As of yesterday, I 've been at my curent job for one year.

I've been having the hardest time falling asleep in my new bedroom. There are so many noises, either from the building settling, the steam pipes hissing, or the upstairs neighbors walking around on the floor of my bedroom ceiling--and last night the added bonus hearing him or her drop what sounded like the equivalent of a thousand marbles, twice!

I haven't talked to the leasing company at my old apartment building yet. The property manager was out taking some sort of class yesterday, but I'm hoping to get that all straightened out this morning.

I did, however, find my AA batteries. I'd packed them in a box of stuffed animals and other things that had no obvious grouping. I think we all pack at least one box like that during a move.

This weekend, I'm looking forward to doing laundry, marketing, and maybe doing a little work from home (deadline time).

A Heist of Sorts...

So, I got a bill from my former leasing company for a couple of things. One of which is stove cleaning and the other of which is the replacement of a vanity top that was not broken when I left. You better believe someone is going to start off her day hearing about this--Little Miss Property Manager better be ready to rethink a few things.

I have set aside three shopping bags of books to donate to this worthy cause (also see new permanent link on the right under "Welcome to My World"). I realized that in spite of all the assessing and reassessing I've done of my possessions and clothing over the last couple of years, I haven't taken the proverbial pruning shears to my reading collection. So I've bagged the books that I'll either never read again, never read in the first place, or that I've outgrown.

Per her request, I'll give Sarah first dibs, but either way, the unwanteds will still be leaving my house, making room for new stuff. Perhaps, I'll need only one good bookshelf for now after all is said and done.

Getting There

I now have curtains hung in both the bedroom (sage green to match bedding) and the livingroom (sheer burgundy with chenile embroidery); I have unpacked my books, save for one box, and have stacked them neatly in the entry way. This current method of display will serve two purposes:

1. It will prevent them from getting warped and pressured, (which might happen if the boxes remain stacked on top of each other for a long period of time).

2. Seeing them on the floor will motivate me to get bookshelves; if they had remained contained in cardboard I could justify putting off getting them a permanent place to live. I cannot live with such an eyesore for long.

I also purchased a new remote control for my television to replace the one that broke and the video cable necessary to hook up my DVD player (I think). I'm going to need some assistance figuring out that part of it, but at least I can now turn my tv on and off without getting off the couch.

I have blown my hair out for the first time in about 5 months; it's much longer now than I imagined. I've been wearing it curly since about November because I couldn't really afford to go to the hair salon for the full relaxing treatment and haircut I'd grown accustomed to since last May, when I got the adorable pixie.

It's been in crisis mode for about 3 months, so I decided to make a salon appointment even if it means going without groceries... anyway, I took a blowdryer to it this morning and was pleasantly surprised by how much progress it's made while left to its own devices.

I had a trying time installing some new Internet software this morning, but I finally got it right and now I'm online for significantly cheaper than I was with AOL, which is a rip off.

Nothing much else to report; I had coffee and toast and apricot jam for breakfast. I'm listening to a local radio station (something I almost never do) and have been treated to a long set of 80s hits, including Tears for Fears's "Everybody Wants to Rule the World," which just ended.

I usually shy away from discussing my romantic foibles with Gordon because I am always so mindful of the fact that he, himself, rejected me... and I don't want to give him cause to think about the fact that he rejected me--because I know that this is not uppermost in his mind when the two of us are hanging out.

I also shy away from wanting to discuss his romantic mishaps because it throws into sharper relief (for me) that I asked him out and he said no... this man who feels largely rejected by women, rejected me. I have lived out our friendship trying to sidestep this landmine, or to gloss over it, but it is a huge pit that has to be acknowledged.

He initiated the line of discussion, sort of.

He recently sang and played guitar for a friend's wedding; he confided that he's been asked to do this kind of thing a lot lately, and he said to me "Don't ask me to play at your wedding...I don't want to become like the Wedding Singer." I debated saying nothing because the comment was rhetorical, but in the end I couldn't help myself. I said "I won't," and left it at that.

