My Decade MashUp

who's the president?*towers crash*the whale watch from hell*back to baltimore*hellacious commute*hot dog vomiting*blowing chunks in my polyester hair*a job on the waterfront* Introduction to Whole Foods (life is never the same)*dead-end career*apply to grad school*get in to grad school!* professor love muffin*weight loss* father dies* thesis snafu*m.a.*career upswing*almost lose my virginity*finally stop hating black men*sister gets married*weight loss*applying to grad school II*getting into grad school II*sister gets divorced*move in with my sister and the dog*weight gain*obama runs for president*obama becomes president*laid off*unemployment denial*letter to the governor*michael jackson dies*back pay!*pay cut* career downgrade*36th birthday*first college teaching job*

So This Is Christmas (Semester's Over)

I still have about five poems to revise and somehow package/turn in before I can say that I'm really done, but the end is two days away. Last week marked the end of classes, but my poetry workshop instructor gave until this Thursday to hand in revisions. Of course, I have to attend the MFA student reading on the 17th, too, but that will likely feel more celebratory than obligatory.

This particular morning finds me working from home waiting for the fireplace cleaner person to come and... clean the fireplace. Neither my sister nor I felt like arranging to be home to be with the dog, so we decided to forego the service last year. That means we've never used the fireplace. Since we're committed to moving when the lease is up, this could be the last chance for a while.

Guess this means I need one of those little sweeper sets.

where can i really start?

a few days out from thanksgiving, with no preparations complete. but, i have a hair appointment today for the first time since my birthday. my self-esteeem will jump up ten points, which may in turn motivate me to do the things i need to do.

i also have a connundrum. i can start teaching in the spring, but i'd have to have a slightly weird schedule at work. i wanted to broach this topic with my boss yesterday, but there wasn't much time in his schedule to have even a brief conversation. there are pros and cons, but maybe i'll do the thing i haven't done before, which is take the chance.

i know i'll have to work full-time, be a full-time student, and teach (if i do this) twice a week, but isn't that the busy, meaningful life i want?

double o-c

i had a dream last night. i walked out a back door house entrance to set something out into the ocean. at first, i was glad to get away from the assembled group, just to have a breath of fresh air. the tide was coming in, and the water was a little violent. i remember making the mental note that it would be okay, because i wouldn't have to wade too far out to set whatever it was i was letting go of onto a wave that would quickly bear it out to sea.

before i could walk down to the beach, though, the waves quickly became tidal. the length of 16 foot walls at the peak. i stood there, my horror growing as i realized that when this wave crashed, it was going to pull me in and out with it when it receded. my assessment of the situation happened quickly, yet i could not gather myself fast enough to simply go back inside (i was still right outside the door of the house). instead, i grabbed the doorknob. i knew that the water would knock me down, but that holding on to the knob would mean i wouldn't be pulled out--bad, but not an irrevocable disaster.

the water was a dirty brown and green. storm lashed.

Under Wraps

some combination of school work and having nothing to say accounts for the 10-day hiatus from blogging. mostly, though, i've been in a state of waiting to hear about an opportunity. and my mental energy was so taken up with that waiting, that i couldn't find the energy to do much else. i never heard, so of course i've had to come to the obvious conclusion. a no go.

all that aside, i've decided to take a pedagogy course next semester--specifically for students who might want to teach at the university level. between the MA i already have and the MFA I'm just about a year away from, I should be more than qualified when the time comes.

my current thinking is that one way to approach some level of happiness is to maybe decrease my hours (wherever i put in those hours) next fall, and pick up an undergrad class or two. and i'll be off...

Chapter 3: In which the Writer of this Blog Says What She Wants Aloud

Prospects.

Blog world, I have had to be careful. Ever since that news article a few years ago now, when Kate Krupnik and Salimah Perkins officially became one person. More accurately, it was confirmed that we are one in the same. Kate Krupnik, the thin veil over Salimah's thoughts and wishes. And embarrassments and humiliations.

I've occasionally said some true things. Some real things.

Here's something real. Here's something true.

I've tossed my hat into the ring for something and I want it. I'm prepared for it. I'm good enough for it. And I'm open to it coming to me, without equivocation.

In the past, I have stopped short of what I want because I didn't think I was good enough to have it, or I thought I owed someone else my allegiance, or consideration.

If this comes to me, it will be another chance to be faithful to myself, and to own my own sense of promise. I welcome it.

Chapter 2: In Which Kate Krupnik Discovers That If She Were a Typeface It Would Be Helvetica

blog world, do me a solid. don't ask me where i've been. i have been off solving puzzles of no consequence and eating oatmeal. i have discovered the best coffee on the east coast right in my own backyard, and i've had some near misses. i'm in hiding and i'm in plain sight. i've figured out my way around some stuff. i've made my peace with some stuff that i know now will never work out as i'd hoped, and i'm grateful for the things that will. and also, i do not like this cold, spitty rain. the end.

Chapter 1: In which Kate Krupnik ponders Unifying Themes

The weeks immediately following Kate Krupnik's 36^th birthday found her preoccupied with unifying themes. It was the onset of fall—as good a time as any—to throw away scraps of paper, outdated outfits, and to mail in rebates and appliance registrations. This was her gift to the cosmos, she decided. She would be better this year, she would not just say she would be better. She would actually be better. This enterprise involved, among other things, finding a signature fragrance and a suite of supporting products to signify her commitment to the scent. She settled on a coffee brew and grind that was the most agreeable to her palate—something nutty and chocolatey. She would no longer be swayed by these nouveau blends that promised so much in the way of smooth, nuanced sensuality (namely a better life) but delivered something vaguely acrid instead. Oh, she was tired of all that.

The first step is always to take each thing on its own terms. Then you had to figure out your terms. Or was it the other way around? In any case, each party had to come to the table with its non-negotiables already decided. No, you did not want to try to figure that out on the back end. Kate Krupnik would approach every new situation by asking herself "What are the facts as I understand them in this scenario?"

It would likely be tiresome.

But whenever she failed to ask that apparently pedestrian, unimaginative question there was always a nasty consequence. That had been the problem. In the past she'd been just focused enough on the semblance of order, of ducks in rows, that when her attention wandered at the last moment it felt like even more of a tragedy. Really, only occasionally had there been a payoff for her deviations. Not consistently enough to justify making it a way of life. And no wonder. Is it really a deviation to be unfaithful to your coffee brand? On her less moored days, she couldn't be sure.

Tourist in my own city

Another eventful weekend at the Baltimore Chronicles. C went away to points north for the weekend, so Friday night it was just me and the dog and Thai takeout (which I did not share with the dog). She woke me up on Saturday with cute little barks and jumps that translated roughly to "okay, up! time for my walk! i've let you sleep long enough!"

Sarah and I had prearranged to hook up for a bank errand (mine), breakfast, and then to revise an assignment for my Tuesday night class. That took longer than I expected, but we still managed to catch a matinee of the new Fame movie. Really, it was much better than reviews led me to believe.

Then on to the Hawaiian Fusion restaurant for dinner. I hadn't been there in at leaast 4 years, but the entree I had so long ago impacted me so deeply that I ordered it again. Braised short ribs with a deep and abiding cabernet.

Because I was on doggie duty, S stayed at my place on Saturday night. It was cool to be hosting her for once.

Sunday morning we watched the Fame TV show in reruns. S found some new-to-me channel amongst those in my cable suite lineup called "Centric" that was showing back-to-back episodes. Boy, talk about aging badly. The 80s was such a cheesy decade--the first 5 years, especially.

After babygirl's afternoon walk, Sarah and I headed back to the movie theatre to see "Love Happens," which was fine. I had moments of impatience with it for reasons that I couldn't even really decipher. I always root for Jennifer Aniston. I think that's her charm, the charm of all those actresses who excel at romantic comedies: Renee Zellwegger, Sandra Bullock... you want them to have what they want within that tight little construct. "Love" is not a rom com, per se, but it's definitely a film that will appeal more to women than to men.

Deciding that some local adventure was in order, and because Poe is on the brain in this city right now b/c it's his bicentennial birth year (I think that's the reason), we decided to do something Poe-esque. We got a map of the city and wended our way west to his gravesite. There were hours of daylight left, so it was decidedly not creepy. Fresh flowers adorned the monument.

Pushing our luck somewhat, we went a little farther to the decidedly bad neighborhood that surrounds what was his very narrow, 3-story house. We didn't get out of the car, for sure. S took a quick photo and we peeled out.

We finished up at the City cafe before parting ways. I came home afterward to give the dog her evening walk. By the time the little princess and I returned from our jaunt, Crystal was back home.

Baltimore Book Festival

On Friday, I joined some of the other MSAC Individual Artist Poetry winners at the Creative Cafe tent to read for 10 minutes. I included two new pieces from this semester's experimental poetry workshop (the undisputed highlight of my time in the program to date), and felt quite good about my time at the lectern. I ended up reading just a bit earlier than my allotted time slot, so a couple of friends missed my performance, including Mr. Close Encounters, who ambled up right when I should have gone on.

