All's Quiet on the Water Front...

Fell's point is slumbering deeply. For now. The weather is thunderstorm-likely (which i love), my coffee is thick and sweet (which is okay), and I'm nearly done munching on this bagel. Almost no one is in the office, and while I have work to do I'm mostly looking forward to getting a beer with Gordon tonight.

He did indeed receive the birthday card I sent him; he called me yesterday evening to tell me how touched he was, then promptly asked me if I wanted to get together. I was at Sarah's place, so we rescheduled for tonight.

More than ever, I hope I am able to score the hat for him. Tonight will be perfect if I can give him that perfect gift.

You have no idea how true this is...


You're a Speak & Spell!! You nerd, you. Just
because you were disguised as a toy doesn't
mean you weren't educational, you sneaky
bastard.


What childhood toy from the 80s are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Post Haste

I finally sent off the letter I wrote a few weeks ago addressing the charges my old leasing company brought against me for damages to my former apartment. The hold up was due to two things: 1) I kept forgetting to bring in the forms I wanted to photocopy to accompany the letter, and to a less significant degree, 2) I did not remember the President and COO's name, and wanted to address my letter to him for maximum effect.

I decided that I would mail the letter today come hell or high water, but I just happened to receive an apartment satisfaction survey from my old leasing company in the mail yesterday that had this individual's name on it, so I completed my communique this morning, and dropped the three letters (I cc'ed the Property Manager of my former building and the Corporate office in MD)in the mailbox in time for the 9:45 pickup.

Speaking of mailing things... I also mailed Gordon's birthday card to him yesterday. He'll probably get it today. I decided not to mention setting up a time to give him his birthday present since I don't yet have it in hand. And, because when I asked him if he wanted to do something for his birthday, he was unsure about his own availability (or perhaps he was just being noncomittal due to disinterest), so I don't want to be pushy about getting on his calendar if he isn't up for any type of hang time on that day.

I have to remember that not everyone is as excited about birthdays as I am. I also have to remember that he may also just not want to spend time with me on that day. I know that I like to reserve my actual birthday for people who are very special to me... and I wouldn't want to hang out with someone who was a mere acquaintance, or with whom I didn't have a nearly perfect sense of simpatico.

Of course, If I were having a party, then it would make sense to have a variety of relationship types represented... I think you know what I mean. Anyway, when I asked him point blank a couple of weeks ago if he wanted to do something (after learning that he had no plans), he said he would let me know if he had a gathering a week or so after his actual birthday, but that he didn't envision anything happening on the day itself.

Oddly, this did not give me cause for concern at the time, but perhaps it should have been a big hint.

In an effort to better prepare for today's all-day meeting at work, I decided to come in at 7:30, so I could give myself something of a morning before our team project begins. I am presenting on a topic related to tests and test-taking at the top of this gathering, and I feel well-prepared. We'll see how it goes.

I called the cable company last night to discuss the credit I want them to give me, and the rep tried to date it from last Wednesday. I told her that when I called on Wednesday my cable had already been out for 24 hours, and that I took care to let the rep to whom I spoke on Wednesday know this. She was hesitating so I asked for a manager and that seemed to bring her around to her right mind. I'm being credited from Tuesday.
I've also called the gas & electric company because my name was misspelled on the bill. That rep took care of my request with courtesy and speed. Needless to say I like her a lot better.

I keep forgetting that this is the week leading into Memorial Day weekend. Starting at about noon tomorrow, my boss will be out for the balance of the week (as will several others). I don't mind that I don't have anything big planned. I really want something spontaneous to happen between Friday and Monday.

Caryl and I toured my campus today; man, it was hot! We came back and had strip down to our underthings and lie directly in the line of the ac's cooling blast. Think Sierra Mist commercials with that dog. "Yeah, it's like that!"

We hung out at One World before we set off on our walking jaunt and each had a Wild Berry smoothie; it was very 1994, sitting on a coffee house couch, talking about life.

My cable had been out for the better part of a week; I was inadvertently disconnected, so a tech had to come out to reconnect me. I was miserable without cable... it's not that I had so many shows to watch as much as it was the being unable to watch anything! I hope they give me a credit for my mental anguish.

My sister will arrive on the 12:17 train, and then we will come back here and really hang out for the first time in several months. Her first semester away from home provided her with all kinds of experiences, and I need to catch up with the person she is becoming as much as I need to stay connected to the person she is.

I've decided what I'm getting G for his birthday (next Saturday). This was no small feat, believe me. I had to take several things into consideration: cost, his interest/desire in potential present, appropriateness of any ideas I had in light of our friendship, etc. For a while I thought I was going to have to go the somewhat pedantic route of the giftcard (now I love getting gift cards, but sometimes they can seem impersonal, and the person to whom you give it/them knows exactly how much you spent--which might make them feel bad/uncomfortable if it's a decent amount). I consulted a few girlfriends for ideas, but ultimately I just prayed about it.

As a meeting I attended yesterday at work was wrapping up, I got it! It was as clear as day, and I knew it was from God, who very awesomely reminded me of something G has been wanting for a couple of years now--that he's told me about in passing. Remembering it yesterday made me feel genuinely excited about giving it to him, excited just thinking about how happy it will make him, and unconflicted about it being too impersonal or too personal/extravagant.