We spent a lot of time talking about our anger at our parents and the ways we have felt failed by the poor guidance they provided to us. He mentioned finances and romance, specifically, calling these the two most deficient areas in his life.
Because it would have been traitorous to the conversation not to, I told him about the fact that I have been praying through the perpetuated stigma of rejection that seems to attach itself to every woman in my family. I told him that my entire life is a reaction to my mother, and not wanting to repeat her mistakes. I said to him "Well, I'm not in a bad relationship, but I'm also not in any relationship at all, because the minute a man expresses interest in me--even if I would be inclined toward him, I lose interest right away." I even told him that I am drawn to people who are likely to reject me.

All this in the context of the ways we both felt we'd aided and abetted our own miseries. He shared with me how he feels utterly disregarded and not known by his parents--in some ways, emotionally orphaned. And I also heard him be verbally protective of them, qualifying his statements by mentioning their good intentions, not wanting to paint them in too bad a light.

And I sat there in pajamas with a towel wrapped around my head, feeling that in spite of the fact that I'd gone out to buy beer and cookies for our visit, that in spite of the fact that I had coffee brewing--and that he was sitting on my couch, pouring out his heart to me, making me laugh--in spite of the fact that I was buying yet another painting--in spite of the fact that I said to him "It seems to me that you just want to be really, intimately known..." that it was not going to be enough.

I did not have a bad time at all; as is the case with most of our visits, it was very good, very full. And I didn't feel angst-ridden after he left or upset by anything he'd said. I just wonder if I need to get to the point where I make up my mind to be his friend and wish him love with someone else, someone he would really want. I feel so sad now, typing this.

He told me that he is envious of me; perceives me to have it all together... I told him that I am quite capable of irrational meltdowns, that I feel insecure a good bit of the time.

I am encouraged, though, that I see so many of my prayers for him being answered. For example, he's trying to quit smoking.

Tough Choices

There are so many things that I need to buy or have done that there is no way to really decide which one of these is the most critical. I have decided to go with one of Gordon's paintings and my hair, first. He has a lovely piece that I've been eyeing for a while entitled Baltimore Elegy; I am procuring this painting tonight! I will have to pay him in installments for it, but it is now mine, for all intents and purposes. I am so glad he told someone else that he could not have it once he learned I had my heart set on it.

And as for my hair, well I'm sorry if this sounds backward or perverse, but as a woman a lot of how I feel about myself is inextricably linked with how I'm feeling about my hair. I've called to try and set something up for May 15th. It's been too long. I look like Orphan Annie right about now. I can't have a great apartment and jacked up hair. It's incongruous.

Settling In

My alarm clock has a cd component, and for the last 4 years I've been waking up to the opening strains of the cd of my choice. Since the move, I've had America's Greatest Hits in the player, so I hear the excellent guitar riffs of A Horse With No Name and open my eyes just as the sun rises over the buildings. The sky is usually purple at this hour (6 a.m.), and I am in a room with a hardwood floor that is pleasantly cool to my feet when I pad to the bathroom.

I put some more things away last night. One of the amazing features of my place is a built-in floor-to-ceiling pantry in the kitchen. I finally have adequate room to display all my pretty things--latte mugs, tea sets, kettles, vases, etc.

I need bookshelves in the worst way! All my books are still in boxes, some sitting on top of each other, and I worry about them becoming pressured and warped. I'm wondering if it wouldn't be better for me to take them out and stack them in a corner than to leave them that way for the next month or so...

The new bus commute is a dream! I pick up one bus directly across the street from my building, and fortuitously, this busline runs perpendicular to the busline I'd been riding to work before I moved, so I get off and pick up my usual line, and there it is. At work at the same time, though I live farther away, and I don't get up any earlier than before. You can't pay for fortune like that.

I finally wrote the lovely Devika; that made me feel better. And Gordon wrote to me (an e-mail) asking how the move went (he was out of town last weekend). That made me feel good, too.

