Letter to myself at Six

Kate,

This is the year that you have learned what terror is, though you do not yet know this word. And hand in hand with that terror, you feel an odd sensation that you will describe in your later life as "a hand of ice over the heart." Honey, this word is called dread. Up until now you walked through the world expecting to laugh, read books, charm the people you meet, and walk unflinching into new situations owning them before all is said and done. But this year is the year you will start expecting to fail, become unsure even of the things you know, that you will learn to wait for cues of coming danger. This is the year everything in your life—at home and at school—will tell you that you are not safe. The words that go with this feeling, sweetheart, are worthlessness and shame. This is the year you will become afraid of dogs. This is the year you will begin to believe that you must settle for crumbs, and be grateful to have been thought of at all. You will be 29 before you are even able to consider that you deserve something more.

You splintered inside your own screams, dating your life from the day your father blackened your mother's eye. I am sorry to say you will see him beat her again, at least 5 or 6 times before you really leave their home. You will hear him call her stupid everyday for about 13 more years. You will learn that your intellect frightens him and earns his respect at the same time. So to feel loved, you will only ever show anyone this part of yourself. Later, you will add your anger as expressed through sarcasm and unyieldingness to your arsenal. Kate, you will hurt so many people. You will wound your own soul deeply, too.

And you will move forward with your life in this vein, shunning your withered parts, afraid to ever dance, or need, or play again. You will pick men to love who will be openly astounded by your intellect, but who will have none of your heart, and you will internalize this as further proof of your unworthiness. At one point in your late twenties, it will not be enough for you to have a man respect your mind (as you told yourself it was), and it will feel as though the bottom has dropped from your world, because it is the only trick you will think you have up your sleeve.

You will be a writer, and will know that you are a writer as early as at 10 years old. Two of the men you will love will champion your work, the closest thing to your actual heart, and you will want to believe that this means love. One of them, in your early twenties will paste your poems all over his wall while he dates and eventually marries another girl. The other, in your later twenties, will tell you that he carries them (the corpus of your work, he will call it) with him wherever he goes. He will put your poems alongside his paintings on a web site, and will tell anyone who'll listen about you, saying that your work is beautiful, that it is erotic, and ignites the imagination. He will even ask you to write him a poem in exchange for one of his paintings. It will feel in that moment like pure adoration for him to ask this of you.

He will introduce you to people at parties before you have a moment to introduce yourself; He will say that he never cared for poetry before your work opened him up. Before any of this happens, though, you will ask him out, and he will say that he is not interested in a relationship. You will hear of two dates that he goes on within weeks of that answer. When you do, your knees will buckle, and your heart will open and then crumple like a biscuit tin. You will still love him when he is no longer talking to either of those women, also within a few short weeks. You are the one who will still be there, looking him full in the face.

This is the man you will meet at a wedding reception where you will be miserable because the man you thought you cared for at the time will be there, three tables over, with his girlfriend. Sadly, this is not a new scene for you at the age of 24. It will be pretty par for the course. This man, the one you are so miserable over when you meet the painter—the love of your life—will not even care about your poetry. He will think he could have written better. Sadly, this will not be a warning sign to you while you wait, wanting something to come of your feelings for him.

By the time you are 30 you will still not know how to drive because you remain haunted by the agony of your father helping you with math homework. Six is the age you learn that you would rather never try than try and fail on the first attempt. If you cannot do something right the first time, you will not do it. This paradigm will ruin so much for you for so long. You will live your life embarrassed by the smallest failures and oversights, and will have a difficult time recovering your equilibrium afterward.

But you are tough, too, Kate. You grow up to be very generous, eloquent, and dignified. You are an artist honey, not in spite of your pain, but because of it. You are a writer because of your wounds. And you will never make the mistakes your mother did, because you understand the value of an object lesson. You have a real gift for assessment, collating the data presented in a given situation, and interpreting it, anecdotally, and you know how to implement an action plan, girl! You are punctual, analytical, funny, and you yearn passionately...

You do make it to college, just like you're always talking about; you will even go to graduate school to become a literature professor. You have friends who love you. You have two sisters who look up to you. Your parents' terrible marriage will end. And you, little girl, do survive.

So much Love,

The Kate you will become

I now know the name of the piece of classical music so achingly beautiful that the first time I heard it in a Woody Allen film (lesser known, Another Woman) I sat up from my seat and felt that what I was really hearing was the sound my heart would make if it understood how. Satie: Gymnopedies 3 (orch. Debussy). Sarahbina has a cd collection of Romantic Adagios on which this piece appears with its companion (part 1). She was playing it on Friday night while making the egg casserole for Ms. F.'s shower, and when the opening strains filled the living and dining area of my little apartment I said 'Oh My God,' meaning it as a prayer.

In the film the music plays as a woman and a man run through the rain in Central Park and share a tortured kiss, their first and only, since the relationship will never bloom, due mostly to the woman's fear of her own capacity for passion.