I have a memory of standing on the stairs of the old Methodist church (with red doors) in the heart of Mount Vernon, four years ago, waiting for Gordon. He was meeting Victoria and I at the Charles Street book fair, but he was late, so she went to call him. This meant I had to wait on the stairs, and so got the privelege of watching him amble toward the meeting place wearing a brown fedora, simple trousers, and an unremarkable shirt. It was a foggy day, and he cut such a classic 1940s figure walking through the mist.

A couple of years after that, some dog in Tennessee mangled his fedora, and he's been lamenting the loss ever since. Whenever he mentions it, he looks so forlorn. So that's what I'm going to buy him.

Post Deadline Funk

For the last several months the deadline at work was a burden, a seeming impossibility, a pain in the derriere. And now that we've met it soundly, there is the lull, the anticlimax, and slight depression that follows making a tremendous effort. I've read about writers who become very depressed after completing a novel (or other type of book)because their days suddenly lack definition. They aren't sure who they are without this thing to which all their waking moments must be devoted.

Since last Wednesday I've kept myself busy by tying up loose ends...little assigments that had had to wait for the last 2 or 3 months; I've prepared for a presentation I have to give at next Tuesday morning's team meeting and I've started looking at the next component of materials to be edited, but something is missing.

The glorious frenzy; having something about which to complain; the feeling of satisfaction when I leave the office every day...knowing I practically killed myself to make something happen.

Honestly, it's addictive.

It's clear that my Summer Soundtrack is going to be Joss Stone's Soul Sessions. For the first time since I was about 8, I'm looking forward to the season.

There are no accidents...

At least, according to Freudian theory. Anyway, because I forgot my umbrella in G's car on Friday night, I got to see him this morning when he brought it by my office. Of course, I had to put away the little framed photo of him that I keep to the left of my computer monitor. Didn't want to freak him out...

I waited for Gordon just outside my salon; I ended up running into Michael's roommate, Aaron, so I chatted with him for a few minutes, my eyes scanning the street for G's red mercedes all the while. Eventually Aaron and I parted ways, and I began to walk toward the end of the street to see if I could spy the man I'd been anticipating, when I heard him call my name. I turned around to see him coming toward me, smiling.

He touched my hair and told me how soft it was, he said that it looked beautiful... twice.

The place we were going was just on the next block, and as we walked there, he told me how much he's been wanting to try it since I first mentioned it to him a month or so ago. We sat on the third level in the corner. It took us forever to even look at our menus, we were chatting so animatedly. I ordered a "Sex & The City" (cointreau, raspberry schnapps, pineapple, and vodka)... I forget the name of his drink, which was Japanese.

A waiter came over to us with a candle for the table to "make it more romantic," he said. Gordon thanked him. Later, we toasted to being 30 and having more adult priorities, like buying furniture instead of cds and wanting to own homes, not just rent apartments.

I was touched when he told me he should give me permissions to his Web site (in the context of asking me if I'd seen his recent updates); and even more touched when he asked my opinion of an art endeavor that had been suggested to him.

When our sushi arrived, the individual rolls we'd ordered came out on the same plate, creating a wonderful feeling of intimacy--substantiating the existing feeling of intimacy between us. Near the end of our meal, he said "I assume you want a ride back to your apartment." I nodded, and he said "well I'd love to come in for a cup of coffee..."

Our fingers touched and parted in quaint hand kisses spontaneously when we exchanged things on the table, or he touched my hand for emphasis when reaching the climax of an anecdote... and I remembered my uncannily intuitive sister telling me on Wednesday night that she had a vision of our hands touching when I told her about our plans for tonight.

On the way to his car, we stopped off at his bank so he could deposit the check I'd written him for the painting, and when we left the atm vestibule, he noted that our banks are across the street from each other... "it's like we're neighbors..." I smiled at him, and indicated that yes, it was just like that.

As we walked the two blocks to his car, he sang "Endless Love" (both parts) for me in an exaggerated falsetto, and I appreciated even more, his fearless sillyness... his goofball antics.

I made him coffee while he lay on my couch reading my new issue of Entertainment Weekly, and he looked so comfortable, I wanted to ask him to stay... I knew he was dreading his long drive back up to the country where his parents live (he's pet sitting for them)... I almost asked him, but knew he couldn't (and that he wouldn't).

He gave me the leftovers from our plate; I left my umbrella in his car.

"It's Friday... Now we come to the paying of the bills..." Lucille Clifton

I have already posted all the bills I'm to pay during this pay period. I sent a friend who has yet to move into her new place a housewarming card to her new address, I sent my mother a later Mother's Day card, and I've eaten a sundried tomato bagel w/cream cheese for breakfast (coffee and orange juice accompanying).

The deadline is met, I've started a book club with three other fabulous ladies, and I'm getting my hair done. What a triumphant day!

It's only 6 after 8 and already I have a caffeine headache...

Well, it was bound to happen. I missed my connection bus this morning, by about 3 seconds due to several factors--like the fact that my first bus hit a slew of red lights on St. Paul street, that this one kid is the slowest in the world at putting his money in the till, which held up a good three people behind him, that the driver is really starting to push the envelope of lateness in general...

So that meant waiting 20 more minutes for the next connection.

And what is worse, it's beginning to get hot! One radio station that I listen to in the morning just kept using the term "sticky" to describe what today's weather would be. Tomorrow, it will be about two degrees hotter than today's high temperature. For the next 3 months I'll be taking two showers a day. I never feel truly clean from May through September.