No matter, C and I had a lovely (albeit quick) talk with him before the two of us went back to our apartment for an onset fall meal of slow-cooked chili and cornbread. Catchka and my youngest sister joined us. Mr. CE had other plans and ambled off to those, presumably.

Saturday, my big day to explore with Caryl while Crystal got in some overtime hours at the office, was productive. We got there just as the festival was getting started for the day, and I immediately bought two t-shirts and some artisanal coffee--Honduran, in this case, from Bluebird Artisanal Coffee.

Wine and a robust all-beef hotdog later, we made our way over to the CityLit project tent where my former poetry professor Lizzie Skurnick and my current favourite writer and Baltimorean, Laura Lippman were paneling a discussion on Lizzie's Book, Shelf Discovery. I purchased "Shelf" at the fair and happen to be reading one of Laura's books now, so I got them to sign my copies (each of their own work). C and I headed off to meet up with Catchka just in time to eat another snack and quit the festivities to seek shelter from the rain, which became quite insistent on falling with some intention.

Once inside, I brewed some of the Honduran Bluebird and set about some homework--bookmaking homework--which Catchka graciously helped me with. Crystal vacuumed, then did homework of her own. Caryl took a nap. The day, grey at the outset, gave over fully to its melancholy bent.

Caryl had heard about a play at one of the city's many independent, small theatres. For want of anything else to do, we checked it out. One nice thing about the Single Carrot is that they give you at least one glass of beer or wine (or soda) gratis. The staging of Eurydice was thoughtful, I felt, and the acting of two of the characters in particular, was wonderfully effective.

Indian/Nepalese takeout rounded out our evening, and finally bed sometime after midnight.

you know you're wearing the right bra

when you don't give it a single thought all day long. how many hours have i lost pulling up cups, stuffing myself back in, and tightening and loosening straps? Weeks? Months if you laid each adjustment end to end?

Zen Breakfast

In Rehoboth this past weekend, I became preoccupied with the idea of purchasing music that exists solely to create a space for meditation and to be, generally, ambient.

Sarah and I popped into some new age-y spa type place where I grabbed a pack of eucalyptus patches for colds and coughs and some O.P.I. nail polish (give me moor!) that is the colour of an eggplant in its prime. I was torn, though, over their varied selection of CDs like "Zen Breakfast," and "Chillounge."

It being vacation, I was primed to spend money I would never spend in my own hometown (and tax free at that), but I still could not bring myself to shell out the better part of 20.00 for a compact disc. I don't buy physical music anymore. Why would I when iTunes has almost everything I'd want for somewhere between 10 and 15 (depending on the album type and release date?)? What I didn't know is whether or not iTunes would carry this kind of thing, but I took the chance and left with just my patches and polish.

On the second day of the weekend, I had a 30-minute "stress buster" massage. Essential oils, ethereal music, and mind clearing stillness reminded me. I needed to find a way to create this kind of vibe at home--turn my apartment into a place of supreme relaxation (hard to do with reality tv always on in the background).

When I got up from the massage table, I felt almost dizzy with calm. And my limbs were liquid.

Before we left this second spa (Sarah had gone the pedicure route), I also purchased some "Blue Oil,"which was demoed on me. It's a natural headache cure and sinus clearer. Much as I was tempted, though, I left the 50.00 Chakra mist behind.

I am listening to Zen Breakfast as we speak. 9.99 at iTunes. and what the heck, Chillounge, too, for good measure.

a new tack

I know it's fall because I have the incredible need to colour-coordinate my drawers, find places for errant pieces of paper, sign all documents, throw away summer's stragglers, work out regularly, drink green tea, and buy turtleneck sweaters.

This summer was mild and the crisp cool of these late September mornings has overtaken the docile heat easily. I have a simultaneous sense of hope and of despair. And in that despair there is the desire to grasp loose threads and make something of them, or to do away with them. So bring on the hearty bowls of oatmeal, and a non-negotiable 10 pm bedtime on school nights. I am preparing for a battle of epic proportions, and I'll need my strength.

Everything is fleeting and temporary and subject to gravity. I am no different.

Yesterday, I felt like the most simple, declarative sentences were punching me in the chest. And I felt afraid—wanted to run for cover—of everything. That is not love, not the disposition toward love. Perfect love does not have fear in it. Perfect love does not want to hide from true things.

I read once that whenever you are afraid, you need to change something. I am summer's straggler. I am my own loose end.

"well, it's not elegant..."

well, it's a cold, crampy morning at the baltimore chronicles and your heroine salimah perkins and her doppleganger, Kate Krupnik are both out of deoderant.

have been reading the first Tess Monaghan novel, Baltimore Blues, and am ever charmed. i wish i could fall headlong into a job where i solve people's subtle and not-so-subtle mysteries all day. my surly, jaded disposition would serve me well, i think.

on birthday parties and web sites

i was wearing something far more low-cut and clingy than i would normally dare--my frame definitely on the zaftig side of the spectrum these days--but felt i had the swagger that night to pull it off. i even wore open-toed shoes. another of my arbitrary fashion No-Nos. well, it's not really arbitrary. i don't like my feet much. but all the stars aligned and i somehow managed to go to three classes after work that week and squeeze in a hair appointment, shopping for the fete, and a pedicure.

i didn't do it alone--Crystal prepared the apartment and carted me around on errands. Sarah conceptualized the menu and came over after work on the 4th and made all the food. Meanwhile, Vanessa, graphics designer whiz kid was hard at work coding www.salimahjperkins.com in time for a b-day release.

as i predicted, i did feel lit from within, but there was a moment when i also felt like a deflated balloon. mr. close encounters left early, ostensibly to support a friend who was performing somewhere on charles street. a soloist. a woman. he said we should get together again to celebrate our (his was a mere two days after mine) and my sister's birthdays, but i wasn't sure if those were words parsed as an apology for having to leave before everyone else...

36

here we go...

when i was 35, it was a very good year...?

about this time last year, i began my second grad program, was planning a vacation with Sarah to the bonnie beaches of delaware, and michael jackson was still alive. i was significantly thinner and had salon nails on the regular because i made very decent money for someone my age who had no one but herself to worry about.

let's see. what are we looking at from here?

year 2 of the grad program. full-time this semester. full-time work too, thankfully, but of uncertain duration. way less money. salon nails proved to be my arch nemesis. there is another beach trip planned, in a couple of weeks, not to mention the charming trip i took with my sisters a couple of weeks back.

i've finally actualized my plans for a web site (finding a designer i could afford who is equal to the task was pretty much the hold up). www.salimahjperkins.com becomes something legitimate tomorrow.

it can all feel like so much circling and eddying, ebbing and flowing, but i guess i'm getting there. wherever that is.

The Art of War

In addition to running a few birthday-related errands yesterday, Sarah and I checked out Ukazoo, a used bookstore in Towson. It's the nicest, most spatially appealing of its kind. Best of all, they serve local coffee gratis, and provide liberal cushy seating. I didn't have a specific purchase in mind when we went. In fact, I didn't even know about the store before Sarah mentioned it. After ambling around aimlessly, I thought of a book that's always on the periphery of my list of those to read "sometime." I looked in what would seem to be the obvious places, but came up empty. The store's computer indicated they had it, but I found myself frustrated when I went to the places (more than one, yes) I should have been able to find at least one of a few versions of it.

In the middle of my search, Sarah called me over to where she was to have a consultation. After giving her my opinion on a few of her titles, I walked off, and tripped on an irregularity in the carpet. My coffee sloshed, and I lurched forward so that I was eye level with Sun Tzu's The Art of War.

I had also hoped to pick up some of the early Tess Monaghan novels, but there weren't any. There were hardbacks of a few of Laura Lippman's novels—some Tess and some stand alone--that I had already read, though. In addition to Sun Tzu, I left with Baltimore Noir (gritty, seamy underbelly stories that take place in the city of sometimes questionable charm), edited by Lippman, The Complete Kama Sutra, and a girl detective story, because I am a sucker for those.

Happy 51!