When I woke up this morning it was snowing. I ground up coffee on autopilot and walked through the apartment like a ghost. I had been through the wringer. I don't know what to call those moments when everything I am feels treasonous and fraudulent. I don't know how to negotiate the ache or feed the need I feel. There is a crying child inside of me that I don't know how to help. I throw out options: Milk? Juice? Tea? Want me to read you a story? But she is inconsolable. And I hate her for that. I hate that I cannot placate her with the tricks up my sleeve.

So it seems I am standing at the mouth of a bridge over murky water, and that I need to walk suspended over the ick and swirl of everything that makes me afraid.

I watched 8 Mile on video this afternoon (I also saw it in the theatre) and I found that I loved the pain and anger of the protagonist the way you love what you know by default, and realized again how the warm blanket of rage suffocates.

Back In The Game

The DSL software has been uninstalled and reinstalled, and this, apparently, is what it wanted in order to work. Translation? Katie can blog and check e-mail from home.

I have settled on a game (in addition to the 'how well does the bride know the groom?' standby) for the shower tomorrow that will not require me to have a present to give to the winner. Financially, this was going to be a sticking point for me. I actually didn't even have the means to buy Ms. F. a present. I have to give her one later b/c after paying for the ingredients for the food 'Bina and I are contributing, I don't have much left that's not comandeered for rent. Milestones in the lives of those we love are often very expensive.

In other news I find that my hair post-braids is very awkward. I am having to shove it underneath baseball caps or kerchiefs (obviously not at my place of business). I guess I'm doing the sporty, downhome girl from around the way thing now.

Presently I am awaiting the delivery of some Chinese takeout, and then the great breakfast casserole cookoff begins. It's a brunch shower. Will debrief about the festivities at some point tomororw afternoon.

Something to Think About:

Every time I have betrayed one of my own boundaries and let something happen that I am not/was not comfortable with, it has produced a harvest of disappointment, bitterness, resentment, and hollowness.

'Bina's New Year's resolution is that she will be no one's whore in 2003. Saying to yourself and others (in word or action) that your own boundaries don't matter is to be a whore.

Have an excellent weekend, everyone. To Thine Own Self Be True...

I just finished my lunch of peanut butter and pumpkin, pecan apple butter on multi-grain bread. If I had to identify the taste of wholesome, that sandwich would be it. Right now I am getting back to my work on an initial assessment of a manuscript I'll be editing. I am very excited about having substantive editorial work again (for the first time in nearly 2 years). And the most beautiful part of my day right now is that it is half over. Imagine. 11:34 and my day is practically gone.

A couple of weeks ago Mr. Renaissance told me that my decision to go into counseling had inspired him, and that he might pursue talking with someone himself. He has a meeting with someone next week. This is all very interesting because based on my conversations with my analyst about him, she is of the mindset that he could definitely benefit from talking to someone about his life. I thought about that, and then I realized that we could all benefit from having trained professionals off of whom to bounce ideas, etc. But I know what she means. There's a woundedness in him that I think he's ready to address--working with his father has brought these issues more to the surface, I think.

I'm looking forward to turning in early tonight. By about 9 or 9:30.

Cooking by Candlelight

My DSL connection to the internet is on the blink. The only reason I even have a DSL modem is because Baltimore city was not yet equipped with cable modem capability when I moved last summer. Funny how 'Bina and I had it in Derwood, of all places, and yet Charm city remained behind the times on that front. That DSL has been a thorn in my side the whole time I've had it, frankly.

So, while I went through e-mail withdrawal and blogging denial last night, I lit candles (tea lights, mostly) all over the apartment, put on some soothing music, and puttered about--tidying, or whatever. I read a bit. I've started Paul Auster's City of Glass, which definitely has me intrigued at this point. Devika, I envy you your bookclub!

When I was hungry enough to eat, I pan fried some potstickers and made crisp green beans to accompany them. I let them cook together in a balsamic and soy sauce mixture. The result was tasty. I ingested while watching That 70s Show, which I used to think was stupid, but now love.

With my roommate out of town, I find that I miss her, but am loving not having another set of preferences and needs to consider for a couple of days.

I apologized, via e-mail to Ms. F., and found her not even sure what all I was apologizing about. I, of course, had the clarity of knowing my own motivations and intentions on Monday night, and wanted to be proactive about owning that garbage. It's fine. I feel good about her shower on Saturday, even though I have to lead a game, or something. I guess it'll be okay.

Nice Save?

I am trying to train myself not to go for the low blow on the first offense.

Last night I was testing out the theories I've formed in therapy about my relationship with Ms. F. by hanging out at her place. Things were fine at first; for about 3/4ths of the visit, it was perfect. Mr. R. was there, but not in the foreground, and since I'd recently spent time with him, that was fine with me. I didn't feel cheated or anything. Another woman whom I'll call Jabberwocky was also in attendance (an efficient way for Ms. F. to collapse her social calendar and see us both, hence jw's presence). We had a light repast at the coffeeshop across from Ms. F.'s apartment, then headed back over to her place to watch a tape of the Academy Awards.

