocopying, returning e-mails/phone calls, or mapping out a strategy for the day's work (if there is any to speak of).

I was relieved to find, upon braving the walk to the train station this morning, that it was just rain, not icy precipitation that would freeze upon hitting the walks and roads, creating an instant death slick. I know that may change, but I did make it into the office without event. Let us hope I am spirited back home in the same way.

Living Will and Testament

I, Kate Krupnik, being of sound mind and body, do hereby bequeath my heart to a one Mr.Renaissance...

He has [somewhat] offhandedly suggested that we go out for drinks to discuss his latest decision to leave his teaching post, and all of what I "have on my plate" for the future. Per my declaration that I need a change, he suggested that I rent out a cabin in New England where I can just write (in general) and where I can nurture my fetal poetry manuscript (in particular). It seemed that he was taking a more concentrated interest in me. It made me want to kiss him languidly (is there anything more wonderful than feeling you are known by the man you love?).

After having a reality check talk with my ever-faithful consiglieri, Sarahbina, I realized I do have money to have a nice, festive Christmas. I cannot, as she put it, "drop major coin" as I have done in past years, but I can bless my friends with good gifts. We just looked at my budget together, and I realized that I had "pulled a Kate" and overreacted, which for someone so levelheaded, I do quite often.

Gentle Reader, this will, in all likelihood, happen again.

I don't do resolutions, per se, but here are the things I want to be open to in 2003:

1. Submitting a poetry manuscript for publication (relentlessly)

2. A mutual love relationship with Mr. Renaissance (which, of course, is not entirely up to me), not just the idea of it...

3. Reserving more of my emotional energy for things that previously seemed selfish to me (like writing; going out more with Mr. R.--spending less time with others to accomodate this, if necessary)

4. Drinking more water

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Recession

There is no indication that it is Christmastime in my apartment or at my place of business. Not a single decoration adorns the halls or the walls. This year, for various and sundry reasons, I cannot even afford a $15 dollar tree from Home Depot. All of my ornaments are in storage with Sarah's because we never separated them before we moved out of our old apartment. In light of december's bills I am not even going to have any money, to speak of, for presents. I tell myself I am going shopping on December 20th with the paycheck that will be issued to me that day, but how much can I really do when I have to put out cash for my sister's plane ticket home, have to pay the phone bill, and all the other bills I'll have at that time of the month, etc. I have to put out money for my daily commute, too.

For someone who delights in this time of year, especially, it is a crushing blow.

I know what you're thinking. I can hear you saying "But it's not about trees, presents, lights, etc." At the heart of it, no. But the way I keep Christmas involves extravagance--I love the luxury of giving. I love the warmth of spirit the decorations facilitate, and I love being able to buy exquisite meals with friends, talking over the old days, the times to come, etc. I love wrapping paper and the sound of scotch tape being torn off the dispenser. I love the swishing sound a bundle of shopping bags makes. I love finding the perfect present for a dear friend; the item or gesture that so perfectly hits the target, no one can believe that such a thing or idea even existed.

I know this is my own fault for being too short-sighted.

On The Mend

Am currently reading Anne Lamott's All New People. I borrowed it from Sarahbina last night; I was desperately in need of an engaging novel for my lengthy train commute to and from work for the next few days. The first sentence told me it would be genius. The sentences that I relate to the most so far:

"I turned into a hypervigilant little child, trying to make sure that everybody stayed in love with everybody else, a little bat of a child, a one-child war room. I tried to make sure that Peg didn't eat too much, and that Ed didn't drink too much, and when they did, that everyone would forgive them, and I tried to draw out Lynnie in conversation because she was the shyest person I had ever seen and I was afraid that her rather rabbity shyness would cause Peg to eat too much and Ed to drink too much. Sometimes I was so obvious in my attempts to manage everyone's emotions for them that I must have seemed like a tiny stewardess on the verge of a nervous breakdown..."