The cable guy was a half hour early. I'm turning off the shower and I hear the beep of my intercom that let's me know I have a visitor. I'm dripping wet, and in the buff, so I grab my robe and buzz the guy in. The cable company gave me a window of 9 to 1 p.m. The rep showed up at 8:30! Usually the installation tech comes at the end of the time span they give you, in my experience.

Oh well, who cares? I have cable again.

I slept well, and feel right about being in my new apartment. No wistfulness about the old place at all. One major difference. Here, birds chirp and sing. In my old neighbord transvestite hookers whooped and hollered.

Without a Hitch

I always appreciate what good friends I have on days like this--when they all come together from various places in the state and haul all my worldly goods from one place to the next. The move went off without a hitch, and everyone loves my new place.

I have had to make my peace with one unsettling truth. Without a true dining area, I've had to face the fact that the table and chairs I'd ordered simply will not fit comfortably in the new place. It wasn't delivered on Friday with my new couches because the set was out of stock. Fortuitously, it seems now. I called to cancel it altogether this afternoon. I'll have to improv a solution to my table quandry, but in the meantime, I've got a beautiful couch and accompanying love seat.

I bought curtains for the bedroom tonight. I'll have to get ones for the living room in a couple of weeks. I also bought a welcome mat. This is the apartment in which all my dreams are going to come to pass. I feel that in my bones.

Giving Credit where Credit is due:

After a series of thoughts on the new title of my blog, Sarah finally came up with the idea of using this quote from "Breakfast at Tiffany's"; Originally, I planned to use a template featuring a classic picture of Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly, but there were technical difficulties. Ultimately, I picked this template because of its classic, clean lines, appealing colours, and the lack of images...it provides more freedom. The creator of the template designed it to be more "professional," and I thought that it fit my emerging life as a grad student, etc.

Today is the Day:

At about 11:30 I leave work for the next few days to establish my new life in my cute little vintage pad. I'll arrive at the leasing office today at noon, sign some final papers, and then I'll check my mail and go and bond with the empty space for a bit. I want to take some time to pray in there, before any of my things arrive, to set the tone, Christen the rooms, so to speak.

Last Night:

Gordon came over, ostensibly, to get the program I wanted him to have from my poetry reading a few weeks ago. We watched the chronicles of a young Superman together, drank coffee from 7-11 (my coffee machine is already packed), and did what we do best. Chat about everything and nothing in particular. My favourite element of our night was how happy he was to see me... and later when he said to me that I always have the best stories...things I've never told him before. I can't wait to start hanging out with him in my new apartment. And since this place is walking distance from my new digs, we can hang out here, too.

The most unexciting quiz post ever, but affirming...

you will become a well-known writer


what is your future job?
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4 Days Out

I've packed my computer and taken my mattress and box spring off the frame. I kind of like having my bed on the floor; it's very sexy with the shroud (Which will be the last thing I take down, it being my favourite thing in the apartment). As a single adult with no romantic entanglements, I use "sexy" only in a conceptual sense, of course.

I called my "new" leasing office yesterday to ask if my name had been placed on the mailbox since my forwarding order is due to take effect in a couple of days, and I wouldn't want any postal personnel to be confused. Something solidifed for me when the leasing agent told me I already have things waiting for me there. I went online and requested a change of address Card from the MVA, which should come to my new place in about a week and a half. The next big thing is new checks. I wonder what my motif will be. I wish there were a series of "poet checks," or checks featuring excerpts from literary works. I would be all over that.

My good friend V sent me an Easter card and a desk calendar (with daily meditations for Single adult Christians); I received them in the mail yesterday. The timing was impeccable since I had something of an internal crisis about this issue all day at work. Today's thought is: "You pay God a compliment by asking great things of Him."--Teresa of Avila.

It was fortunate that Caryl ended up spending last night with me; not only did I get the opportunity to see her and spend time with her, but she helped me unload my trash. It would have been significantly harder to negotiate getting that stuff into the freight elevator and down to the garbage scowl on my own.

Last night while my sister took a nap I took all of the paintings and prints down from my walls. I always forget how much sound wall hangings absorb, how they fill a space, and give it character. As soon as all Gordon's paintings came down, this apartment started to look generic... like someone had abandoned her life here.