MJ Birthday Block Party!

one week, two years

one week from tonight, i will be 36. one week from tonight at this time, there will be a party well underway at my house. there may be games. there will certainly be cocktails. i will have had a hair appointment. i will be lit from within by my own sense of self-actualization. my aura will be amber. my energy, undeniable.

it's begun to occur to me that i want a child. two years from now, i'll be well into my plan to have a baby. i have no firm idea of how this will come together, but i know this baby's name.

one week from tonight, my website, www.salimahjperkins.com will be live. Two years from tonight, I will have a book.

post beach musings

my youngest sister turns 24 tomorrow. the three of us girls and the dog headed for the first state, home of tax-free shopping, to catch some waves over the weekend in celebration. i took off work today, and i'm not looking forward to playing catch up tomorrow, but the trip was worth it. i had 147 e-mail messages when i logged into my work account tonight. most of them were cc's, but still.

in other news, i have a meeting directly after work tomorrow regarding my Web site. can't wait till it's up and running.

my own birthday plans are starting to take shape. but first, i need to get through this week. going into the office tomorrow is likely going to be the equivalent of a splash of cold water in the face. but after that initial shock, i'll shake it off and plow ahead.

close encounters on the way home from the grocery store

i gave the bathroom a thorough cleaning, finished up the laundry, and then walked the dog. a fairly typical Sunday (a day for industry and efficiency), except that c has been out all day on a date with her "for the most part" guy.

she did some marketing yesterday while i was hanging out with Sarah, but i wanted to pick up a few more things for the week, and some green tea ice cream for the Mad Men premiere tonight. i also needed a new toothbrush, not to mention drano. i've been bearing with a clogged sink for more than two weeks now. it finally became unbearable.

ripped jeans, a cleanser-stained t-shirt, and a smudgy pink hoodie are my ensemble. nude lips. bare ears. completely unadorned and schmada as Sarah would say.

anyway, i was walking home, very mindful of my ice cream and the heat--still oppressive at this time of day. deep into the narrative of the audiobook i was listening to on my iPod, and pulling my grocery cart behind me at a good clip, i started to imagine the most seductive evening of television watching. ice cream, candlelight, and Don Draper in Baltimore circa 1964.

i saw him first. for a split second i hoped it wasn't him. not because i don't look great at the moment, but because seeing him now, weeks before i am supposed to see him, felt like a violation of something.

spontaneously, i invited him (via evite) to a small gathering at my house scheduled for early next month. i didn't take a moment to consider why i was doing it. per Malcolm Gladwell's Blink, these "in an instant" reactions and decisions are the ones to trust. Besides, an e-mail he'd sent early last month opened the door. i wasn't thinking of it as a "door" at the time, but clearly it was because i had chosen to reciprocate in some way, and this was it.

anyway, it was definitely him. things are rarely convenient. we stopped and talked. in typical fashion, i tried to walk away before the encounter was over to protect myself from wanting it to be anything in particular, but he kept talking. so i kept talking. and it got easier to stand there telling anecdotes, giving the condensed version of my life.

eventually, i made my back home, my ice cream melted in the warmth of the sun, the narrator of my book intoning her internal conflict over the one who got away...

two opportunities to read

Related to the Maryland State Arts Council grant I secured earlier this year, I am reading at the annual Book Festival in the city this year. Another event, this one on New Year's Day in 2010, will be in East Baltimore.

All I can say is that I'm glad I'll be taking a poetry workshop this semester. I haven't written a poem in more than 3 years now. One of those three years was a sabbatical post M.A. degree. The other two years have been about some combination of indifference and trying to break into a new genre: Creative Nonfiction.

I haven't missed school at all in the 3 + plus months of the summer hiatus. I'm wondering how it will be come fall in light of the demands of my full-time, but temporary contract position, to be a student again.

Next week, I'll be doing a 3-evening InDesign crash course in preparation for the Typography class that will occupy my Monday nights starting on August 31st.

what's very clear is that I am going to need to come up with a no-fail organization plan. In two short weeks, if every minute is not accounted for, there will be a cataclysmic back log.

Account Fraud: Why I Love Wachovia

I check my bank balance online every two days, at least, whether I think I need to or not. A few days ago, I noticed about 10 charges to various media outlets--small scale newspapers in a variety of cities--that were obviously fraudulent.

Fortunately, I bank with Wachovia, and they always have my back. Unlike other institutions I've been with in the past, they didn't put the burden of proof on me. They started issuing provisional credits right away and sent me an affidavit to sign so they can investigate in the background. Wachovia did not allow my money or my peace of mind to be hijacked by criminal activity.

What is more, they were immediately compliant with my request to have a new card overnighted to me since I'd been inconvenienced.

I still don't know what exactly happened, but because I'm OCD about wanting my online balance to match the one in my check register, I prevented my rent check from bouncing, all manner of NSF fees, and the continued reign of a thief's terror.

everything's back to normal now, and the temporary snafu probably actually saved me money. i didn't want to do any spending until all the credits were issued and I knew no more fraudulent charges were going to crop up.

it was one of those soul-defining moments

where i felt that my acceptance or rejection of a sub-par situation would be my message to myself and to the universe about my own worth. based on what i knew two days ago, i figured out what would be acceptable to me in a context where someone else was dictating what the parameters are.

i had to regain some of the power i'd lost by recasting the global decision for myself.

once i had decided, it was effortless and i was unconflicted when i articulated what i would be willing to offer and for how long. i was unapologetic when i framed it in the context of the premium i place on what i offer.

peace of mind is the result of my action, so i know it was the right one. i'm done with wearing myself out to achieve someone else's agenda.

my latest conversation with the DLLR began with

"I think this is a clerical error..."

And it was. it's a long story that isn't really worth telling. bureaucracy continues to be absurd. at least the arbiter of my case knew someone in his agency had neglected to do something, thus resulting in his need to telephone me at 10:30 on a Wednesday morning. i'm sure my hero kafka never dreamed the likes of that. or did he?

i am drinking a glass of Educated Guess, a 2006 Napa Valley Cabernet with a vanilla heart and a berry soul.

have not dreamed about michael in many days now, but the idea of him returned to me last night in R.E.M. sleep. It was something sensual and suggestive, I think. right before i went to bed, i followed a link to an audio youtube of recorded telephone conversations of his from 1992. they seemed authentic given the context and the pattern of dialogue. he was talking to a friend and so was completely candid about his desire to love and be loved--to have a real relationship with a woman. in the context of discussing his father, he dropped the *f bomb. that's pretty much where i fall in love if i'm going to.

God help me, but I love it when men say that word in just the right way...

understandably vague

i don't mean to create the illusion of drama when there is none. i'm accustomed to writing in couched terms because this blog was on the radar of a few people, at least at one time, that i worked with and discretion just made good sense.

so when i talk about being open to a change, wanting something different, and having a full heart, it's really just about vague yearnings and being tired from putting in a few long days last week. this is my blog, and i shouldn't self edit, but i'm hyper conscious of how i come across when i fixate on or revisit the same topics too many times.

i didn't want to write that mr. close encounters' book is being reviewed by a publisher and that he wrote to tell me how invaluable my contribution was to the process. he said more than that, but it all amounted to his gratitude for the work i put in. he has no guarantees at this point, but he's being given some real consideration. i've been impressed this whole time with his single-minded devotion to his work. he's more of a writer than i am.

i was too chicken to quit a job that wasn't working for me anymore, and now here i am again. working hard, making a contribution, but not one toward my own agenda. i am not jealous of mr. close encounters. i would want nothing less for him than for his book to be published. in truth, though, i felt something other than gladness for him, but i don't know how to say what that is. and i don't know if it's worth it. i don't know if it means anything--what i want or what i feel.

i am afraid because i need--really need--the job i have now. it is a lot of work and i don't know if the dividends will justify what it will take to do it well. i just hope that i have the courage to keep my ultimate goals at the forefront of my mind and keep fighting for them.

when i was editing Mr. Close Encounters' novel, I worked for hours, after clocking out for the day from my day job, to get it right. I wanted him to have something solid--a strong place to push toward. i'm not so pure of heart that i could completely divorce any hope i'd once had for being with him from that process, but i can say that the truth of what he wanted to convey would not allow that subplot to take over the main narrative.

i have had men tell me before how my invaluable my genius is to the foundation of what they want to do, and that has kept me hanging around longer than i should.

jobs. the hope of love in a hopeless situation. they're both crippling.

i saw myself already signing up to sell my soul to the company store (3 10-hour days last week) and felt my pulse threaten to quicken at the sight of a name in my inbox that i never see there telling me how crucial my efforts were.

and it just made me sad. because it doesn't change anything.

"have you ever wanted to dream about those things you've never known?"

my heart is very full tonight. it's been brimming with a lovely sadness and hope--with grief and with love. i had a spirited meal with friends, two of the funniest, most charming women i know, and i felt a lot like myself. each of us is very different from the others, but something magical happens when we all sit down to talk. we end up laughing hysterically, and something better about me emerges. someone funnier and more eager than i usually allow myself to be shows up.

i feel pretty overwhelmed at my job, and i'm compensating by showing up about 2 hours earlier than normal--just so i can address everything i need to with the benefit of no interruptions. i have every intention of doing well, but i feel crippled by the very real possibility of failure. it's a humbling situation. hard not to feel like i've gone backward. it's hard not to feel like some of my options have disappeared.

is this where i was supposed to be now? another birthday looms. i can see it from here, but what i don't see is how i'm supposed to get there.

why do i get myself all riled up with coffee and complex music before bedtime?

and why am i always just a little too far away from everything? it occurs to me that my days are the recurring dream of near misses and that my dreams must necessarily be my life. either way, a hot mess.

God, i'm going to need something different

i'm in a situation i don't like. and i'm open to a change.

New Old Music

It's payday in my world, so that meant a trip to iTunes. Music is the consistent, unfailing pleasure of my life, so it makes sense that the bulk of my "entertainment" consists of clicking "buy." In addition to Billie Holiday's 'Solitude,' I bought the Jackson 5 Stripped Mixes, which also includes stripped, bare bones versions of Michael's solo stuff from that era. I got a few other things, too. Pandora.com introduced me to K'Jon's lovely song "On the Ocean," which makes me happy and sad at once. For me, if a song is really good, that's typically the experience. When a song gets at the root of something true, for me, it is like returning to something and someone I was supposed to know.