I think most of the answers to any quandry one might face can be found in the immortal Kenny Rogers classic The Gambler

With that being said, I am steeped in research of the 1920s, since it is important to me to write about the decade with authority and integrity. I'm friends with an architect who, upon her return from Turkey, is going to come out to my building and discuss with me the elements of its design and structure that are especially characteristic of that period.

For those of you who may have glossed over this detail, or forgotten, I am trying to find information about the very first tenant to occupy my apartment in the 1920s when the two buildings that comprise my "development" were originally built. I want to write a story or a series of poems that are inspired by my findings. To this end, I have become utterly fascinated with the 20s, and have amassed some wonderful information from the Internet alone. I am in touch, via e-mail, with the rare references Library at Cornell University, which has tons of records on my little Baltimore neighborhood.

At this point, I may need to get a grant and quit my 9 to 5.

Peanutbutter sandwich and Herbal Tea: A Tale of Purging and Reorganization

Before we set out for the baby shower yesterday afternoon, Sarah came over to peruse all the books I'd set apart to donate to The Bookthing, and took about five of them for herself. We put the rest in her car and dropped them off at the charity headquarters. Then, we went to Karen's house to get an entertainment center she wanted to give Sarah (Karen is also purging because she's moving); we had to take it apart to get it in the car. Karen's roommate was looking to unload a bookshelf (smallish), so she gave it to me. It ended up fitting very well in the backseat.

We brought the bookshelf back to my place, and then headed to our old neck of the woods (I refer to my years in Montgomery county as my period of exile) for the baby shower. I was glad that I didn't feel awkward and out of place as I tend to feel at events like that. I used to call them "woman rituals," and I think I felt that I stuck out like a sore thumb because I despised my own femininity for a long time.

It also helps that I always feel at home among this particular group of women, so I guess it stands to reason that I didn't have any anxiety.

When Sarah brought me back home today, I dove immediately into the act of deciding which books to put on the new shelf, which I earmarked to go into my bedroom. Bookshelves serve a beautiful dual purpose. Not only do they house one's literature, but they are ready made surfaces for things like photograhps and candles. I was also able to unpack a few more things and display them for this reason.

I am very fortunate to have a free storage space in the basement of my building; I decided to unpack the four boxes I had remaining, and put everything I was not going to unpack, or for which I did not have room in the apartment, in two of those four boxes, taped them back up, and carted them downstairs for safekeeping. I threw the other boxes out.

I'm not sure what brought this on, but I also put the photos in my photobox into some type of relative order--by era of my life--and called it a day.

I found a few things to take to the office--that I didn't want to throw away, but that don't really fit the tone of my place. I also came upon a poem I wrote a few years ago that I'd been wondering about off and on. I thought it was lost. Small steps and giant leaps.

I'm now eating a peanutbutter sandwich, drinking herbal tea, and looking forward to getting my hair done on Friday, which is payday, and sushi with Gordon.

We are closing in our deadline at work; as of next friday afternoon, we will be wrapping it all up. I am leaving the office a bit early to go to a much needed hair appointment, and then meeting Gordon for sushi (and to give him a check for the painting I just bought). We are going to rendezvous at the newish Coffeehouse/Lounge/Sushi bar on Charles street, which is just a block up from my stylist.

Today, I am going with Sarah to a baby shower for a mutual friend. I am looking forward to the food. I love shower fare--because I love appetizers, punch, and presents, even when the gfits are not my own to open. If I had my way, every day there would hors d'oeuvres to eat and presents to open. Heaven on earth.

Happy, The End...

One of the longest, unresolved issues of my adulthood was resolved last night.
He didn't want to get over her. I know it's just a tv show, but sometimes life imitates art. It seems to me that once a man reaches a conclusion like that, nothing can hold him back--and it only takes a moment. Ten years of inertia (or limited progress) pivots on an instant of clarity.

And for the record, I am....





I'm Chandler Bing from Friends!

Take the Friends Quiz here.

created by stomps.

Homage To My Friends

This show made its debut during the fall of 1994 season; I was just beginning my senior year of undergrad and didn't watch much tv. My life was already filled with enough drama, what with needing to make my peace with the fact that my real life was about to start--and I was smarting over the fact that the boy I loved had transferred to the University of Washington in Seattle. At that point in my life everything seemed over. I think I remember seeing promotional ads for the show and making the uninformed opinion that it seemed stupid, so I did not see any episodes during its first season, and was none the wiser as to what I was missing.

A good friend of mine who'd graduated the year before was now out in the "real world" and made the connection; she told me it was great comedy, so on the strength of her reccommendation alone, I started watching it the following year--my first year as a working adult with no class schedule and no idea what would come next.

Ironically, that friend of mine didn't watch it much past its first season. But I, between new episodes and syndication, I have seen almost every show three times--minus that year-long stint where they were trying to hook up Rachel with Joey which was just wrong....

I loved how it came in at the beginning of the coffee renaissance and used that reworked concept of the tavern-as-meeting-place to reengage an entire generation. I loved that it was smart show, and that even if you don't fit into the exact mold of one of the archetypal characters, there is something in all of them to which you can relate some element of your life experience.

These six adorable neurotics saw me through my 20s --every heartbreak, every new job, every new apartment, every dry spell, every success, every annoying circumstance--year after year. And my heart still swells every time I see Ross kiss Rachel for the first time, and the second time.

What can I say? They were there for me....