In addition to helping me throw old, pointless things out, Caryl also took several things from me that I didn't want, but that weren't really trash (if she hadn't wanted them, they would have been gotten rid of). It is one of my "things" that when I'm over something, I'm over it. I don't brainstorm ways to make it of use to someone else. I am also philosophically opposed to donating worn, shabby things to charity... as though to say I am doing someone less fortunate a favour by giving them something I am ready to discard. I always get major flack from friends for this mindset, but I think generosity is parting with something of good quality, that you, yourself, might also want, but willingly give up. I like the idea of buying new things and donating them. I always wonder if something costs me nothing, on some level, if it means anything to give it up.

I'm enjoying a cup of my current favourite tea, Tension Tamer, and watching an ABC Family Special "See Jane Date." It's cheeseball, but I like these feel good made-for-TV romantic misadventure stories.

In other news, my mom brought me an Easter basket when she came to pick up Caryl today--to my recollection, I haven't had one of these since I was a young child. It was a sweet gesture. She also brought me portions of the food she made early for the dinner she's hosting tomorrow since I won't be there. She looked pretty with her nails all done and painted pink.

Passion

I stood under the pounding hot water of my shower this morning remembering the depictions of the unbearable beating Christ bore and I cried.

It used to be Sarah's and My tradition to read the entire book of the Gospel of John aloud to each other, taking turns by chapter, every Good Friday. It is my favourite of the tellings, not because the facts are different, but because it is a literary account. A bit more poetic in its rendering than the other three, which are synaptic. But I digress.

Seeing 'The Passion of the Christ' last night overwhelmed me, but I didn't feel as though I had been run through, emotionally so much as I felt the weight of God's love. I was seeing the story I know, the story I believe unfolding before me--and it was not less meaningful because I know it. The only comparison my fumbling brain can find this morning, in the grey light of this Good Friday, is that it's like hearing someone you love say your name in a certain way, that only He or she can say it, and in that instant, you know you are home. If I wished anything, it was that I could know what it was like to look into his eyes, to have experienced him when he was on this earth in bodily form...to have taken bread from his hands...to have heard him laugh. I know I will; I know he lives; As he promised, he dwells in me, and he knows my name. And when he died; love for me, for the world, compelled him to endure the indignity of torn flesh on two wooden beams so that he could rise again to redeem those who believe.

Nothing but relentless passion could enable a man to stand still for a bogus trial on bogus charges. It is human nature to self-protect, to want vindication, to be enraged over injustice perpetrated against one's self. But as he now asks me to do, he denied himself, took up his cross, and followed the road to the end. Greater love has no man than this....

As for me, I wonder how I can be so prone to wander....

Prone to Wander (Chris Rice)

On the surface not a ripple
Undercurrent wages war
Quiet in the sanctuary
Sin is crouching at my door

How can I be so prone to wander
So prone to leave You
So prone to die
And how can You be so full of mercy
You race to meet me and bring me back to life

I wake to find my soul in fragments
Given to a thousand loves
But only One will have no rival
Hangs to heal me, spills His blood

How can I be so prone to wander
So prone to leave You
So prone to die
And how can You be so full of mercy
You race to meet me and bring me back to life

Curse-reversing Day of Jesus
When you finally seize my soul
Freedom from myself will be the
Sweetest rest I’ve ever known

How can I be so prone to wander
So prone to leave You
So prone to die
And how can You be so full of mercy
You race to meet me and bring my back to life

Today was wonderfully productive; I was in such a good mood. Meetings went smoothly, I was on my editing game; my manger told me she sees the effort I'm putting forth to help meet deadlines. I felt validated. For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like the other shoe would be dropping on my head any minute; I've packed as much as I can as of right now; I am throwing things out...

The only snag in the fabric is that I was reminded of the fact that all annual reviews are conducted in June, regardless of one's actual anniversary date, so any bonus I might get is a couple more months off. But, this could also work in my favour. Perhaps I'll have a better chance of getting a favourable review if there's distance between it and the incidents at the office from last month. March was not good for the old career.