The death grip this cold seemed to have on me snapped loose sometime just before dinner last night. I woke up yesterday morning feeling considerably better than I had on any morning since last Monday, but I still had vestiges of the nastiness living inside me, I could tell. I had been out with the Sarah-one on an errand that didn't yield a very satisfying result, but we did make a pit stop at my supplier's house so I could indulge in my drug of choice. We sat in a spell in some pseudo comfy chairs and sipped our winter-themed beverages.

Let me dispel a potential misconception. I am not one of those people who thinks Starbucks is the only coffeehouse of any merit. Like everyone else I am a slave to convenience, and this franchise is ubiquitous, especially in the suburbs, where we were running our somewhat fruitless errand. Let it be known that Kate Krupnik supports the mom and pop, only-one-of-its-kind cafe... you know, the kind of place with character, charm, and actual atmosphere...

I am at work now, dreading the beginning of the week kinks I will have to work out. I can feel, even now, somewhat sticky conversations with my boss while I wait for her to approve a sample budget for products I'm already working on, that are probably already over budget. At least this is her back-to-back meeting day. The time I'll need to spend justifying myself will be minimal. This is a good opportunity to tell you that I have a very understanding, capable boss. She is a lovely, elegant, efficient woman who really understands how to manage others. But there is this one pocket of tension between her and me. We approach the unpleasant elements of this work from very different angles, though we both want the same result. And in an effort to stay abreast of what everyone's working on (necessary, of course), she asks a lot of questions. Unfortunately, questions annoy me. I like to work and keep people apprised of my progress as I see fit. I make it my business to keep everyone in the loop about everything, so I guess I figure If I haven't said anything, It's because there is nothing to report. So back off. This is why I should be self-employed.

I am looking forward to my Salon Bible Study's meeting tonight. I haven't completed the reading, but I am excited to interact with others as a well person again. And then tomorrow I work downtown where it is always less stressful than in my home office.

Vick's Vapo Rub and a Tribute to Family Angst...

My sister talked to me on Friday about the possibility of her, my mother's lover, and my mother all coming to see me in my province on Saturday (yesterday). As much as possible this would be kept a surprise from my mother up til the last possible second. Because they would only be coming from an hour away, and my mother pays about as much attention to her surroundings as a blind gnat (not to mention the fact that she is almost pitiably gullible), surprising her was entirely feasible.

Yesterday evening I went downstairs from my highrise apartment building and got into the car where they were waiting. My mother was asleep in the passenger seat, and did not stir even when I closed the car door behind me. Our destination was the waterfront and street shop pavillions that are the main tourist traps of my town. We parked in a hotel garage. The lover said gently to her "We're here." She awakened then, and I gently tapped her on the shoulder. She was confounded with shock; she kept touching my face as though she couldn't believe I was really there. We had talked a few times during the day over the telephone, and she had said several times that she wished she could see me, especially since I was so sick.

When we emerged onto the charmingly winterified streets of the bustling downtown area, her eyes lit up. You see, she had dreamed she'd been there earlier that day, and her own clairvoyance staggered her. She was a visual treat in her white faux fur-trimmed hat and periwinkle coat (also with faux fur trim). The Lover was classically casual in crisp jeans, black dress shoe/boot footwear, and a lovely navy turtleneck sweater, sporting his ever present gold-rimmed spectacles. My sister was decidely in her best fashion element with tan platform shoes, a perfectly matched (to the shoes) peasant blouse, and dark denim pants. I wore my coat that is doing an impression of bulgher wheat, with my dark grey scarf from bolivia, my scratchy wool peasant cap. A simple grey sweater with white button down oxford underneath, pale denim jeans, and slip on leather dream clouds for shoes... I guess we all looked quite nice out on the town together.

We all walked around, window shopped a bit, put in our names at a restaurant that it takes a ridiculously long time to get into. It was pleasant, except for my mother's penchant for finding something to complain about in any dining out scenario. I spent more money paying for my sister and myself that I can probably afford, but I think it will be okay. I hope it will be okay.