Poetry, Sheer Poetry

Several months ago now I went online to take a poetry I.Q. test. One of the components is that I had to submit a poem of my own to the people at Poetry.Com. For those of you who are uninitiated, Poetry.Com is one of these organizations that would publish breakfast cereal ingredients if someone submitted it to them under the guise of it being "poetry." Everyone is a winner, and the poems always get published--and you don't have to buy one, but wouldn't you love to see your poem published in a leatherbound book-with gold plating on the page edges that you can show all your friends?

Anyway, I wanted them to process my results to the very legitimate quiz on the constructs and techniques of poetry, but I couldn't do it without them "assessing" one of my own works for merit. So, I submitted a poem to which I feel no overt attachment, that I will never try to publish elsewhere, etc. Well, you'll be glad to know that it was heralded as an "excellent" poem (on their rating scale of "not bad," "pretty good," and "excellent"-- at least I imagine that's what it must be), and will I grant them permission to publish it in one of their leather-bound volumes? I didn't return their permissions form, so now it seems that I won the editor's choice award, and they want to record it on a cd!!!

I'll just keep throwing out their follow-up material, but it's worth the hassle. I got a 10 out of 11 on the I.Q. portion of the test. It seems that my grad school dreams are well-founded.

I have a system for preventing the accumulation of paper clutter. When I check the mail daily, I process it immediately, standing in the kitchen, before I even take my shoes off. I open up all bills and detach the statement from the other pages, remove the envelope in which I will be including my check, and throw out all the extraneous parts of the package before I even take any relevant notices to the desk in my bedroom. There, any bills that must be paid by the next pay cycle are grouped together into a paper clip stand, the sole purpose of which is to "clip" all my bills together.

Other things like bank statements, pay stubs, or coupons go into my top desk drawer (I'll admit I need a more sophisticated system for dealing with these items in a more timely fashion, but I'm working on it). Magazines go into a neat stack of others I need to read in the living room beside the couch. I work through a few a day, and throw them away as soon as I've read every article I'm interested in reading.

I immediately hang up my coat, and if I'm changing clothes before starting to cook then what I'm wearing gets hung up or goes into the hamper. I also like to wash dishes soon after I'm done eating, because it weighs on me, emotionally, to know I have things accumulating in the sink.

A little goes a long way when it comes to these peace of mind measures.

I may be able to get some bookshelves (gratis) from Sarah's parents. Let's hope so... Watching an episode of "Clean Sweep" on TLC this morning I saw my dream coffee table (dark wood with both a top surface and bottom shelf). I paid the rent then went marketing to the little store that I used to go to to buy lunch and groceries when I lived and worked near Hopkins the first time around (97-99). I loved seeing some of the very same people behind the deli counter and stocking shelves that I used to see everyday back then. It gave me a lovely sense of continuity.

Speaking of anecdotal history and continuity, I have decided to try and unearth records of the name of the original occupant (the circa 1920s occupant) of my apartment. I have been romanticizing his or her life all week, and if I turn up anything exciting I may write a story about it. It's been fun making up theories about it for the last couple of days.

Well I'm working on some editing, so I'd better go. Just wanted to post something to let everyone know I'm still here.

Oh, P.S. I've decided to try and lose weight again. I did this once when I was 22, and it was a successful campaign, though not one I sustained. I'm just not happy with the way things are, and I'm ready to feel good about my body, once and for all.

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?
brought to you by Quizilla

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.

This is what I posted one year ago today... Sometimes it helps to see how far you've come....

Letter to myself at Six

Kate,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So much Love,

The Kate you will become

Open door; Closed door

I saw my new apartment today. I was supposed to see it on Friday, but the current occupant flaked out again. She was supposed to have moved out over the weekend, so I planned to go this afternoon. As was the case in my dream about going to see the place a few weeks back, most of her things were still there.

I loved it. It is smaller than the one I have now, but the layout is charming, and it is perfect for this new era of my life. I am going to be downsizing--getting rid of my current desk; it's too big; getting rid of my entertainment center; it's way too big. I am going to procure smaller versions of each.

The placement of furniture will need to be very strategic to accommodate my new sofa, loveseat, and dining room set--to effect a cozy, but classy feeling.

What was so striking about yesterday is how normal, how reasonable it felt to be at St. Mary's. I have not been there for 8 years (perhaps 9)--in any case, the better part of a decade, and even with all the changes, it was to me what it always had been. A sanctuary at the end of the line. The last thing on the western bank of Maryland before everything fades to water. It seemed completely right that I should be hanging out with Sarah and my sister, who is now a student there, in all the places I used to walk, pray, laugh, cry, and hope.

The reading went well. I read the poem with as much courage as I could muster. It is a piece that still causes me to experience emotional tremors, even though I wrote it nearly three years ago. It had never been read aloud, formally--and I was happy I got an opportunity to share it in that specific forum of women writers. The response to it was warm, affirming, and gracious.

I feel that attending this celebration of women's voices--reading my own work as a celebration of where my life is headed--was a hurdle I needed to clear, and at the same time a coronation of sorts. If you are more for sports, the tip off or kick off. In any case, the beginning. So fitting that everything should start again where it all started.

Happy Hour

Last night the girls and I went out for our second in what I hope is now a weekly tradition of the after work happy hour. We went to the Kiss Cafe in Canton, and once the sun went down and the ambience came up, I liked it. Unfortunately a patron began to puff on a cheap stogey just before we left. It made my stomach hurt.