Moving on. Literally.

All my bags are packed; I'm ready to go...

According to my own "Packing Stratagem" I'm ahead of schedule. On what was probably my last trip to the neighborhood market this morning, I got paper plates so I can pack up my dishes in the next couple of days. I'm cooking my last "big" meal tonight (I'm thinking it will last me the better part of the week)--slow cooked ribs with a brown sugar rub.

At 7-11 I bought plastic knives, forks, and spoons, Hefty trash bags, and two newspapers. At the moment, I'm doing laundry and watching one of my favourite movies--"Breakfast at Tiffany's"--which I always forget is based on a book by Truman Capote. I've never read it.

I've been sending Gordon batches of my poems via e-mail attachments over the last few days. He wants to try to use some of them as song lyrics (He's in a band and plays classical guitar). When not doing this, I've been throwing things out, planning to give away other things. New wine in new wine skins. I don't want my new life to explode because I brought vestiges of my old life with me.

Pearls before swine?

In a good will gesture (I guess) from a week and a half ago my boss asked me if I would bring in a poem to read (my tiny department knew about the reading last Friday at St. Mary's) at this Friday morning's roundtable. I felt, at the time, that this was suspicious given that I'd just been written up (but after I'd come in with a rebuttal letter), but I didn't feel like it was a bad thing, necessarily, just.... well, duplicitous.

In any event, I am prepared to share if she remembers to ask me. If it has been forgotten, I'm not going to bring it up.
I don't know if reading my poetry here would cheapen it, would cheapen me. Dance, little monkey! Dance! I am sorry to say that I feel that way at the office these days...

Even with the cleared air, and my unspoken agenda to steer clear of my manager, being around her makes me feel like I'm supposed to feel grateful for something, and I hate that.

Urban Blight

Baltimore City, once fully worthy of its nickname (Charm city), has been dying from the inside out for decades. I have not lived here for decades--but the rotting buildings tell the story of years of neglect. I posit that the character of its politicians has much to do with this. Some of you may have heard that the city school district is upwards of 60 millions dollars in debt. The initial solution? To cut, substantively, already underpaid teachers' salaries. This was met with immediate rancor, so other options had to be unearthed. I'll be honest. I stopped paying attention after awhile, so I don't know what conclusion was reached--but I know board members were forced to resign, and that subsequent investigations are in the works.

60 million dollars missing. Every little hamlet blighted by graffiti, malevolent street urchins, boarded up homes, virtually the whole city unemployed. Where, exactly, is the money going? I know efforts have been made to revamp and preserve important buildings, to reopen centers of artistic and cultural expression (like the Hippodrome), but most of this city's residents--who are poor, disenfranchised, and undereducated do not have a paradigm that will allow them to even care about this. I think theatre and art are vital elements of a town's financial and psychological construct, but as conceptually explained by Maslow's triangle of self-actualization, when people live in ghettos where the pervasive fragrance is essence of urine and gun powder, and rats rule the roost, who in the hell gives a rip about the reopening of a place that their very life experience bars them from attending?

It is not enough to leave this city to itself. It is not enough to ride on the coattails of its former glory while looking squarely at its unraveling threads and say "This is still the best place to be."

I have never loved Baltimore because of what it is, for the most part, now; I love this city because I feel what it is supposed to be--what it once was. The essence is still there. But if we wait, pretty soon the 5 or so remaining excellent areas of the city will fall prey to the same fate. I am fiercely loyal to this town because I know what it's capable of; I see the vestiges of accessible grandeur; I see its heart, wholistically. I adore the wonderfully innovatively-themed bars, coffee shops, and eateries. I love this place....

Baltimore has a legacy of greatness in industry, in cultural development, in kitsch, in history. This city is like your favourite aunt, whose beauty in her youth was staggering, but after years of loving bad men and poor dental upkeep, is now perfumed with cheap liquor and tobacco--because she forgot who she is, because no one reminded her...

I believe it's not too late.