 

The Little Prince

I just finished reading it again. it's been years since I last took it up, but I remember all the feverish urgency with which i first experienced it. i underlined, many moons ago, that whole passage about the Little Prince taming the fox. if this had been the first time i'd read it, i probably would have marked the parts about matters of great consequence, and the misassignment thereof.

i was so caught up in it yesterday morning that i nearly didn't get off at my lightrail stop. i am not the kind of girl who gets caught up and misses her stop.

i did not have my hair appointment last week. my stylist wrote me down for the wrong day, and so still wasn't there when i gave up and left an hour after i arrived. i rescheduled for this coming saturday morning.

for now, though, butter pecan ice cream before dinner...

Regularly Scheduled Programming

it's 9:48 on a Thursday night and I find that I am exhausted. the normal wear and tear of the work week, getting up early, and barely stopping as the day trots on brings a sort of beautiful coping. putting out fires and quelling people's over reactions, ordering chinese food b/c there just hasn't been any time to grocery shop. hoping for the best, pondering my first real hair appointment in months. finally listening to something else on my ipod besides the only music i've wanted to hear for 2.5 weeks, and it felt almost normal.

i've reengaged the mundane facts of my own life. it's still true that i have no romantic prospects. it's frightening because i care less and less and less about that, it seems. i tried to have a little crush on this guy at work, then realized that was stupid, and so gave it up before it was anything. i'm okay. things are good. i'm a little cash strapped and feeling uneasy about that, but things are ebbing and flowing as they should.

it's 9:54. i think i'll shut my eyes and see what i can't scheme up in my sleep.

Farewell, Lost Boy

Soon The Baltimore Chronicles will return to its regularly scheduled programming--me, writing about my life in dribs and drabs of mundane revelation. I am not deluded. This blog is a vanity project more than anything else and only went through a brief period of being interesting when i was unemployed, but hasn't had the benefit of a mission since i started working again.

until now. and if my readership stats are anything to go by, i see that this point of interest is mine alone. very well then, one more (at least) indulgent post about Michael Jackson it is.

when i was about 14 years old, after the intense pre-pubescent crush i'd had on Michael Jackson had waned, i fell in love with someone else. I read J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan and felt true wonderment. I underlined and reunderlined the effortlessly true prose. Something hidden had been revealed. i was still young enough to hope for magic wherever i could find it, and this book transported the ever grounded, bookish me to some place that didn't exist anywhere, and was all the more real for it. Peter reminded me of every spritely boy i'd ever daydreamed about. i was always one to pine for boys with winged feet, who were also deeply broken, insightful, and sad. Like Wendy, i wanted to dole out my medicine and make them all better. i loved that wildness in them, but wanted them to want to stand still, just for a second, just for me.

but when perpetual movement is your lifeforce, when it is the thing that transports you, being still is tantamount to death. when you are doing exactly what you should be doing, what you were born to do, you cannot help but be beautiful and beyond everything.

when i look at Michael's body in motion, it is clear that he was doing what he was supposed to do, and it was a privilege to watch him and to feel transported by it. i loved the yearning sadness i could always hear in his voice (even on fast songs), but when coupled with his dancing, well, let's just say i understand why it made some people cry.

Michael, i will miss you so much. I got to know you through your experience of the music. You were the music. It was you. Farewell, Lost Boy and Wild Thing. I hope you are finally where you know someone loves you best of all.

"One Day In Your Life"

last night, Sarah picked me up so we could go out for crab cakes, and we took a sing along tour through "Off The Wall" on our way to the restaurant. Then we drove around, north of the city proper, and listened to all of "Thriller." The music, still so good after all this time, left my heart soaring and my mind blown, much as it did when i was 10 years old, first hearing those strains, chords, and the dazzling yearning in his voice.

it's been years since Michael Jackson has taken up this much space in my head. i dream about him most nights now, and in those dreams we (he and i) are usually trying to solve a mystery--the mystery of where he's gone off to. or sometimes i am simply trying to protect him from something abstract, yet menacing.

my sadness is strange. it is persistent, but not crippling. i have hours upon hours of reprieve, where it's not the first thing on my mind. then a wave of disbelief hits and it's all i can think about. and i want to talk about him. i want to keep remembering him. i wish he knew just how much i'm thinking about him.

i feel guilty, in some ways, because i really had to compartmentalize my thoughts about this beautiful genius of a guy for the last 15 years, at least. i could not reconcile the person i so naively believed i would marry when i was little with the person he seemed to want to become. i wanted the best for him and sometimes felt angry with him, when i allowed myself to acknowledge any feeling about it at all, that he couldn't do what he needed to do to correct the worst perceptions of him. because perception, not truth, is reality.

Michael, for so many people, is like a dearly loved relative that we could never give up on no matter how much our belief that everything could still be fine was tested. i know i allowed myself to be swayed by the portrayal of him--on some level. i tried to protect myself from that influence, but it crept in. when Chris Rock said he was "done" with Michael, I knew what he meant. but you can only be that frustrated with someone you love so much.

so i've gone back to the music--all the way back to "I Want You Back," and have made the exciting, momentous trek to "Billie Jean," and then I went past the pinnacle to the lovely hits of later years, including those lilting, soulful ballads on "Invincible," his least commercially successful treatise. I revisited "Bad," an album I just didn't connect with, or so I thought. Everything after "Thriller" sort of ran together for me, but when I, with love and sadness, went back to it, realized that I loved so many of those songs. I had failed to remember.

for a little while.

A song he sang as a young man was prescient:

One day in your life
You'll remember the love you found here
You'll remember me somehow
Though you don't need me now
I will stay in your heart
And when things fall apart
You'll remember one day...

I guess I shouldn't be surprised

that Michael Jackson is being retried in the media, though the only new thing that has occurred is his death. he was tried for crimes and acquitted while he was alive, and now he's dead. dead. and it's being dredged back up as though these matters are necessarily relevant again. everyone who used to know him, knew someone who knew him, or who had an impression of him based on their observations of him from film or hearsay has a statement to make.

it is not that i thought he was above suspicion when he was alive. i didn't think he was guilty, incidentally, but i thought poor judgment on his part and perilous naivete meant the claims had to be investigated in accordance with due diligence. but, as far as any legal or civil matters related to these things are concerned, the case is closed.

i'll say it plainly. what does it matter now if he was addicted to prescription drugs? barring that live-in doctor having killed him in his sleep, the only point now is that he's gone. and if you didn't care about him one way or the other, it's just a fact to you. and if you thought he did the things he was accused of, and so believe the hoopla is unmerited or grossly misplaced, it still comes down to the fact that he was tried and found not guilty on 14 counts of misconduct--including all the lesser charges. and if, like me, he and his music meant something to you, the fact that he is gone is hard enough without this regurgitated footage of the ambulance.

i don't need to hear from a sanctimonious, hard-nosed "financial journalist" about how dire his money situation was--a fact that is hotly disputed anyway.

i'm all good with the retrospectives that show a timeline of his career--in fact, i want more of those. please. i'm okay with clips and soundbites related to his plans to come back. i'm even okay with joe jackson proving to be the ass he's long been accused of being in the wake of the death of his superstar, i mean son.

Michael Jackson's sphere of influence was tremendous, and as a human being, he was writ large.
and this was first apparent to anyone who was paying attention when he was a child--that Motown 25 performance simply clenched the hell out of a truth many people had apprehended years earlier.

i get why it's important to know whether there was a valid will, and of hearing, once the verdicts have been rendered, who the children will live with. but the actual parentage of the kids? the speculations about what drugs he took to numb his pain? waxing punditiffic about his increasingly white face? this is not needed. but it sure is a ratings bonanza.

i confess to watching--else how could i be so frustrated? the thing is, i'm just hoping for glimpses of recognition, i want to hear from the people who really loved him and respected him, and who are mourning like i am. i want to take comfort in the kindness of their remembrances and in the conviction of their belief in his kindness without having to sift through this rubbish.

i loved what i saw and intuited about him through his music for so long. i think that loving and appreciating his music was probably the purest association a person could have with him, and the truest impression of who he actually was. also, the music was public, and what was put forth for critical consideration. just leave it at that, and while those who admired him are still mourning, if you don't have anything nice to say, just be quiet.

'dear michael...'

she wrote 'dear michael, you'll probably never get this letter, michael'
'i wrote you a hundred times before
knowing how i feel, i'll write a hundred more...'

'dear michael, every time your record's on, michael
i close my eyes and sing along dreaming you're singing
to me.'

and then she wrote,'michael, i love you
i've held the tears back long as i can
i'm sealing my feelings in this envelope
cause i wanna be more than just your number one fan.'

i'm gonna answer your letter
i'll start beginning with the ABCs of loving you
your letter really touched my heart
i've been dreaming of meeting the picture
that you sent along, signed with all your love

i'm gonna write you back.
ooh, i promise you that.
girl, i think i love you.

hurry, hurry mister postman
take my letter, tell her i love her
hurry, hurry mister postman
take my letter, tell her i love her

yeah, i'm gonna write you back
i promise you that

(by h. davis and e. willenski)

Father's Day

my father died not quite three years ago, but none of us--not my sisters, my mother (from whom he was divorced), nor I--had ever visited his grave site. He is buried more than an hour away from where my mom lives, but more than that, it was never part of my family's culture to visit the granite and earthen homes of departed loved ones. even though i firmly believe the spirit departs the body soon after death, i always experience such anguish when everyone walks away from the funeral, and only the coffin remains, waiting to be placed into the ground.

when we walked away from my father, on a soggy October Sunday, I kept looking back over my shoulder at his box. My mother, through her tears, said "we're just leaving him out in the rain. we can't leave him there like that..." the fine drops lightly tapped the outside of the mahogany wood.