Next week we are trying a new Sushi, cocktails, and coffee bar called Xs that just opened up on Charles Street. It's been written up in this month's issue of Baltimore Magazine.

I'm excited. Today I am going to St. Mary's to read the poem I wrote for Gordon, but first, I am going to see my new home. I leave work at 12 noon, and then off I go--headlong into my real life.

I like this picture...


Indie rock! You're my most favourite type of
music... Your music channels lots of emotion.
On the top it seems simple, but underneath
there's always a deep meaning... As your name
you're independent from most of music! Stay
that way! Good on you! There's so much
variation in your style...from deep and
thoughtful like The Stills, to happy go lucky
like Belle & Sebastian, to dancy and catchy
Franz Ferdinand, and back to boogie down Hot
Hot Heat and The Rapture...


What genre of rock are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

I feel exactly the opposite about this rhyming business...


Non curo. Si metrum non habet, non est poema.
"I don't care. If it doesn't rhyme, it isn't
a poem."
You are a type A personality. You like bright
things, you don't call in sick to work, and you
have devastating opinions about art.


Which Weird Latin Phrase Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

Find Your Soul Mate Now!

For the last several weeks, I have been bombarded with junk e-mail and phone calls from a bevy of dating services (Christian and secular) all pleading with me to find the one for whom my soul longs. I've started telling the phone pirates to take me off their lists because I'm not single. Technically, I am single, but philosophically, it is a very different story. The way I see it, God already knows who my mate is, and in my heart, I am already being faithful to this man by not serial dating for kicks.

I will know when it is time to begin a relationship and with whom. And I know it sounds closed-minded to think that God would not use something like a dating service to bring me someone great--clearly He could if he wanted to, but I just intuitively understand that for me, it will not be this way.

And let me state for the record I have no problem with someone proactively enlisting a professional or amateur matchmaker's services. I do have a problem with a company deciding I am single based on some mail list they purchased from someone else, and bombarding me with phone calls to offer their help in my quest for love.

I have the Creator of the universe on the case, thanks ever so much...

Clearing the Air

My boss and I had a followup conversation yesterday during the time allotted for our weekly check-in meeting. As it turns out she had misheard or misunderstood about 97% of what I'd been saying for the last two weeks, which of course, caused her to react to me out of what she thought she understood.

I still think that inherent prejudices in both of us (for I have my own, though not necessarily race-based) caused us each to come to the proverbial table ready to misunderstand each other. It's something to be mindful of. Every experience prior to the one in which you currently find yourself has made you predisposed to a given set of expectations. Every other person you've met has created a template in your mind for the person you're dealing with now. You have to be proactive and ask yourself "What exactly was said here? Am I hearing this person through the filter of conversations I've had with my mother?" Etcetera, etcetera.

I felt so relieved, yet this has been an object lesson I'll never forget. From now on, I won't be taking it for granted that everyone can handle unadulterated candor. And I can stand to watch how I present information, even if it's valid, I can help the perception more often than not. The Bible says that "Calmness can lay great errors to rest," that "a soft answer turns away wrath..." I kept both sentiments uppermost in my mind this week.

I bought myself a spinach feta croissant for breakfast and some tulips for my office from Wholefoods this morning--because I feel like i've earned an overpriced pastry and some flowers that herald the coming of Spring. See, the winter is past....

On Sunday I went to see "Eternal Sunshine on the Spotless Mind," and I was sorely tempted to be spontaneous and call up Gordon to invite him to come along. I had this wonderful feeling that if I did, he would say yes. And it was for that reason that I didn't.

I have always been very successful at offering Gordon something in which he is interested and getting him to participate. It stopped feeling like a payoff to have my invitations accepted; I want to be invited... So, I prayed that I would have the strength to refuse myself the easy out of bringing him back into my landscape. I went to the theatre alone.

On Sunday night I began to feel overwhelmed with discouragement about work as I was clearing my wallet of old receipts. I came across a beautiful note he wrote me back in October--a note telling me that while he was glad I liked my job so much, he didn't want me to forget about my poetry...that "what [I] have to say is beautiful..." As much as that communique meant to me then, it doubled in value as I stressed about having to go into the office on Monday.

In a spirit of gratitude, I wrote to thank him again...I told him that things were hard for me right now, but that this was not the point. The point was simply that I could feel the weight of his friendship toward me so strongly in his note, and he needed to know that he'd done so much more than perhaps he knew...

On Monday he wrote me back, and the tone of his e-mail was so warm and newsy and open, that I found it hard to censor myself--so I said "we should get together sometime soon to discuss what's been up with each of us." I didn't know if he would reply to that or not. And I didn't care. It came from a place of candor in me that didn't require anything from him. When he replied the second time it was to say "let's get together tonight."

He arrived at my place yesterday at about 7:30, and for 3 hours we talked about everything. Something was different. Something in me was less obsequious, less "grateful" to be in his presence, and so I enjoyed him so much more. In our time of "exile" from each other, we've come to so many of the same conclusions about things, our individual lives... I find that the passing of time has done nothing to our uncanny similarity to each other--in obvious and obscure ways. I didn't feel afraid to rock the boat with him. He was like an open door to me--there was nothing I was scared to ask. There were no huge disclosures, but for the first time I didn't fear hearing something I didn't want to know, so I didn't hold back.