By the time I arrived back in my apartment, I felt run down from being out in the cold air. I put the kettle on for honey lemon ginseng tea, and slathered Vick's all over my congested chest. I was somewhat and inexplicably depressed. I called Sassafrass Teawrap who poured the healing balm of her words into the fissures in my heart. I felt hopeful when I hung up. The the lovely Sarahbina cooed over my sick self and administered tons of tender loving care by talking with me til I drifted off to sleep.

I am, what you would call, "really sick." I shouldn't have gone to work yesterday, but then my timesheet would have had to be completed by my boss, who would have questioned the distribution of the projects I would have had to tell her to charge (because she did that anyway), so it was best that I tie up those loose ends. At least I was able to justify my workload and move on.This pointless pap is not why you read 'Vestiges,' though, so shall we move on to something else?

Very well, then. Mr. Renaissance is decidedly busy this Christmas season and "in al honesty" [sic] probably won't be able to begin our sessions til after the new year. That makes sense actually, a lot of sense, so why am I the teensiest bit upset? Why, when I have a debilitating bug that has drained all of the palour out of my face, that has disabled my hair-styling capabilities, that has changed the fullness of my kissable little lips that I know secretly torment him, would I want him over here now drawing me or even seeing me while he teaches my precious friend, Sarahbina the guitar? Why, when I knew, intuitively, that this project should not begin until the new year do I feel so let down to know that my intuition was correct?

Because I wanted to see him, that's why. Just seeing Mr. R conveys him more fully to my heart that is already swollen with love for him.

Last year, a few days before the coming of 2002, he came to my house for a post-Christmas dinner. Sarahbina and her Michael were also in attendance. It was at that dinner that he asked me to attend a New Year's Eve party with him. I think I dread the new year this time around because now that I've spent it with him once, the thought of not being asked to do so again is disappointing to say very least.

This is why I want a sinister and beautiful stanger to take me out for drinks and dancing, so I won't have to be so mindful of Mr. Renaissance's beautiful hands, his strong arms, his luscious mouth, or to remember the sensuality of holding onto him for hours while we rode around on his motorcycle, or any of a thousand other things I think about every minute of the day, on any given day. So, until the moment he says to me, "Kate, enough of this damn charade! You're mine and I am yours, we both know it, so let's start acting like we know it!" I have to keep stradling that fine line between the reality of our situation and what my intuition says.

In other news, my flat is a mess (more implications of being, what you would call, "really sick.")

Cookies and Suicide

I am sitting here in my friend's kitchen, scrutinizing the grains in the counter top while I carefully measure out the ingredients. It's easily 80 degrees in the room–the heat coming from the oven comforts me, though. I schlepped my overnight bag 5 city blocks through the snow to get here--The bluish tint of my skin is finally retreating in the face of my returning blood. Julian isn't home yet (I let myself in with the key that stays under his welcome mat), so I'm making myself comfortable-- I started a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies, thinking it will be a nice way to thank him for letting me stay with him while my roommate deals with her issues.

After I put in the first dozen, I tidy a little, and put on the kettle for tea. I have never gotten over tea since my study abroad in England two years ago. I was a consummate coffee drinker before that... but now something about that beverage seems crude to me. I open J's fridge to make sure he has half and half... if he doesn't, the whole tea venture will be pointless. But I can always depend on him to have what I need... there's the demi pint on the first shelf, tucked in the back left corner.

I love the sound of boiling water– the way it pushes forth as steam, turning angrily on itself... hot beverages restore my soul. I am almost lost in a reverie of Victorian proportions when the oven timer thrusts me back to the present day. The first ones are a bit rough around the edges (isn't that always the way? J's oven is so catch as catch can, anyhow...)

I walk over to the cd rack and browse for something wintry when my eyes stop on Chasing Furies's 'December Despair.' Sounds promising. I pop it in and am overwhelmed by a cello in mourning. If this moment were a poem it would be called Cookies and Suicide.