After it was over, Mr. R. emerged from his room and hung out a bit with us. I felt myself morphing into a cheap version of Ally McBeal--telling anecdotes in a subtly maniachal way (yes, there is such a thing as subtle mania), and felt internally histrionic. Jabberwocky is on the precipice of a divorce, having been recently diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and having a spouse who is not quite able to deal with this diagnosis, so this is all causing her to emanate need from every pore... At one point she just turns to Mr. R. and says "you know my husband left me, and I was hospitalized... but I'm better now..."

She started soliciting Mr. R. for trips to the "free bookstore" for this Saturday morning, and while I discerned nothing in the way of "intentions" on her part, I started feeling undermined. Vaguely disconcerted, if you will. It wasn't until talk turned to Ms. F.'s bridal shower (obviously not a surprise) to be held this Saturday afternoon that things "got bad."

He commented that he'd need to make himself scarce, and as some kind of joke or something, Ms. F said that he'd be missing out on an opportunity to meet and interact with a bunch of girls and how could he pass that up? He didn't actually respond, but I felt betrayed. Not by him, but by my friend, who the last time she spoke to me about my feelings for him, was told that they are unchanged. Granted, I haven't discussed this with her in a while, but it just felt like a gross oversight--even if it was only said in fun.

I did have the presence of mind to ascertain that I wasn't freaking out nearly as much as I would have say, 6 months ago. Thank God for small favours.

But I hadn't had a chance, yet, to exact punishment--and when burned, I always go for the wound, even if I go for it long after the offending incident. I wasn't aware of waiting for the opportunity, but the speed with which I pounced on it once it came was frighteningly telling.

Mr. R. commented that he would be nervous about singing at the wedding, so Ms. F. suggested that maybe I could sit near him and push him upright if he looked as though he was about to topple during the ceremony. Without hesitating, I said "I don't know if I'm coming." And I let that sink in for a second. Then I told Ms. F. I would let her know well in advance, but I just wasn't sure. I was too much of a coward to leave it at that, though. I said something about having Social Anxiety Disorder (which I do not have)--and this was why I was sitting on the fence.

After a judicious pause, I said I'd only been joking while Ms. F. scrambled to let me know she'd be disppointed, but would understand, because she knew how tense parties made me. I explained that parties annoy me because I hate making small talk. I think I finished up with "Look. I obviously don't have SAD, and I will be at your wedding... this was all just a joke gone bad..."

I am reminded of a line from a Jane Kenyon poem in which she says "astonishing how even a little violence eases the mind."

The Friday Five (on Monday)

1. If you had the chance to meet someone you've never met, from the past or present, who would it be?

Rainer Maria Rilke

2. If you had to live in a different century, past or future, which would it be?

The 1900s (early, like near the beginning of the century)

3. If you had to move anywhere else on Earth, where would it be?

The town of whatever grad school to which I gain acceptance

4. If you had to be a fictional character, who would it be?

Holden Caulfield

5. If you had to live with having someone else's face as your own for the rest of your life, whose would it be?

Christy Turlington's

He Liked My Red Shoes

On Friday Night while Mr. Renaissance sat with Sarahbina at the dining-room-table-in-decline my middle sister bought from a place called 'Uncle Jack's Flea Market', I unloaded the dishwasher. I was wearing my favourite, most worn-in flare legged jeans. I had on these mock china doll shoes with a square toe, that are a deep red colour. Since I am so short and my pants are long and wide at the bottom, only the tips of them were visible. While I took out plates, glasses, and flatware, I tried to stay connected to their conversation about the sacrament of communion. At one point, he stopped and asked me "Kate, are those slippers or shoes?" I happily stuck a foot out to show him, and he said "those are cool!" These are the shoes I begged my mom for when I was home last, and she bought them right on the spot. No questions asked.

Bereft

On Thursday night 'Bina and I removed my braids, and what was left behind after I shed that "glory" was the person I had been before. I wept, feeling unbeautiful again. At that moment, it seemed that those braids had given me a reprieve from being ordinary, though they, themselves, were not "extraordinary." But something happened to my countenance when I wore them--they changed the properties and structure of my face from a non-sequitirish, jutting thing--and gave it a context of lines and form, softening it, altering the way people reacted to me.

You're The Voice of a Dream I Had...

I called Ms. F. last night to finalize some plans to get together, and got my beloved Mr. R., instead, who confessed to me that he is in funk because of the war, that it was taking a toll on him, emotionally, that was unexpected. And somehow this caused me to remember his chronic tendonitis, how sometimes his hands are unsteady, and that they shake when he holds a coffee cup. And I felt so tenderly toward him that I thought it might break us both, as I often feel it will. On Friday night, after he left, I watched him ride away in the mist on his motorcycle, the love I feel for him settling in me like the knowledge of multiplication facts, the periodic table, and parts of speech.