I told him that he is an anamoly, that I hope he never loses the beautiful contradictions that take turns vying for supremacy in his heart. He told me my poems were contemplative, yet restless.
He suggested about three things we could do together in the future. I told him that since he can't make it to St. Mary's to hear me read the poem I wrote for him 2 and a half years ago, that I will give him a private reading later. He sang to me some song his band covers ("Mama Tried" by Merle Haggard), he was confessional, he was funny. He was a man and a boy--and his tenderness disarmed me. Really.

Something odd happened. At one point we were talking about his graduation from seminary--3 and a half years ago, now. He stopped in the middle of what he was saying and asked "Did you come to that?" I told him that I hadn't. He said "Did I invite you?" I replied, without any undertone, "There are so many things you didn't tell me about or invite me to..." He looked remorseful and said plaintively. "I'm sorry." I didn't bother to say to him what I was thinking--that 3.5 years ago it made sense to me not to be invited to things in which he was involved, because that was the nature of our relationship.

I guess it doesn't matter because I don't think he was only apologizing for that.

I thought about him all night long while I slept, and have yet, a full 24 hours later, to throw away the ashes from the many cigarettes he smoked.

The Race Card

If you know me, you know that race is not my first consideration--not when things are going well, and not when they are decidedly bad. I know various and sundry forms of it exist (I'm not ignorant or naive), but it often has to dawn on me that misdeeds might be racially motivated because it is not high on my list of self-identifiers. If I were white that attitude might make sense, but I am a Christian woman who is a writer who lives in Baltimore who is black.

I will admit that as a child I had deep self-loathing because of my race--because it seemed only to bar my participation in activities or social circles where I wanted to be accepted. Being black didn't open up possibilities for me, so I saw it as a liability. I had teachers whose racism was so thinly-veiled, they might as well have not made any effort at all to hide their true feelings.

I've weighed my situation with my manager, and at the end of the day, I do believe that race is a factor in this situation. I don't think it's malicious or conscious, but I think that as a forthright black woman, I frighten her and make her feel undermined. Anything that smacks of resistance (her word, not mine) she views as a threat to herself. There is a cultural clash between my poor upbringing in the blighted area of Prince George's County, MD and her privelged, upper middle class, New England one.

It isn't that my persona screams "urban hoodlum," but there is a difference in my default demonstration of strength, posture, etc., that is inherent in my self-expression as a black woman, writer, Christian that she cannot relate to. And she hates it.

The other person that I know of who's been reprimanded in the last month is the other black woman at our company. It doesn't matter that everyone on our team voiced his or her discontent at recent meetings. I'm the one she feels compelled to silence.

Scapegoat

I've been written up for "strong and divisive" comments that "erode the morale of our team." The amount of time I actually spend on task has also been called into question. I have to sign and date the letter acknowledging receipt. And I will sign it, attaching my own letter presenting my own cause, delineating specific facts which I believe have been ignored. I told my manager that I take issue with her perception. It was negligent that she did not mention this in her letter documenting our meeting. Equally curious that the charge about personal business during work time is being levied after a series of meetings on team morale in which I was outspoken, and in which others were as well...

Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

A couple of friends from work and I went out for St. Patrick's Day drinks, and I am pleased to say that I drank two Guinness, ate some so-so crab and artichoke dip, and got even more dish about the office. I love the concept of Happy Hour, so much more so on St. Pat's Day with Irish hotties in abundance. The James Joyce Irish Pub has a very real Irish contingent, not just Irish-American. I heard the lilt of that beautiful accent all over the place.

It was packed body to body. I joked with my cohorts than one man passed by me so closely, I thought I may have gotten pregnant from the encounter.

Still more meetings at work. Like Cuba Gooding Jr. in Jerry MacGuire, I have a commitment to the truth. I've been given an opportunity to be frank, so I am. I said to my manager yesterday "You know it's bad when people start hoping the company they work for goes under...."

In other news, I found out that I am going to be seeing my new place next Friday, March 26th right before I leave Baltimore for the day to read my Poetry at my undergrad alma mater.

It's almost time for our weekly editorial powwow. I guess I should get psyched up for that.

It is head-ache inducing cold today. It was supposed to snow up to six inches, and while I did not expect to see any white stuff on the streets when I woke up this morning, I can understand the forecast. I imagine that it’s snowing on top of the clouds as I write this, and simply raining little rock pellets down here. I’ve had to go outside about 3 times today for various reasons, and I was chagrined each time to face the bitter, freezing air.

The switching of horses midstream on our project is a pain, but we had an “all hands on deck” powwow today, and now the bulk of the extra work is done. We all just hunkered down and gave up 8 hours of time we could have used on our own work to get everyone’s work done. It’s a good feeling, actually.

I think I’m going to make some cocoa, listen to Ella, and keep making my peace with the way things are. I find that everyday I have to decide that Jesus is Lord, everyday I have to choose Him and set Him apart as Lord in my heart, lest I forget that before one of my days came to be, they were all accounted for in His book. And when, before time, He imagined me, foresaw my existence, He knew that tonight I would plan to enjoy potstickers and steamed spinach and garlic for dinner. He knew that I would love Jazz, He knew that I would love Him. He knew and knows every detail, so why do I obsess so much?

None of this is a surprise to the One I trust. And really, of what account am I that God should care about my lying down and my rising up and everything in between? But, He does, and that is more than enough. It’s everything.