The steaming brew transmits steady heat from the mug into the dead center of my palm. The house smells wholesome and sweet. It almost feels like I'm a young wife waiting to recount a thousand anecdotes to a husband who will come through the door at any moment. But I'm no one's wife– I make my peace with that truth everyday–by not thinking about it (much). J's New York Times is on the table, so I half-heartedly thumb through it. I read my horoscope in the Entertainment section.

Aries
"mercury is in retrograde for the next thirty days, so communication at home and at the office is impossible. Jupiter is moving in to stay for quite a while in your 9th house (romance), so forget about making headway with that adorable Pisces you can't take your eyes off of...."

J, as it turns out, is a Virgo. I don't give this stuff much credence, but it's been pretty on the money about one thing: Earth and Fire do not mix. I'm fire; J's earth– and he is just a little too grounded for true love. He thinks it's sloppy and messy, which he despises, so we settled for being pals a long time ago. It was never an actual conversation– just like one of those unspoken communications–and that was fine with me. I never wanted to hear "Susan, it's just not ever going to happen for us..." That remark preempts friendship, I can tell you for a fact, because, whoever says that will always be one up. The other schmuck will spend the rest of the time trying to regain that lost ground....

So no sexual tension to look forward to in this vignette. Sorry.

I hear Julian's keys turning in the door–just as I take out another round of cookies.

"Yum. Smell's like Oatmeal raisin," he says.

I know he's smiling even though I can't see his face yet.

"Can I have one now?"

I extend a plate of the cooled ones to him. He takes two. His hair is a little tousled, his shirt totally wrinkled.

"You look like you just got out of bed."

"If only that were true... I'm exhausted, Susan."

J only ever calls me by my given name. He thinks it's demeaning, somehow to shorten or "cuten up" someone's character moniker, or whatever he calls it. I don't call him J to be mean, or to frustrate him. I'm just not stuck up about random things the way he is. We've reached an unspoken agreement about this, too.

"So what's your roommate's deal?" he asks with his mouth full.

"She needs some space. She feels 'crowded by life' and there's just too much going on in her world to beinteracting with another person in such small quarters."

"Did she actually say that?" J looks incredulous.

"Do you think I would make this up?"

"So, how long do you need to stay here– like a week?"

"She needs the month to get her head together. I only brought one overnight bag– I figure I'll make little forays between here and there. Can you put up with me that long?"

"That's not the issue, Susan. It just seems unfair to you...."

"She's paying the full month's rent in exchange for me making myself scarce."

"Right. Listen, stay here as long as you need to... It'll be fun.... Just don't have any sleep over dates. That would make me uncomfortable."

"Gosh, J. I feel like a slut all of a sudden... I wonder why...." I'm not wounded, per se, by his comment, but something in it stings the tiniest little bit.

"I didn't mean it like that."

I don't want this turn into something cumbersome and asinine (which my "tiffs" with Julian almost always are), so I take out the last batch of cookies, set them on a cooling rack, and excuse myself to the gazebo outside to enjoy a Marlboro light 200.

J's remark vexes me the whole time I sit beneath the darkening sky puffing all my wicked longings into the Milky Way. The clouds look like they're in a meeting–all gathered and conferring about something or other. I can see him putzing about in the kitchen, washing up the cookie pans, wiping down the counter. At that moment, all those actions seem like a judgement of me, my lifestyle, my very existence.

Maybe I should stay in a hotel. Maybe I should just get another apartment and leave Amanda to her own devices.... I smoke my cigarette down to a butt I can barely hold, and plan my silent escape tomorrow morning. Maybe another day here would tax my too tenuous relationship with this man I've struggled to love in the right way for all these years. I nearly have my Modus Operandi locked down when I hear his footsteps crunching toward me in the indigo night.

"Come inside," he says.

I know this will be the happiest month of my life.