DKNY Fragrance!


What Perfume Are You?
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You're so cool, your a popsicle! Although different
from everyone else, you cant help but leave
everyone with a colored tongue...


What kind of ice cream are you?
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Sowing In Tears

Psalm 126 (A song of Ascents)

When the LORD brought back the captives to Zion,
we were like men who dreamed.
Our mouths were filled with laughter,
our tongues with songs of joy.
Then it was said among the nations
"The LORD has done great for them."

The LORD has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy.

Restore our fortunes, O LORD, like streams in the Negev.

Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy.

He who goes out weeping, carrying seeds to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him.

Kismet

Earlier tonight I sat at this computer checking my e-mail. As usual these days, I had no messages, and that made me feel extremely lonely. I thought of Catchka, told myself I should call her, but then thought better of it. I figured maybe it would be one of those conversations in which I fished--shamelessly--for reassurance about the "meant-to-be-ness" of my tormented friendship with Mr. R. I would have wanted her to say to me, "you know you guys are soooo going to be together," or something like that. And I didn't want to be that selfish, that much of a cliche of myself. I thought I would just e-mail her on monday, deliver the story of my hang time with him in detached, glib phrases, and punctuate the anecdote with something like "Why doesn't he love me yet, exactly?"

At some point shortly after I'd decided not to call her, she called me from a used cd shop in New England where she lives. She wanted me to validate some purchases she was thinking of making, and she regaled me with the abridged version of her weekend drama. It was the nicest phone call I've gotten in a while. So simple, but I was on her mind the same time she was on mine. Her call was a generous gift.

After we hung up, I ground up some Eight O'Clock Coffee beans and settled in with one of the new books I checked out from the library today. And I felt glad for her presence in my life. I felt understood and important. At the end of the day, that's all I really wanted.

I Spy An Okay Evening

So, we did not go to the spy club, but we did hang out here at my place with 'Bina and Mikhail (who was in and out rather quickly). Mr. Renaissance was feeling a budget crunch and was crashing from having a lengthy, whirlwind, touristy kind of visit with an out of town friend, so he wanted to opt for something no frills.

It wasn't like at the party where I felt little sparks of magical stuff flying around, probably due to my alcohol intake, and the fact that we were in his car, and he had a on seer sucker suit, which just screams romance. This was just good, basic, and not very anything in particular. He'd gotten a haircut. We ate Italian desserts, told anecdotes, he thumbed through my "exhaustive motorcycle encyclopedia," which I bought to impress him anyway, if I'm being honest, and talked about some of everything.

The one thing that happened that seemed even remotely connotative was when he told a story about his brief teaching stint in which some of his girl students told him he needed a black woman...

I just wish I knew how this is all going to end up.

This blog is not a political one, at least it's not a governmentally-political one. Primarily I concentrate on the politics at work in my relationships, but I have to state for the record that I am not opposed to this war our country has waged. I am not "pro war" in the sense that I don't think the necessity for war (and I know that's debatable) is a cause celebre, or the solution to most international quarrels, but I believe there are times when you have to face the fact that your sanctions and efforts at peace have failed. Strategy and tactical maneuvering, on this scale, I don't pretend to understand completely. But this I do know. There exists the grand irony that sometimes the only way to achieve peace is through war.

I understand, conceptually, why many (many I respect at that) take issue with this war. I'm just saying I don't.

I discussed my mother in counseling the other night. My doctor has been encouraging me to cultivate a relationship with my mother in which I celebrate her strengths while rejecting the dynamics of our diad that are counterproductive. I believe I discussed earlier that not letting other people's reactions, opinions, or behavior dictate to me how I am going to feel has made me more free to love them. I don't need other people to corroborate my intuition, my intellect, or my instincts. If they do, and that is a good thing, then I am blessed, but it would be wrong to require it. It's too much of a burden for someone else to carry being responsible for my moods, etc.

We talked very specifically about what the counselor called my mother's "resistance to insight." Her need to rationalize everything down to its least offensive point is her defense mechanism. If my mother can say "it's not that bad," then she doesn't have to feel bad. Pretty basic, but I think it's helpful to get arms around the situation by pointing out explicit patterns.

I finished My Name Is Asher Lev last night and now plan to pick up The Gift of Asher Lev on Saturday when I go to the library. When I get home I will begin to take out my braids, perhaps. It's time.

Reading "Asher" is making me question whether or not I am truly an artist. An artist is a consumed individual. She will make everything that is not her art wait. If she were a writer, would she not forego any activity that does not directly feed her gift? The last time I remember feeling that way about my writing, it was circa 1997. Sometimes the yearning that fuels creation hibernates. Wake up sleeping soul! Pain-in-retreat, I am summoning you now to fill the white space-- not with what I know--but with what I sense to be true.

I don't think I have anything pressing to discuss in counseling tonight. Things seem unremarkably whatever right now. I'm not stressed, angst-ridden, or bursting with epiphanies. Maybe the doctor will have something interesting to bring to the table. Maybe we can finally get around to discussing that behavior indicator I took a while back. I guess this is a plateau week.