How can both of these (top two) be true?


You belong on a lazy-day beach or anywhere where
you can set up a relaxing bench or chair and
watch the world go by. You don't want to make
any changes, watching is enough to make you
content. The blue of the sky and the light of
day beat into your soul and you drift into the
world and around without harming anything or
making any ripples in the fabric of humanity.
Enjoy your peace, few have it, though few would
want it at the cost.


Where do you belong?(ANIME IMAGES)
brought to you by Quizilla

Everybody's

Your Lyrics

Perfect by nature
Icons of self-indulgence
Just what we all need
More lies about our world that
Never was and never will be
Have you no shame ? Don't you see me ?
You know you've got everybody fooled
Look here, she comes now
Bow down and stare in wonder !
Oh how we love you !
Too bad we didn't know she
Never was and never will be
You don't know how you've betrayed me
Somehow you've got everybody fooled
Never was and never will be
You don't know how you've betrayed me
Somehow you've got everybody fooled
Never was and never will be
You're not real and you can't save me
Somehow now you're everybody's fool


What Evanescence song are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

You are a moon shadow. With the moon as your source
you are a being of great mystery. Constantly
drifting, you descend into darkness to conceal
your brokenness. You have come to believe that
you are the only one you can rely upon for
constancy and safety that you need. But those
who know how to see you find enchanting beauty
in your wistfulness and fragility. It is to
them that you should flee, for their arms are
an open haven where your true light can finally
thrive...


What Kind of Shadow Are You? (with gorgeous pics)
brought to you by Quizilla

Assessing the damage

The long and short of it is that we got reprimanded, somewhat, for calling this meeting and not acting in the spirit of team solidarity. Whatever. Oh, and we are going to have to do all that extra work. I swear there needs to be a union for editors.

Uprising

At our usual Friday morning roundtable this week, a strange thing happened. Ms. Duplicity (my manager) had to leave early, and when she exited the room, we all began to talk candidly about how we're feeling about work. It seems that everyone has been nursing a fantasy in which all of us in the department quit on the same day, in the middle of the deadline, leaving Ms. D, her oblivious boss, Mr. Head in the Clouds, and the rest of the company in a lurch. It is bad when well-adjusted adults with a commendable work ethic start to imagine ways to cause trouble.

So we all decided to call a meeting with our manager and Mr. Head in the Clouds (because we know the bulk of the impractical ideas that get communicated through her come from him). To say that she was nervous would be an understatement. The comments were kept to the work conditions (i.e., decisions that are made during crunch time that impede our ability to meet the deadline), and wanting to clarify priorities. No one said anything about the fact that we all feel micromanaged, belittled, and condescended to, because that is harder to discuss concretely--and not something we wanted to call her boss in on considering that we have not discussed it with her at this point. We were fired up, but not irrational.

Nothing changed as a result of the meeting, but it still felt like a victory, because we, the majority, stood up and made a statement. And, we heard Mr. Head in the Clouds say that he puts a higher premium on one element of our work than the other. Funny that this was never communicated to us.

The best part was seeing her try to recover a shred of dignity at the end, reducing the meeting to an unnecessary exercise by saying "there's no need to call a big meeting..."

I hope the fallout is worth it, because I'm sure there will be some.

Now this is more like it....

You're The Dictionary!

by Merriam-Webster

You're one of those know-it-all types, with an amazing amount of
knowledge at your command. People really enjoy spending time with you in very short
spurts, but hanging out with you for a long time tends to bore them. When folks
really need an authority to refer to, however, you're the one they seek. You're an
exceptional speller and very well organized.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

This isn't really good news, yet....

You're Cambodia!

Life's been really rough, but it's slowly improving.  You know
way too much about the skeletal structure of humans, mostly from being forced to study
it.  This has given you a fear of many things, most especially the color red.
 The future has to be more promising though, and your greatest adversary can now
never come back to hurt you any more.
Take
the Country Quiz at the href="http://bluepyramid.org">Blue Pyramid

In Between

I had a dream that I was walking around in my new apartment. The old tenant had moved out, but her furniture remained. It was my understanding that it would be removed before I took up residence, but because I wanted to see it and insisted on seeing it, the rental agent let me look around inside before it was cleaned up. The walls were painted various colours, there were winding stairs, and whatever direction I looked in, there seemed to be no end to the length and depth of the unit. It was spacious, sunny, and character-infused. Even though I knew it wasn’t perfect—and the old occupant’s junk was hindering my ability to really see it’s full glory, I was genuinely glad it was mine.

In real life, I have still been unable to go and see the apartment I am to occupy, because the tenant is unwilling to let the leasing agent show it prior to her moving out. In an effort to be proactive, I just called to establish that I will simply plan to see it on/after March 31st when it has been vacated.

At that point, it will be two weeks out from my move. I hope I am satisfied with it, because I’ll have two weeks to figure something else out if I don’t.

I found an excellent vocal jazz Internet radio station today. It’s ideal for long stretches of hardcopy editing. Sorry I’ve been somewhat incognito lately. I’ve drastically reduced my online hours billing plan (at home), and I am chagrined to blog at work too frequently, for obvious reasons.

My recent efforts toward financial integrity have suffered a blow this week. I’ve unintentionally overdrawn my account due to a series of addition errors. A direct consequence of this snafu is that I now cannot afford to get my hair done. I was looking forward to having my self-image ratchet up a couple of notches after a much-needed hair appointment.