Leaving Me With Nothing To Disdain

After two days at home I only have one thing to show for it: Cabin Fever. I was relieved to awaken at 3:45 and leave my confining apartment for the cold, icy-ish sidewalks, and the drafty train that would convey me to my miserable little job for which I am eternally grateful. What did I do yesterday? I made some bread (bread maker), linen laundry, and wrote some tired little paragraphs for my stupid little book, and then I went to bed at 7 p.m. I received a phone call at about 8, so I didn't sleep until about 11, really. It ended up being one of those bury your head in the sand days.

At least here at work, I had some catch up stuff to do (out two days being just sick enough to be uncomfortable, but not truly miserable), so I was able to hit the ground running with budgets, forms, and camera-ready packages. At least it's pay day and I leave at 3:30 (so I will be home by 6:30).

I have been asking myself a question. "Kate," I say "What do you really want right now?"

Kate would like to drink a series of alcholic beverages and then go out slowdancing with a charming, sinister stranger.

"I Knew The Snow Was Deepening Where You Are..."

The world is white with wonderful (this description is an allusion to one found in one of my former professor's poems)! Everyone home and hunkering down. All the rooftops I see from my window blanketed, pure, symmetrically covered with this cold wil o' the wisp stuff. Wishing on snow stars, pressing steaming mugs of hot chocolate to our cheeks, and watching classic movies that always warm the cockles, etc.

I wish my friends were all able to trudge over to see me (or I, them) for a wintry lunch of stew over rice with buttery biscuits, and then that we could all go out for a romp in our parkas and boots.

Blast it! The snowplow is making a horrific, albeit necessary noise, below and the din it is creating is forcing these beautiful images right out of my head!

Or I wish I had a lovely grey cat with blue eyes who might snuggle with me on the couch while I read a well-crafted yarn and sipped lady's tea and ate Lorna Doone tea cookies.

The possibilities are endless. I am going to shower, put on my best sweater, and add a touch of lipstick to my lips for colour and effect. I will be smashing whether anyone sees me or not.

Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

As my rather prosaic title suggests, there is snow in the forecast for tomorrow. The accumulation could be serious enough to make my train commute difficult. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I work downtown... not downtown where I live, but another town's downtown, an hour away from my own beloved doorstep. On those mornings I meet a coworker at a hustling bustling train station and continue on to a prominent office building from there. She comes from an even farther distance than I do. We will confer very early in the morning to determine a course of action (i.e., are we reporting to that remote office, in light of the weather, or not).

I wish I were tired enough to sleep, but I didn't rise from my sick bed until about noon today. Even though I am still experiencing the nastiness of a scratchy, constricted throat, and palpable fatigue, I am wide awake. All this is making me decidedly grumpy.

I could stand to be cheered up by more correspondence with Mr. Renaissance.

Plate of Figs

My good friend Sassafrass Teawrap made me one of her famous decoupage collages. The metaphor of this particular piece is the hope that one finds in waiting for the fulfillment of promises. In the Bible figs/fig trees are often associated with fulfillment, or the lack thereof. Recently, the scripture "He who tends a figtree will eat its fruit" has become especially meaningful to me, specifically in the context of my prayers for a certain gentleman. I worried that my prayers for him might later serve some other woman who would benefit from all of the emotional energy I've sown into him. My courage to press on, believing that my longings will be satisfied, was bolstered by remembering these words.

In other news, I am not at my place of business today; I am home sick. My illness is not debilitating, just uncomfortable. I have a tight, scratchy throat, body aches, and a general sense of malaise... a film of ickiness, if you will. Nothing, however, Nothing can eradicate the pervasive sense of joy I have in this season of advent. The coming of beautiful things, the realization of kisses to come, crisp air, presents and other expressions of generosity between friends and strangers, and many other signs and wonders.

I am also restless. I feel very impatient with things that take a long time to explain, or to take in. My soul is curled up leaf, slowly uncurling.