I couldn't help but think of him on another rainy morning. my middle sister graduated on a cold day in May in Vermont about a year and a half earlier. for reasons that had nothing to do with my dad, i was supremely irritated and stressed out. i short-sightedly and petulantly refused to be in any of the photos. the rain that day had chilled me to the deepest part of my bones, and i holed up in the hotel room and slept instead of going out to lunch with my dad and his father and my sisters.

the next time i would see my father was at his mother's funeral, on his birthday, one month before he died.

so, we all wanted to go and visit with him yesterday, to hug that cold stone that will have to suffice, and to lay yellow roses tinged with orange around the petals' rims and mixed gerberas and other spriggy like things on the dirt. there was no flower stand for his marker, so it looks as though we pelted him for a pageant.

"Happy Father's Day, Dad," I said. "We're all here."

my response

i've stopped taking anything i value with me to work, my cell phone being the one exception. other than my monthly transit pass, the negligible amount of cash i keep (most of the time, none), whatever book i'm reading, and my lunch, there's no jackpot (unless a thief is really fiending for a can of Progresso Best Life soup).

in fact, i bought two pairs of Dansko clogs so that i don't have to deal with wearing one pair of shoes to walk in and carrying another to wear at the office. those clogs can be dressed up or down, so that's that. no more being a sitting target on the lightrail. if anyone steals my stuff, it's stuff i can live with having stolen.

the next measure? perhaps a portable, easily concealed taser. i have a feeling i would enjoy letting a miscreant feel the jolt. seriously, though. we need a little 'Citizens On Patrol' action on the streets. Vigilante justice has its place.

at it again

baltimore city is up to its old tricks again. scandal at city hall (perpetual) and on the school board/in the school system with the near hire of a financial train wreck/borderline sheister, and rampant, often motiveless crimes perpetrated by staggeringly cruel teens en masse.

on the light rail ride home on friday i heard an announcement. "Ladies and Gentlemen, if you have iPods or cell phones, please be careful. We have had people get their iPods and phones stolen on the light rail trains."

Be careful. "How careful can I be exactly, outside of not owning these things?" I wondered. Furthermore, Why are we receiving a useless announcement to be careful when someone or some group of people is emoldened enough to yank cell phones and mp3 players on public transportation instead of there being armed cops on every train car?

Oh, I forgot. Because police presence has only been beefed up at the Inner Harbor in the tourist trap. Meanwhile, I cannot walk around in my neighborhood where I once felt safe, because gangs of teens are rolling up on residents, throwing bricks, beating them within an inch of consciousness. These, so far, have not been robberies. Just mean-spiritedness. Low-grade terrorism just because they can. Kind of like the poor excuses for human beings who burned that defenseless dog.

come on, Baltimore. it's time to get medieval.

i know i should be making a carrot banana smoothie, but...

i wanted to check in here, first. things are brewing at The Baltimore Chronicles (and steeping, too!). i am in the collaboration and idea-sharing stage for my Web site, which will launch in about two months. No slapped together endeavor this. the current stage involves securing photo permissions, staging photos myself, if necessary, Excel spreadsheets that track my progress, which I'm suddenly in love with, and writing new pieces in some cases...

such as "Who is Kate Krupnik and What Has She Done With Salimah Perkins?"

other than this, what can i say? the dog was hellacious on her walk (typical) and i set an appointment to have my full digital cable package restored. Mad Men starts again this summer, and I don't want to miss it!

Live, From My Balcony

C and i took a trip to Home Depot this afternoon to procure a set of plastic patio chairs (in the Adirondack style). we also got two matching drink tables, a frondy yucca tree, and another tropical beauty, whose genus and spelling i forget.

yesterday, at Home Goods with Sarah I picked up a box of bamboo string lights to drape around the railing. i thought, fleetingly, that i should get more than one box, but scrapped the idea. as it turns out, we will need at least two more strands, but the one that is up warms up our little space magnificently. last summer this street-facing patio was largely ignored, but with just an hour at a hardware store and a few light touches, it's become THE place to be in our pad.

now, out here we sit, above the din of sirens, our charming city warm and thriving below us.

Mingering Mike

As a recent facebook quiz attests, I am in fact an aging scenester. woefully out of touch and behind the times, but in denial. In any case, I discovered something that delights my sensibilities in the bargain bin at Borders last Saturday. I wasn't quite sure what it was, at first. What was abundantly clear is that it was a dollar. For a dollar, I could afford to buy it now and figure out what I'd purchased later.

I assumed that it was equal parts graphic novel and experimental fiction. well, the truth is stranger than. what i love about this, is how very meta it is.

Life Sentences

I like Laura Lippman's work so much that I bought her latest and very recent book Life Sentences in hard cover. Though I have read, in a manner of speaking, many of her books, this is the only one I own. In fact, it's the only one I've ever held in my hands, whose spine I've cracked open.

I have been in the habit, over the last several years, of listening to novels. The 8- to 9-hour workday is prime recreational reading real estate. my work, being the work of words, allowed me to collapse my professional and personal lives. not always effectively, perhaps, but in any case, the practice allowed me the great treasure of Tess Monaghan and Laura Lippman's Baltimore, which is simultaneously Baltimore as I see and love it, and as I wish I really understood it, experientially. After first coming here 10 years ago and realizing that no place else had ever felt like home like this feels like home, I see that I still intuit this town more than anything else.

Lippman's narratives bear out my intuition--her love for this city, cloaked in fiction and literary personae, is apparent. And I find that as irresistable as her generous prose. Her craft is evident in the effortless way the text spirits me along. The lynchpins and hinges are so effective that you take them for granted without having to be preoccupied with any obvious, self-conscious hand-tipping about them mucking up a perfectly good story.

Life Sentences takes on the much-discussed issue of memoir--and the lines it crosses intentionally and unintentionally, the fallibility of memory. That resonates in her protagonist's name. Cassandra Fallows--a would-be prophetess mining her own life for truth.

The novel is remarkable, in my estimation, for taking on another issue that's seething beneath the surface again--the ongoing tension between white and black women's narratives--and how they often undermine each other, intentionally and unintentionally. It's one of her stand alone narratives, as the unparalleled What the Dead Know is. That book haunted me for weeks. I do not know of its contemporary equivalent when it comes to characterization or air-tight plot construction.

Now I'm waiting for the treatise on the often-misunderstood Gloria Bustamante. Life Sentences sets her up nicely for her own full-length feature. How about it, Laura?

Acai Berry Juice & Other Stuff

is now a mainstay in my house. My sister and i have been on a "get right," as she calls it. I'm feeling better, in general, am exercising a lot more, and am being cognizant of my forgotten friends--fruits and vegetables.

i skipped the gym this morning because my right hip is bothering me--something that tends to happen when i first start a fitness regimen. i'm going to go tonight, though, and focus on upper body lifting.

the beauty of my 24-hour fitness facility is that it's right near my house, so i'm much more inclined to go... whenever. a couple of years ago, when i belonged to a gym that was very close to my job, i found that my unerring, unflagging motivation made me willing to get up insanely early to work out before clocking in and on weekends, but that's not where i am now. and there's no gym near my new job, anyway.

the new job is going well. i'm trying to ask good questions, stay out of trouble, keep my expectations insanely low, and be engaged while staying detached. i wanted to keep the little workspace i have relatively free of anything personal, but i did cave and take in a scent infuser (vanilla, of course), a box of Kleenex, and some lotion (i apply it like crazy during the day because i cannot stand hands that feel dry after i wash them). the idea is still to be able to grab up everything on a moment's notice if they ever ask me to get the hell out--or, if i decide, on a moment's notice that i'm done.

i guess it's a kind of post-layoff ptsd.

Schism

I recently wrote an essay for my memoir class about being black and issues with self-image. In it, I asserted something that made my teacher call foul. In an effort to move away from the top-heavy exposition that dogs many of my first drafts, I didn't bother to qualify my statements, but I think what I was getting at was something honest that needs to find some sensitive, yet ballsy way to be said.

In my essay, I expressed that black women had two images with which to be identified: angry or sexually loose. I went on to say that white women were not dogged by the same limited spectrum--perhaps I thoughtlessly expressed that they weren't dogged by archetypes at all. What I'd meant to say, and should have taken explicit care to say, is that they didn't seem to me to be pigeonholed in the same way, for the same reasons, and that any stereotypical representations that might exist didn't seem to exist to dehumanize them.