Is it just me or is the blogging community in a slump right now?

Are You Kidding Me? Stop Eating Food That's Not Yours!-- Note taped on the fridge in the kitchen at work

I began My Name Is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok this morning on the train. The final Verdict on Man Walks Into A Room is that it didn't satisfy me. It is well-written, but I don't think the direction the author took was completely organic, and I don't think the ending was very brave.

Still trying to decide if i'm actually going to Dr. Zhivago's coffee seminar this week. Part of me thinks it will be fun, but it'll alter the time I arrive back at home in the evening, and I really enjoy being back home by 5 p.m. twice a week. Do I really need to do this? I'm always saying I should get out more... maybe it could be the doorway to something interesting.

Well, I am wearing a slimming black sweater and black slacks with grey cardigan outfit today. Completely forgot about St. Patrick's Day... I'm a bit of a traditionalist sometimes; I like observing cultural customs--even if they are just 'popular' culture customs. So, my compromise with myself will be that i'll change into something hunter, olive, or spruce tonight for my outing with Sassafrass Teawrap.

Sanctions and Embargos

I find that when sanctions and embargos become necessary, war is usually inevitable. Two or more entities are at an impasse, but there is something to lose, so they can't simply write each other off. One of them has the upper hand (actual or perceived). This is the party that imposes the sanction. "If you comply, you may not necessarily be in my good graces, but you won't have any trouble with me," the maneuver seems to say.

War is inevitable because sanctions foster resentment. At first the party(ies) with something to lose might think "well, okay" (or maybe there isn't this even half-hearted desire to avoid trouble. If there is a history of sanctions, they might already be bitter). But then they think, "Who the hell are you to put ME on ice?!" Then there is the scramble to regain lost ground, not by compliance, but by becoming more of a pain in the ass, or by exploiting the vulnerabilities of the sanction imposer(s).

I know you think I'm talking about America and Iraq.

No.

I'm talking about interpersonal relationships.

I started a new book called Man Walks Into A Room by Nicole Krauss. This author is a writer, not simply someone who got her book published. I'm looking forward to spending time with my friend, The Trombone Player, this morning for brunch. After that, who knows? I don't know if I mentioned it in this space before or not, but I did apply for a job with a leading company (that had a post opening in NYC among other locales) about a week and a half ago. I got a form e-mail from them last night thanking me for my interest in the position, but saying that they don't feel I am a "good fit" for any of the job openings they've got. I was minimally disappointed, but since I had considered that to be such a long shot, I can't say I was totally surprised. At least I heard back from them, which is more than I can say for some places I've sent my cv (yes, I know that is somewhat different than a res.).

Well, I'm sitting here in my bathrobe and the arrival of my guest is imminent. Better go. Gosh, maybe I'll have to change this blog's name to 'Snippets: A Life in Soundbites.'

I got together with a friend from college days tonight. We headed over to Mick O'Shea's for dinner, then worked our way a bit north of the pub for dessert and coffee. We exchanged pictures from our shoot that took place about a month ago, and uncharacteristically, I was pleased with many of the photos of myself. There were a couple of "money" shots of my comrade, but then, that isn't surprising at all.

I have to tell you that Was It Beautiful? is a poorly written book in my estimation. It's protagonist is so unlikable that I don't care that his son is dead. Something about the way the author chronicles the lives the story wants to share is unnatural and vexing. I felt it trying to be a clever book and that grated on me. I won't be reading further (I think I got to page 5).

Even though I have to work tomorrow, I will be reporting to my downtown assignment, so the week already feels over to me. It's going to be amazingly low-key. I'm going to begin my day with a grande toffee nut latte and raspberry croissant, I'm going to spend my day flipping casually through grant files and writing down pertinent information that I find in them. At some point, I will go to Subway (Eat Fresh!) for lunch, and then I will spend two more hours casually flipping through grant files. At about 10 minutes to 3, I will leave to catch the Metro to Union Station. By 3:34 my train to Baltimore will be pulling out, and I will be settled into my seat reading a worthy novel until I inevitably drift off to sleep. At 6:30 I'll be headed to an Irish pub for dinner and stout.

It's a charming life in some ways.

You're the smirk,a frown-smile hybrid that's a
little bit cocky and usually associated with
evil or arrogant,but attractive people.You
probably just don't give a damn,but it's
everyone else's fault if you don't because
you're too awesome to have any real faults.


What Kind of Smile are You?
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Red/Green/Blue:
To you, the world is logical. Everything happens
for a reason, life is scientific. You like to
find solutions. I doubt you needed to take this
quiz in order to realize this.


What color do you see the world in?
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You have a mysterious kiss. Your partner never
knows what you're going to come up with next;
this creates great excitement and arousal never
knowing what to expect. And it's sure to end
in a kiss as great as your mystery.