Point of Introduction

This is the 3rd incarnation of my [somewhat] interactive online journal, or "blog" as it is known to fellow members of this community. By way of introducing myself, in this newer vein, allow me to say that I am addicted to a legal stimulant, I am an uncommonly early riser (necessity, not choice), conduct scientific experiments in the privacy of my own home, and enjoy cloudy days to a backdrop of jazz. I am enamored of comfort, charm, innovation, and perpetual movement. I love taking quizzes, and require intellectual stimulation as much as I need a good dose of silliness to balance me out---to keep me from getting too bogged down in the pretentious business of being hip and interesting.

I never finished reading The Brothers Karamazov (though I will someday); I have read all of the Sweet Valley High series (several years ago, of course). My favourite book is A Prayer for Owen Meany with Jude the Obscure not far behind.

In my opinion, the best entertainment venue is the dinner party, the best cocktail, The Manhattan, and the best way to meet the love of your life, through a mutual friend.

My dear friend Catchka came to visit Sarahbina and me last evening in our city apartment; it was magic to have her see us in our [relatively] new digs. She was dressed in a pale blue turtleneck sweater and grey slacks. Sarahbina had on a striking red turtleneck sweater and her cute overalls. I wore my power burgundy button down shirt with ratty-cuffed jeans (flare cut). We were such hip-looking ingenues. Lady C had fabulous photos to share, including one of herself and the man-love she covets. He is quite pretty to look at!

We ordered takeout from an historic bar just a couple of blocks up from my place and then we watched the movie that always says "Christmastime" to me. Before we cued up the flick, we went downstairs to the 7-11 to purchase cinema treats (Reese's Bites, Skittles, Crunch 'N Munch, and M&M's).

Before the evening was over, I received word from Mr. Renaissance. He will begin painting me soon; he will come over two or three times a week to complete the mission. He will also teach Sarahbina the guitar, as per her request.

My sisters and I formed an isoceles triangle on my mother's bed; the dog, a one Ms. Babygirl, lay down to the left of Crystal's pajama-clad body. We watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on television in that precarious, intimate position. I was content stroking Caryl's hair and massaging Crystal's calf muscles, tense from cheerleading practices.

Later, we headed to Southern Maryland to join my mother's lover's family for their festivities. The lover's nephew had made a sign reading The ________'s Family Thanksgiving Dinner which he posted at the top of the driveway to welcome us. We were greeted by a couple of chickens, one of which is a cyclops. The same nephew, "R" had made us each name tags; I liked this kid's spirit. We were quickly swept up into a game of 20th Anniversary Trivial Pursuit (but only after the family's Boston Terrier molested us all and snotted on Crystal's pants).

In addition to the coffee I was nursing when we arrived, I also enjoyed a brandy eggnogg and then some apple raspberry wine from Vermont. Things were pleasant enough until I started a political debate bruhaha with my mom and sisters which made Crystal so angry she went to sleep and didn't wake up for about 2 hours.

At some point in the evening, I had my typical holiday epiphany. I am here with my mother and family instead of being someplace with someone as their special guest. I get stuck on the fact that I am almost 30, and how pathetic it all is...

On Friday, as per tradition, my mother made her Thanksgiving dinner. In addition to the girls, Babygirl, and me, the lover was in attendance. I felt content and sassy like a cat with us all feasting, the lady dog at our feet, eating our turkey scraps, licking sweet potato pudding from our fingers. That morning the little girl and I went out for a walk and were nearly bested by an escaped-from-his-own-yard rottweiler. Luckily, his owner came bounding out to retrieve her antagonistic devil. Babygirl, I am proud to say, didn't let this beast intimidate her...even though at one point, I couldn't see her head, she did not back down from this big galoot of a dog. I was scared, I'll admit.

We made it back to the house in one piece, and she was charged up from the incident. She kept looking out the window for signs of the villain and wanted its blood!

Later the lover and mom brought me back to my place, about an hour north of my mom's place. I debriefed with my roommate, did some laundry, and listened to Christmas music, made my peace with the fact that everything is ambiguous, and not likely to be worked out before the new year.

Starting From Scratch

I managed to salvage the entries from my old blog (in Word), which I inadvertently deleted. I'm still in the game.