My prof, who is white, helpfully pointed out that my explanation makes things clearer, but that it's still impossible to speak to someone else's intimate experience and that perhaps such comparisons should be avoided.

The following link gets at a little of this issue. Read what one black woman blogger had to say when one white woman journalist looks at Michelle Obama through the lens of what she thinks the First Lady should be doing:

http://blacksnob.com/snob_blog/2009/5/22/someone-needs-to-tell-bonnie-erbe-to-let-it-go-rants.html

This is the part where it really takes off...

We're over the Memorial Day hump, so summer is free to come in full force. What are we in for? A week of rain. Anyone who's even an intermittent reader of the BC knows I can stand a little rain, but when a big part of your commute involves a walk on both ends, well, it's less than ideal.

Yesterday, my sisters and i were driving on the interstate and had to get off. 95 was in rushing, rising rivulets. The township streets weren't much better. We arrived at my mom's for an indoor picnic none the worse for wear, but about an hour after we'd set out. It's usually a 15-minute drive from my youngest sister's place, where we left from.

The big thing on the docket today is my DLLR hearing. I'll share details later. Have a great day, and remember. The deluge will always yield something awesome. Stay dry, be sweet today, and send up a prayer or two for me.

status

this a time for getting my bearings and establishing a rhythm, for getting questions answered, and forging a path. i'm hopeful. on the horizon is my appeal hearing with the DLLR, and though i'll be okay regardless of the agency's decision (backpay, etc.), i am hoping for vindication.

i realize i'm being vague about the job i've found. i've always taken care to never mention the place where i work by name and never to give any identifying specifics that could make the company recognizable to others in print. that will very much continue. i can say that i'm balancing my expectations and not hurrying to personalize the experience (or the space) too much. i need to keep myself psyched up by seeing it as a place that i report, for about 8 hours a day, that is separate from my real life, or any concept i have of myself. this is evident in a lot of little ways. i haven't taken a coffee mug there, but instead am using one of theirs. that's huge for me.

the right foot

even though, as is typical on a sunday night, i didn't go to bed before midnight, i obeyed the 6 am alarm. by 6:15 i was mounted on an elliptical starting a cross country routine. my iPod did blitz on me for a second, but soon found its bearnings and i pushed on without interrupting my groove too much.

now i'm making coffee and applying lipstick. it's just like old times.

Divesting

It's Friday afternoon at The Baltimore Chronicles, and I'm doing laundry, purging my closet of items that just don't work anymore, never worked, or that I've finally come to terms with the fact that I cannot get into due to weight gain. Facing the undiluted truth is the most important part of any new venture.

I've also cleaned out my wallet--finally threw out irrelevant business cards--and enforced a strict coda of card-facing direction. It's all very cleansing.

Next, while the laundry churns on, I'm going to write an exhaustive grocery list (Wegman's is tonight since neither C nor I felt like it the other day). I'm also going to craft a list of short- and long-term items that we need for the house.

I want to start Monday off on the right foot, complete with 6 a.m. workout and a protein-packed smoothie of some kind. I'm determined to have a good summer and to rebound, soundly, from the last 10 weeks of soul-crushing doubt and lack of purpose.

Credit Score Check-in

It's a beautiful day in the city of charm and I'm in a good mood for a few reasons. Breakfast with my dear Catchka-one at the City Cafe (Charlie Parker serenading us, to boot) was wholly satisfying, the dog was well-behaved on her afternoon walk, and I'm revitalized after a generous nap.

I decided to check in with my credit report and score, which when I last looked was stable and in repair from the foolish financial folly that lasted from my late 20s to just last year. Well, now I am a mere 7 points away from the number I wanted to reach by January of 2010. At the rate I'm going, by the new year I could be beyond "good" and at "exceptional" with only school loan debt and the negligible revolving balance on the one card that gets billed for the monthly credit report service I use.

Because of the generosity of friends and the cushion I had working for me during this time of unemployment, I haven't had to resort to using my newly paid-off credit cards once, which is something of a miracle.

Tonight C and I are going to Wegman's for the superior produce and impressive variety of good foods. I'm feeling all manner of inspired to shop well and cook creatively. I'm headed back to the grind, so getting myself in the right head space will be crucial for success.

Breakfast with Catchka/rest of the week

in about two hours, Catchka will arrive and we'll go off in search of breakfast. We're celebrating her graduation from her program, her stupendous performance in said program (all As in all courses for the 2-year duration), and stellar performance on an exam that represents another important hurdle.

two months from now, we'll be celebrating Sarah's MBA completion, and she, too will have finished with all As. Man, I've got some smarty-pants friends.

tomorrow morning, i'll go down to silver spring during the day to hang out with my youngest sister to play pool until she has to report to work (late afternoon), then i'll come home and join some friends from my program for "Star Trek" at the theatre downtown. I'm not a trekkie by any means (though I fondly remember the original series), but I've been captured by the hype surrounding this one and cannot wait to see it.

good news

Found out that I got an A in Electronic Publishing. Big thanks to Sarah, Rafe, and Abby for their help and technical expertise this semester. Your contribution was invaluable!

Also, wrote a poem for the first time in more than two years tonight! Here's hoping that I'm entering a period of creativity and release.

Unemployment Rehab!

i had a raging headache for most of Sunday that only broke with some combination of ibuprofen, excedrin, coffee, and a mudslide. I was at a dinner theatre production of Disney's Beauty & The Beast (C's Mother's day gift to my mom, who loves community theatre), and couldn't properly enter in to the spirit of the event with my frontal lobe under attack like that.

once the pressure lifted i had a clear head for pondering. i came to the conclusion that i've taken about 20 generic advil in the last 5 days for one kind of pain or another. psychosomatic? probably.

Green Tea Interview

As most of you could probably guess, there's one thing (in addition to requisite extra copies of my resume) I make sure to have with me on any job interview. Coffee--in designer travel mug or to go cup--is my prop of choice. It serves a practical purpose as well as an aesthetic one. It's comfort and wakefulness in one beverage. It also gives me something to hold, thoughtfully, as I answer questions with aplomb and intellectual dexterity. it's a taste thing, too. It soothes and perplexes me.

For reasons I'll explain at a later time, I'm doing a coffee hiatus for a little while, so this morning's routine was absent the slow, steady chug of of the drip machine and the warm, full scent of hazelnut and java bean comingling to create instant happiness. This morning, there was the kettle and Lipton green tea bag.

I know that tea lovers wax poetic about the ritual of tea-making, and I am acquainted with those as well. I'm no hater. I firmly assert that tea has its place in the lexicon of hot beverages that I love and for which I am grateful, but it's no secret that my primary loyalty is to the coffee bean.
So, because I didn't have time to steep loose, pressed leaves, I had no romance on that front, either.

The point is that I sipped from a tumbler of unsweetened, categorically healthful antioxidants while I waited in the lobby of the building where I hope to work in the near future. I'm optimistic. I'm hopeful.

run down

in spite of a general malaise that i think has to do with not getting enough rest lately, it's been a good week. not only did i finish my memoir revisions with time to spare, but i also got to have lunch with B, my friend and former coworker, today at Marie Louise. I haven't seen her in at least six months, so we had a ton of catching up to do.

because she needed to print out directions to her next destination, she got to meet the illustrious babygirl, who did her usual posturing and growling, but eventually calmed down. i had to have her on a leash during the acclimation period (more so B could feel comfortable and assured that i had control over her).

after the dog's afternoon walk, i went out alone for dog food (we'd run out), then i got back, couldn't find my cell phone, and walked back to the bistro where i'd had lunch. it wasn't there. apparently, if i'd just felt in the secret compartment of my purse, i'd have found it there. what a waste. all the in and out has made for a surreal afternoon.

once C gets home we'll head down to campus for an evening reading and then push on to my mom's later tonight for Mother's Day weekend festivities. My "meeting" was moved to Monday morning. Hope I'm feeling completely well by then.

I Know It's Been a Minute Since I've Posted

but i've actually been in head down mode. even though i willingly, happily sacrified a few prime days of revision time for the charleston trip, i made up for it in spades starting this Sunday morning. I know it must be spring, because I'm waking up every morning at 6:30, wide awake, regardless of what time I go to bed.

Tomorrow, my spring semester wraps up, and I think I've managed to pull off a miracle. With the invaluable help of program mates and friends, electronic publishing ended on a high note on Monday night with the demonstration of end of term projects. Tomorrow, I turn in four revised essays that represent all the writing I've done this semester. Because I was inspired, I also wrote another, bonus essay to include in the packet for my instructor's feedback.

it's my way of going above and beyond. right now, i'm carrying a B+ in memoir, and I want to bring that up to an A. I'm actually hoping to do what I didn't do last term, and get As in both classes.

I have a meeting on Friday morning, and I am cautiously hopeful. My last interview went well, but I was not offered an opportunity to come back for a subsequent meeting. Beyond Friday's meeting, I have a couple of other irons in the fire. Something's got to work out soon, right?

frustrated

i'm uncertain about where things stand. i don't know if i'm waiting to hear if i'm going to start or waiting to start. i'm uncertain about the whole of my life, really.

and i'm frustrated that my memoir workshop class discussed my piece in my absence--i can barely trust them to "get" my pieces when i'm physically in the room with them. who knows what in God's name they came up with on their own. How did that happen, anyway? it's not protocol for us to do that when someone's not there...

it's my last night in charleston, and i'm glad of that. lovely town, but i've got things to attend to at home.