What kind of kiss are you?
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I just finished Fool's Journey by Lynn C. Miller, and am getting ready to jump into Was It Beautiful? by Alison McGhee. I have loved the petit Renaissance of literature in my life. A writer writes, but a writer must begin by reading. a lot.

Obviously my pity party is over, and I am ready to get down to the brass tacks of pulling myself up by the boot straps, surveying the damage, and proceeding with a course of action.

To the lovely Quill and equally lovely Devika, I thank you both for the suggestions of other grad programs and cities I might explore. D, I had thought of exploring Iowa (one of my former supervisors went there for a graduate degree in Literature)...but the heart of the matter is that my search beyond the East Coast yesterday was more about posturing at running away. I might as well have been a child packing up a little suitcase because some parental rules have grated me, and who only ends up making it as far as my best friend's house, and then turns around and goes back when I realize I am hungry for my mother's supper. Kansas was a decoy. When I am seriously casting my net, I will check out IA. Can I be truthful though? I love the East Coast. We shall see where my GRE scores and financial situation leads me. I'm ready for the adventure.

Now I'm in the middle of a light laundry evening and sipping coffee that has gone cold.

I think on my next library run I will pick up a few classics like Candide, Ethan Frome, and Anna Karenina.

As a final thought, I am looking forward to going someplace called The Spy Club with Mr. R on the 21st. His suggestion... I have no idea....

Warning: Shameless Self-Pity Ahead

It is difficult to describe my emotional landscape. Let's just say I looked (half-heartedly) for grad programs in Kansas this afternoon. Suddenly the idea of being in a land-locked state in a place where I know no one, and could start over without the complications of my spun web of mediocrity, stagnation, and misadventure held tremendous appeal. And I thought it would be cheaper. This way I couldn't be accused of following a man to whom I am an afterthought, if I am anything, to New York (which has already been posited and cautioned against by a few). I guess I look like some species of bumpkin. Thank you very little. No worries, I am not hitching my wagon to his star. It was this side of a human gestation period ago that I ran into him on a date with someone else. Kate Krupnik is in love, to her detriment. She is not stupid, so a little credit please. For those of you who have wondered if I am motivated to go to grad school in NYC by the desire to be close to him, but have not asked, I sincerely thank you.

All that aside, being at work today was hard. I did what was asked of me, but felt the nowhereness of it, and felt ashamed that this is what my life has come to. Categorically unremarkable. So much miserable ruminating, having my dinner invitation to Mr. Renaissance denied, but having him proffer the bone of some hang time in about a week and a half, which I accepted, because I am that weak. According to Catchka and 'bina it was not bone-proffering, and my reasoning is flawed.

I'm in one of those places where I want to feel like scum, and I need everything in my life to prove how I want to feel.

I have a real need to make myself scarce right now. Not that I need to get away from an adoring public, or anything. I just don't feel like engaging in the business of life as I presently live my own. I find myself growing impatient with conversations right in the middle of them. My patience threshold regarding most things is at an all-time low. For a time I considered giving up my cell phone because I didn't think I could afford to keep it. Now I'm thinking of giving it up so I'm not so reachable.

It bothers me when I can't readily get into the quiet of my own mind, sip tea, and just read without interruption. And when I can theoretically read without interruption I am just so tired. Honestly, sleep is my only reprieve from my life, but unfortunately I keep waking up.

My weekend was frustrating, to an extent, but I find that I don't really want to discuss it. It wasn't terrible, and I did get to spend a lot of time with a precious girl Chow-Boston Terrier mix (has more Chow features, thankfully). I realized, again, how wonderful pets are for their stress-reducing properties.

I've come to a conclusion about something. Qualities that are least attractive in a man?

The inability to keep his cool in what can only be called a 'mildly stressful' situation
The tendency toward pontification
Missing the point of any discourse and overwhelming the conversation w/red herrings out of a desire to appear intelligent
Backhanded generosity
Hero complex
An inherent sense of superiority

The Friday Five (On Monday)

1. What was the last song you heard?

I am ready for love (India Arie); It's in the discman right now.

2. What were the last two movies you saw?

"The Tuxedo" (Jackie Chan/Jennifer Love Hewitt) and "Clue" (Tim Curry, Madeleine Kahn, Christopher Lloyd)

3. What were the last three things you purchased?

A grey jersey pajama top, periwinkle, gingham pajama pants, and periwinkle, satin bedroom slippers (Target)

4. What four things do you need to do this weekend?

a-Think about the future
b-Not get too bogged down in the dynamics of my mother's weird relationship with her quasi-boyfriend
c-bond with the dog
d-start a new book

5. Who are the last five people you talked to?

Mom, quasi-boyfriend type person, my sister, Sarahbina, and Mikhail.

Retreating...