Balto. City blog worth checking out

Audacious Ideas

ninety-two

i've just come in from a morning walk with the dog. it's already sweltering outside. today's high is supposed to be 92 and you can feel by the current humid, sticky 65 that the day will reach its aspiration.

i have a meeting at 2 today. it would be great to get this part-time gig to tide me over for the next several weeks or months. i need to use the work muscle again. it's in complete atrophy. i know that women tend to define themselves by their relationships and men by what they do, but meaningful work is good for everyone's soul.

money woes aside, i think just having a place to go and some task to do will do wonders for my outlook.

current plans

1. meeting tomorrow at 2 for something temporary and part-time.
2. start revising all submitted memoir efforts from the semester for final "packet."
3. pack for charleston.
4. start growing hair long.

click the link for my favourite

I made Charmcitypublishing.com. Scroll down. I'm last (at this point).

heading to the gym soon

the goal is to focus on lifting today with only intermittent cardio. blasts, i suppose. i've gained momentum in TBDF and will soon be ready to start reading ZZ Packer's Drinking Coffee Elsewhere and/or Karen Brichoux's Coffee and Kung Fu.

"even after all this time i can make no case for who we were or what happened."

some assembly required decoder ring that came with The Boy Detective Fails. The quote that functions as the title of this post is from one of the stories I wrote, though.

recap

my meeting this morning went well. the situation would be a good match for me in many ways, though this was only one step in the company's process. and there is one area where my skill set doesn't perfectly mesh with the position, so i'm prepared for the fact that other candidates may emerge who are a more ideal match and who would be more likely to garner second interviews. so, for the next two weeks, i'll be doing some combination of waiting and canvassing the greater baltimore area (gba) with my stats (resume) and hoping to create interest in my skill set in more places (playing the odds). 

as soon as i made it home (my feet pounding from walking in heels on the rain-sluiced concrete), i ate lunch and applied for another job that has potential to be a good fit. i think i'm learning a lot about how to keep moving, not letting my thoughts linger on anything too long...

The [Girl] Detective Fails

i've been reading Joe Meno's The Boy Detective Fails off and on (mostly off) for the last six months. i started it while on a beach holiday early last fall and then my semester dictated that i read and focus on assignments. once i had time again (over the winter break), my mind was on other things. Other books-for-leisure have come between me and "The boy detective," but now i'm giving this worthwhile, experimental, quasi-interactive work of fiction my attention. again, because i suspect that my days of unemployment are numbered (and i am so hoping and praying that this is the case), i need to get to the conclusion.

i need to know how and why he ultimately fails. it isn't for want of trying.

am in a contemplative, yet productive state tonight. it's a tea and honey and chet baker night.

Twitterpated

i've had a twitter account for a few months now, but i'm still woefully late to the party. i'd been thinking of it as facebook, but with only status updates (admittedly, the status updates are the best thing for me about fb), and that seemed like a duplication of efforts.

i wasn't really focusing enough on the constant barrage of sound bite updates element. for an information junkie like me (who hit refresh no fewer than 200 times tonight), well...

maybe it's just the novelty of having snapshots of the thoughts and interior lives of people i'll never meet for real (i only "follow" two people i actually know). that's a huge selling point for this medium and a point of divergence from fb. no pending approvals. just knowing the last thing larry king wanted to pass along, just like that.

i knew it was time to leave my home page when john mayer signed off 'cause that man is a tweeting fool. seriously. no one tweets more. i had this moment after he said he was signing off for the weekend where i felt panicked and a tiny bit bereft...

yeah. i can see that this is going to be a huge problem.

days of leisure

i cannot be certain, of course, but i feel these coming to an end. that is a good thing, really, because it's not true leisure if you can see an end to your money from the place you're standing. thankfully, a number of factors came together to keep me afloat. the DLLR, of course, was not one of these factors.

i've been to the gym every day this week, in fact i went twice on both monday and tuesday. my eating hasn't been as austere as it should be to accommodate true weightloss because i still have too many easter leftovers and holiday candy. but the fact is, i'm marshalling the inner troops.

i'm drinking more water, collecting new music, and pushing for the next thing.

summer, i hope, will be full of promise.

at the root

pharrell williams, half of the production duo Neptunes, producer in his own right, frontman of N.E.R.D, and solo artist is responsible for most of the addictive beats of the latter 20th century and early 21st century, is at the root of most of the music that makes sense to me. the music that i love. part empresario, part skater kid, his finger is on the pulse of what moves the lower and upper torso in rhythmic, synchopated jerks (aka dancing). i once wrote about rappers as feudal lords of the fifedom in this space. Pharrell is no rapper. Pharrell is no singer. He is the architect of any rock/punk/fusion beat sequence that has made you leap from your seat--calling forth ancestors you didn't know you had to make you move. to something. yet, when he sings and he raps, i give instant credibility to the efforts because only the one who understands music from its nascent moment can truly rap, can truly sing. what i mean to say is that he is not simply a singer. not simply a rapper. he is music. i don't know him and he doesn't know me. But I get it. I see the intention behind everything and I am in favour of it.

easter morning

i was at club charles the night before to tie one on with my good friend Cheryl in honour of her birthday, so i was sluggish and disoriented when i heard my text notification at 7:21 hailing the first and only "happy easter" blast of the day. actually, the word "easter" was never used.

the message was from my almost lover and it is much more his style to focus on the general philosophies of renewal and rejuvenation that belong to spring, which is just what he did.

i could barely focus at first. i thought i was dreaming, then i realized that if my almost lover texted me out of the blue in my dreams it wouldn't be with a message about embracing 'renewal.' no, that's not the message i'd have chosen after all this time.

i got up for real when i heard cabinet doors banging and smelled bleach. C was cleaning her bathroom, so i forced myself into a semi wakeful state. there were eggs to attend to...

deconstruction

to quote Cher Horowitz in 'Clueless' "...but this time I would make over my soul..."

good friday

it's friday morning at the baltimore chronicles and i'm feeling hopeful and contemplative. i dreamed i walked into a florist shop i'd assumed was closed down, and inside i found a woman who looked so like my grandmother lillian that i exclaimed aloud. as it turned out, this woman was her daughter--someone i didn't know existed. we agreed to meet up for drinks...

Annie Fogg

i was recently found by an elementary schoolmate on facebook. she happened to post a scan of our 4th grade class photo to her profile pictures last night. not only did i immediately zero in on my 9-year-old self (looking more like 7, really), but on another person. Annie Fogg was maligned by most of the kids in 4th grade, and certainly by many in Mrs. Johnson's class.

Annie's nails were bitten to the quick. Her short, stubby pencils (when she actually had a pencil, it was always a short cast-off) bore teeth marks. She smelled vaguely of urine and unwashed laundry. She was teased mercilessly. Annie was not, from what i remember, a good student.

Our school, like many, had a yearly event generically called "Field Day." Princeton Elementary's school colours were blue and gold, so we were divided up into teams. i believe i was on the blue team (if this is true, i would have been thrilled by my luck at the time--i hated "gold," which i knew was just a glorified yellow).

Annie and i were facing off for the 5-yard dash challenge. My team loudly and rudely encouraged me to leave her in a cloud of dust. Responding to that crowd mentality, that cruelty so often attributed to children, i remember scoffing "she's nothing to beat!"

unbeknownst to me, the gun had gone off while i was trash talking, and by the time i started running, Annie was half done with the dash. i lost shamefully to her.

i think about this several times a year. Not the losing, but how much was at stake for her in that race.

i do not remember myself as a mean child. but i remember being disgusted by Annie, by her smell, by her fingernails... i do not remember being proactively unkind, as a rule.

Annie was prone to getting into fights with boys (she had a brother, i recall, so maybe that felt normal to her) and was disruptive in class. i do remember feeling that because of these things, she brought her treatment onto herself. i felt that she could help it and chose not to. sometimes i felt bad for her. at other times, i thought she should simply change.

it occurs to me now that whether what i said aloud on that "Field Day" was anomalous or not, Annie surely felt my judgment, the silent cringing i did. and that is my shame and my share in this.

Looking at that class picture now, i remember something--if only a vague sense--about every kid in it. and we all look so small. Some of us look optimistic, expecting good things. Some of us appear to be bracing for the worst. Annie's chin is drawn tightly inward, as though someone said something hurtful to her right before the flash immortalized her this way.

i guess what i'm trying to say to anyone who's reading this, to Annie, really, is that i hope she lived past that year (those years?), and that maybe if/when she ever looks at that photo of all of us, that she is forgiving, or remembers it as something only vaguely unpleasant. i hope her life changed.

DLLR Hearing

As of this writing I remain unemployed. As of yesterday afternoon, the Department of Labor, Licensing and Regulation (Unemployment Insurance Division) has set an appeal hearing for May 26th, 2009. Per DLLR protocol, when you want to appeal an agency decision, you do so in writing, by way of postal mail. Apparently, the point of this is so that they can set a hearing date for you far into the future. There's no one there, it seems, who is empowered to read a letter and make a determination based upon the case stated.