Immediately after work tomorrow I am going to the house my mother and youngest sister share with Babygirl, the dog. Caryl is singing with the Honors Chorus from her school district at the Kennedy Center on Sunday. It is easier, given that I don't have a vehicle, if I just get the subway from Washington to their place in the suburbs. I feel that I'm losing two nights and two days for the sake of a 2.5 hour show, but maybe it'll be good to be away from what is comfortable, peaceful, and familiar to me--maybe without having creature comforts at my disposal, I can force myself to really think about the next stage of my life. I feel that I am mobilizing for something and that makes me feel empowered. I want to come home with something settled, even if it's just knowing what it is I really want.

My mother, as usual, played the role of dissenter when I shared some of the possibilities I'm thinking through with her. But unlike before, I found that I felt detached from her commentary, and didn't internalize it. I registered her opinion and then moved on, weighing it no more heavily than I would have if a stranger had said "you know, I've never cared for peas..." It was like, "duly noted." If I can sustain this attitude it will be good for both of us. I have got to stop making her responsible to tell me what my life is supposed to be. Maybe if I stop putting that unspoken pressure on her it will make me free to love her where she is.

I came upon a new, flattering shade of lipstick this week. It's called Downtown Brown.

I wrote these a while ago. If not posted here, they might not've seen the light of day...

Hating myself

It was simple and whole
an elegant enmity
pure
like a pebble in a shoe
it pierced
a weighted branch
a crow with malicious intent

kk (2001 ?)

Caked

The blood was caked in the corner of her lip
she worried it with her tongue, extracting the salt
to take it back to the secret place of knowing to preserve
the clarity of his fist, not unlike her first real orgasm
it had amazed her in its quick usurpation of the moment
when the hold of it on her throat relented, it was as though
nothing had ever moved.

kk (2000?)

Currently:

Reading: Blue Shoe by Anne Lamott

Listening to: 'Rock Steady' (No Doubt)

Drinking: [Office] Coffee

Planning: The Great Escape

Wanting: To eat

I just returned from counseling. The session was okay; I talked about Mr. R. more than I wanted to... it started to make me feel concerned. I know it's authentic to work through this stuff, and it is counseling--not a conversation with a friend in which I need to be worried about being obsessive. This is the business of sorting out the story of my life, and I guess the thread of him runs heavily through the current pages. I also managed to talk about my mother a bit... I left feeling hopeful, but not happy, per se.

The most clear reward of my counseling so far has been that I feel a true sense of release in my friendship with Ms. F. since discussing my ambivalence about her wedding a few weeks back. Something has shifted now that I have allowed myself to see that I projected the uncertainty and "ickyness" of my unresolved issues with Mr. R. onto my relationship with her. I feel like the pendulum has swung back in the right direction, and I've stopped "blaming" her for things with him (since I needed someone to blame, and couldn't comfortably feel displeasure with him over the impossibility of my feelings). Odd how incestuous these relationships had gotten.

And I also acknowledged that Ms. F. is consistent in her demonstrations of affection and care for me. I needed to stop blaming her for me feeling fringe in her life when she'd made every effort to let me know I mattered to her.

Another delicious taste of wisdom from the good doctor came when she told me that it is "dangerous" to remain in a place (physical, emotional, etc.) when it's been made clear that we need to leave. She said this was the greatest point of potential calamity not to heed internal or external indications that a situation has run its course. This in the context of my job, and my need to really write for my life's work--and the road to this being through graduate school.

You are Gordy Lachance, you sweet thing. You have
a heart of gold. And the fattest
"one" in four counties.


Which 'Stand By Me' Archetype are You?
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What Drink Are You?

"Sin is incurable by the strength of man, nor does free will have any validity here, so that even the saints say: 'The evil which I do not wish, this I do.' 'You are not doing the things which you wish.' 'Since my loins are filled with illusions,' etc."

You are Martin Luther! Yeah, you have a way of letting everyone know how you feel, usually with Bible quotes attached, and will think your way through the issues, although sometimes you make no sense! You aren't always sure of yourself, and you can change your mind about things, something you actually consider a strength. You can take solitude, especially with some music.

What theologian are you?

A creation of Henderson

I may traffic in vignettes, but I am always looking for the common thread in everything that will point toward some conclusive end. I like vignettes because I don't have the attention span for much else... and there is some comfort to be found in extrapolation--the movement between stories where there is no footbridge, and you simply have to leap across and decide for yourself what has transpired. A deft piecing together, I call it. Or am I shamelessly borrowing from someone else's mind?

The truth is already present, hinting at itself in the folds of the pages, waiting for you to find it. Sometimes it hides in conspicuousness. So plain and present that it's skipped right over. It's not always wise to dismiss what is obvious.

This blog's ultimate purpose is to help me locate the thread that is running through my days and nights, weaving in and out of conversations, repeatedly resounding in lessons--and of course I know what I want the thread to be, but what if I get to the end and it's something altogether different? I know. I know. I'll be grateful and make my peace with that thread I wasn't expecting or hoping for.

Outtakes

[Scene: Outside KK's Apartment building, Mr. Renaissance's motor is idling.]

"I mean, we're not geniuses... I'm not Picasso; you're not Robert Frost...or anyone like that...but we've still got to get out of here..."-- Mr. Renaissance

"You don't think I'm a genius?"-- Kate Krupnik

[Scene: In the kitchen, at the party. Mr. Renaissance is leaning against the wall. KK is standing in front of the drink station.]

"I like your spoon ring [light, quick touch]"-- Mr. Renaissance
"It was 12 dollars."-- Kate Krupnik
"12 dollars? I could have made you one for 2."-- Mr. Renaissance
"I have no idea about making spoon rings."-- Kate Krupnik
"What's to know? You take some pliers and a spoon..."-- Mr. Renaissance

Back in October I wrote a poem about one of Mr. Renaissance's paintings. It took him a while to reply to the piece I'd written, and even when he did, he was somewhat dumbstruck by how "erotic" it is. I wondered/worried if he would be put off by having to suddenly think of me as a sexual creature (that is, someone capable of processing sexual images and writing frankly about them-- I'd never allowed that element of myself to really be dominant in our relationship, in spite of having intensely romantic feelings for him). It's not as though his piece is overtly sexual. But I called forth the more subtle themes, and expounded on those. I think he was genuinely floored.

On our way to the party on Friday night he asked me if he could put the poem on his web site once he revamps it, and includes a jpg file of that painting (which I own, incidentally). I told him that of course he could. Later, when we were at the party, he brought up the poem to a woman with whom we were conversing. He said 'I still don't know what to say about that poem...' I replied 'Why are you having such a hard time? It isn't that complicated...' And he returned 'It's so beautiful... and erotic...'

I had a dream last night in which I said to him 'The reason you don't know what to say about that poem is that it made you want to make love to me without sarcasm or irony...'

Annie Hall

This has been one of my favourite movies since college. I popped it into the vcr this afternoon, not so much to watch, as to let it serve as a backdrop by which to write... e-mails, poems...vignettes...

This movie is also a conversation anchor in my dialogues with Mr. Renaissance. Without fail, at some point during a discussion, he'll say to me "Do you know the part in Annie Hall where..." One more reason I delight in him. He is like a bird with unpredictable migration patterns, but when he comes back onto the horizon, I know what he'll say, what he'll do; I can always tell him by the arc of his swoops; I can intuit his landing before he kisses the earth.

I'm getting information about GRE testing sites in my region. I'm going to register to take the test. Then I'm going to take the test. Then I'm going to grad school.

I woke up this morning at about 9:15 with wanderlust. But I only wandered as far as the City Cafe for coffee and an apple-crumb muffin. I tried to get back into the murder mystery I checked out from the library, but I had "conversation energy" and wanted to deconstruct last night w/Sassafrass Teawrap, so I did something I find utterly ridiculous when others do it. I got on my cell phone and chatted instead of enjoying my book, savoring my coffee and letting the muffin fill me up.

Still, it was pleasant to be at the coffeehouse alone; I think it may become my Saturday morning ritual.

I've recently returned from the market where I picked up a few things for the scrumptious dinner Sarahbina is making for me and Mikhail. Butternut squash soup, Near East rice tossed with toasted pine nuts and spinach & cream... pound cake w/fresh sliced peaches for dessert, and pinot grigio. I wish Mr. R. were coming over...

Worth The Wait...

What can I say? Ms. F had a migraine, so it was just Mr. Renaissance and me. Unbeknownst to me, it was a "dress happy" party. I was just wearing jeans and a dark grey turtleneck. He had on a pin stripe seer sucker suit with a salmon-pink tie. Even though we didn't stay together the entire night, we were together so much. He made me a Long Island Iced Tea, we bantered, we jived... He talked to me frankly about his desire to live in New York, how he feels that Baltimore is an unfriendly town...how women in the Big Apple check him out (whereas women in Balto never do), and that this gives him more confidence. I wanted to say "Baby, I'm checking you out all the time." But it's okay; I know he is being prepared for me. I know even now that God is teaching him how to love me. And it's going to catch him by surprise when he realizes he does. But me? I'm just going to melt into him, and I'm never gonna say 'I told you so,' 'cause that would be bad form.

I told him about my desire to go to grad school, and even mentioned that I had really wanted to apply to a school in New York about 3 years ago. He thought this was a wonderful idea, and told me I need to leave this place... how much we both do. But even being as intoxicated as I am, I know he didn't mean "together." He didn't mean that yet.

He finally saw my braids. He liked them. We talked about everything. Abba. The maybe/maybe not war with Iraq, The Tragic Michael Jackson Debaucle... He reenacted the Catholic communion ceremony. I told him that I used to think he was inaccessible, but now I know better. And I told him that I'm in therapy. And he thought that was good. And he is so beautiful in his complex simplicity. And I know him, and in his way he knows me.

I just enjoyed him... sucking the helium out of balloons and singing negro spirituals, i enjoyed him talking about his favourite films, i enjoyed his leisure suit, and i trust him to get us where we're going.