I've written letters to Elijah Cummings, Martin O'Malley, Barbara Mikulski, and the Editor of the Baltimore Sun asking for an investigation into this agency and its wrongheaded, deliberately obtuse procedures.

This is such an obviously deliberate stalling tactic on this agency's part. Is there any reason on earth to give me a date two months (practically) from my appeal date and three months from the day of my original claim file other than trying to get out of paying me the benefits?

next stop? Local News.

rainy city

shrimp & guac

tonight after epub i took to the two avocados i bought earlier. i sauteed the small packet of shrimp, scooped the guac into "scoop" tortilla chips and set the shrimp on top of each makeshift bowl. i think i'll make this as an appetizer for my next fete... whenever that is

a wedding

this saturday night i attended the wedding of my mother's goddaughter, and though she is five years younger than i am (we met when i was six and she was just a year old), i was her "first friend." She and her mom moved into the apartment above where i lived with my mom and her boyfriend (who would later become my stepfather) back in 1979 (or late 78). My mom, being the gregarious sort, made fast friends with this young mom and her toddler, and we're still in each other's lives.

I remember carrying this kid around on my back and playing any number of convoluted child-inspired games. How can she be someone's wife? More than that, how is it that she now makes her living as a parole officer? (Frankly, I'd like to get in on that action. I think I'd be great at it...)

the ceremony took place outside, and i found that i was glad of my coat. it was chillier than was comfortable, but in April you take your chances. Seven p.m., I think, is the perfect time for a wedding. Fading daylight. Dusky. It's just inherently romantic. And if yours is a winter affair, then it's full-on nighttime, which holds its own obvious magic.

Between the open bar and the inherent nostalgia, I lost my self-consciousness enough to dance, and went home happy and if not hopeful, then at least not disconsolate.

raining & pouring

it's a rainy friday morning here at the baltimore chronicles, but everything else is the same. it's taking me longer than i'd like to make it through Julie & Julia, but i'm experiencing furious bouts of facebook creativity. life is a trade-off. opportunities are arising. whatever happens next, one thing is clear. i'm about to be really busy.

details shall pour forth as they make themselves known.

My inexplicable anger toward John Mayer

it has nothing to do with Jennifer Aniston, though when i probed my subconscious for an opinion, they seemed ill-fated to me from the jump. i think i've been perturbed because his musicanship is incongruous with his choice in women. i guess i expected something different--not this slew of pairings with women who are wildly inappropriate for him (see Jennifer Love Hewitt and Jessica Simpson).

but when i remember that his personal life, though put forward by the media (and by himself) for me to inspect, is none of my busines and just set my iPod to journey me through one of his albums (Continuum, in this case) i remember something else. the genius (and i don't use that word lightly in the post-millenial way) of the song 'gravity.'

this has been a demoralizing week. 'gravity, stay the hell away from me... gravity is working against me... gravity has taken better men than me...' get at my humiliation in a way that nothing else could.

if that's not enough, push fast forward to get to 'vultures' and think of it as a case study on bird dogging... the hunt. the kill.

'how did they find me here?
what do they want from me?
they've never gone this long without a kill before...'

and

'power is made by power being taken
so i keep on running to protect my situation...'

my inexplicable anger toward john mayer is outrun by my love for the aristry and the gravitas of his folk-funk lyricism.

is it wrong that i just want to tell him if he'd pick a woman on his plane, he wouldn't feel the need to cut and run every chance he gets?

Activism

I wrote to the Honorable Elijah Cummings to stump for unemployment insurance reform. I'm thinking of taking my case to O'Malley's door next. I probably should have begun with him. Perhaps a Letter to the Editor in the Sun?

I'll write to the congressman under separate cover to tell him about the poor organization of the Job fair his office sponsored. He got my vote, now he can read my input.

What a cold, bleak day this was. After an early morning errand, I came home to walk the dog, to follow up on some things, and to go to sleep. A long bus ride (that included a transfer) made me tired and disconsolate. The weather is the likely culprit.

Once C was in for the night, we ordered from Lumbini--the best Indian/Nepalese food in the city.

"china gets broken and it will never be the same..."

i've learned a valuable lesson this week, or relearned it, as the case may be. the specific object of the lesson doesn't matter, and won't be told in this space, in any case. the underlying point is that i should heed first warnings--my own and others'. my old, almost lover once told me that i seem like the kind of girl who would put her desires on hold for the good of others. you do that at your peril. it always backfires.

well, sometimes a good failure is just what the doctor ordered. and to be sure, something has failed. something is ruined.

Shiftless negroes* and the sons of field hands

The Office of Congressman Elijah Cummings organized a job fair that was held today at the Fifth Armory Regent in Baltimore city (near state government offices).

Former coworker The Encyclopedia Veronica and I met up this morning in a spirit of joint industry and purpose to go to this city-sponsored event to peddle our resumes and show off our respective "I'm incredibly employable" faces and can-do spirits. Per the suggestion of the Web notice, participants should "dress for success and bring plenty of resumes." Check. Check. And we were off…

I woke at just a few mintues before 8 and my first thought was to get the Eight O'Clock coffee brewing and the shower head pounding. I was aware of a slight pinching sensation in my shoulder. I must have slept in an awkward position. My sister had just left for work. I could hear the dog munching on her dry food pellets with impressive enthusiasm.

After showering and getting dressed, I took one last gulp of coffee and walked downstairs. I pushed open the gate that separates my apartment complex from the main arteries of the Mt. Vernon neighborhood and saw that the EV was already waiting. I knew the job fair was close, but was unsure of its exact location, so I thought we'd just cab it. EV did know where to find it and suggested we walk. It's a brisk day, but I found myself in immediate support of saving the money and hoofing it—Chunky Mary Jane heels and all.

Just as we passed the corner of Charles & Preston to head west, I saw, in the distance, a n'er do well tenant of my former building—a guy who asked to "hold 30 dollars" a scant week after I'd moved in. To hear the onsite property manager of that building tell it, he did not pay a lick of rent, but instead lived off the disabled woman with whom he was shacking up. Incidentally, he proved to the most vocal, demanding resident in the building. He'd gotten a haircut, I noticed, and was wearing dark sunglasses and a trench coat, like some sort of Inspector Gadget meets Shaft hybrid.

Once he got closer, he said "Are y'all going to the job fair?" We indicated that we were. "It's garbage!" he spat.

EV and I exchanged looks.

"What about us screams Job Fair?" we mused. "Yeah, I mean, what if we were just going to our places of business or somewhere else?"

I told her what a questionable character he was and we pushed on. I went on to conjecture that "garbage" to him probably meant he got kicked out for being inappropriately dressed or not being able to hold audience with potential employers because of his checkered and likely criminal past.

Once we reached the crosswalk to head into the Fifth Regent Armory where the fair was held, we saw the throng. Traffic cops had been employed to help mitigate the cluster fuck. People were detraining the light rail carrying their resumes in translucent portfolios. The EV and I exchanged glances. Apparently, the entire city is unemployed our look communicated.

Finally, the cop motioned for us to cross and we joined said throng. There were easily 500 people moving to get into the building meshing with those who were already leaving. The crowd was overwhelmingly African American and for every person whose attire at least approximated business casual, there were 50 people in do-rags, jeans, and stained t-shirts. Of the t-shirt contingent, there was one man whose shirt bore a slogan that went so beyond the outer boundary of appropriate, that I still cannot quite get over it. "Son of a field negro," it proclaimed.

Even though a dress code was suggested and a photo id required in order to gain entrance, no official was on hand to verify that participants were dressed appropriately or that anyone had any sort of identification.

Once inside (with at least 1200 other people), we started to scope out the booths. Plenty of city government representation. The Deparment of Labor, Licensing and Regulation was there. No, more accurately, there was a sign bearing the agency's name. The station was unmanned. There were no pamphlets, applications, or brochures for passersby to take. Every other company booth's line was at least 50 people deep, and if you chose to stand on those lines, then what?

I took what I thought was a conservative number of resumes with me. I expected to take a lot of business cards, if nothing else, and e-mail any prospective employers with whom I felt any type of professional simpatico. Instead, EV and I looked at each other. "Do you want to try to stand on some lines, or should we wait it out until things drop off a bit, or do you just want to leave and get on with your life?"

We left to get on with our lives.

On our way out, we saw people sitting on flat beds hastily filling out applications, or wandering aimlessly, hedging their chances of talking to someone against making the next light rail back home in time for lunch.

A man with a lisp (who had troubled to wear a suit, poor thing) complained bitterly that no company reps wanted to take the resumes he'd "made up." No one
took resumes at this job fair.

So, what are two ironically distanced unemployed girls to do? We headed to our neighborhood Bistro for an early lunch—The Disenfranchisement Special—and decided that this would make an excellent absurdist French film.

We parted ways at Mt. Vernon Square—EV home to her cat and a nap, and me to the dog.

Disclaimer: "shiftless negro" is an old expression that is particular to African American subculture. Literally, a negro without a shift. No job.