One good thing about today is that I learned we have much more time on our editing deadline than I realized.

I’m looking forward to seeing Toni Morrison tonight. Life is all about taking the good with the bad, I suppose.

I reread The Screwtape Letters this weekend, which is still, hands down, the best commentary (albeit clothed as a series of letters from one fictitious demon to another) on spiritual warfare. I also read Strong Women Soft Hearts by Paula Rinehart, which is a nonfiction commentary on the tendency in many Christian circles to make strength and efficiency hotter properties than other elements of a woman?s interior life and heart. As a woman I have always protected myself from men by trying to act and think like them. The book does not address this idea, specifically, but it discussed, more, the feeling that many women with whom the author has worked felt they needed to sublimate certain elements of their femininity in order to be seen and respected as Godly women.

Rinehart also discussed the ever-present tension between vulnerability and strength and the travails of learning to negotiate them, not as mutually exclusive properties, but as interwoven elements of one?s feminine identity.

Other than this, I spent Friday night at Sarah?s place, and enjoyed a leisurely day with her on Saturday. Another friend of hers from high school days came to visit and we all went out to eat at what had been one of my favourite places. Unfortunately, the quality and service are no longer very reliable. After a lackluster (and incomplete meal) we ended up needing to summon the manager, who took care of our entire bill, and we left without even eating our entrees. Sarah and her friend dropped me off back in the city?and went off in search of dinner. I made myself dinner at home.

I spent a lot of time thinking about how I?ve searched for my significance in other people, when I should have been trying to find it in the Lord. As a Christian, my significance should be derived from my relationship with God through Christ. On the one hand, there?s nothing wrong with helpful, healthy validation from a friend. But there is also a clutching, clawing, blatant demand for reassurance that has emerged in several of my relationships that is wearying?because of my idolatrous paradigm. I am not saying this in a twisted, self-flagellating spirit. I need to move on from this mindset. It is just as much a cop out to accurately label a negative pathology but to keep living it, as it is to be utterly blind to it. It is probably worse because awareness equals responsibility.

I sent my sister a letter apologizing to her for utilizing her innate nurturing qualities to reassure me over and over again about Gordon. First of all, she is 12 years my junior, and as such should not have to parent me through any crisis. This is what my mother did to me, and lo and behold, I did what I said I would never do, because I know first hand how damaging it can be. She never even said anything to me about it, but as I?ve been forced to look closely at my life, I see what I did and it pains me.

I am at a point in my life now where I long for intimacy with God to the exclusion of anything else. I have wanted so many other things to legitimize and authenticate my value, my life, my choices. But ever since God got me alone, cordoned me off for a period of time, I have seen that He is what I need. Everything and everyone else is all the more appreciated and lovely filtered through my relationship with Him. So, regardless of who is in my life or who leaves my life, it can?t destroy me?because I am not looking to anyone but God to determine the value and worth of my days.

March is the Month of Literary Exploration and Enjoyment

Due to the kindness of a former supervisor, I am going to hear Toni Morrison speak next Wednesday at the very University I will be attending in the fall. Later on this month, I will be reading one of my poems at the annual Women-In-Poetry celebration held by my undergrad alma mater.

It’s a little after 4 p.m. on Wednesday. I’m eating a mealy banana, and trying to construct a winning hook for this post.

I possess an alternate past—it is the one in which I remember instances from high school and college as the me I wish I had been. In these retouched memories, I am always significantly thinner, happy, and unconflicted. I sometimes imagine that a friend who knew me during these periods of my life (it doesn’t matter what friend, it varies…) is visiting me in my present life, and comes with a videotape of some of my best moments immortalized in VHS format. “Remember this, Kate?” She’ll ask. We pop in the tape, and I relive my teens and early 20s (which I don’t regret a moment of in this scenario).

Oh, look! There I am in the cafeteria at Urban High, eating tater tots and ready to conquer the world. I am bantering with the most eclectic group of students, and they all respect me. I don’t project neediness, so no one is repulsed, because they perceive that nothing is required of them. They can see that I am complete in and of myself. I am not, as I was in actuality, the third wheel of a 3-personed wannabe monster. I was not, as I was in actuality, amputated from my little clique seemingly without provocation in the late winter of my senior year. I did not graduate friendless, as I did in my true past.

In this imagined schematic, Gordon, and other people that I am chagrined to admit I want to impress, are also present, and they are amazed at how wonderful I was—even then. ‘Oh, why couldn’t we have known her then?’… they silently muse.

But, Wait! There I am in college on a grassy hill, or at the water front, looking svelte, in control of my destiny, unaffected and gracious. I am coveted by the young love of my life. Rewind… What did I just say? Something incredibly funny and intellectual. Look at how that beautiful, smiling boy I’m with adores me! It is not the case in my revisionist history that I will someday hear him say that He has never loved anyone like he loves the girl he met at a dance in Seattle—after one stupid song.

In this altered retroactive reality I also possess talents and skills I don’t actually have. For example, I can drive in these day dreams, Lovelorn artists have written dirges about me, but most of all, I like this person I think I could be with just a little tweaking here and there. Her mistakes are low-grade and endearing, their implications for the worst, minimal. She is so together. No slippage in the schedule of goals and achievements. She never cried when her high school crush embarrassed her during a game on the bleachers. That never happened, because this girl I could have been did not have a crush on that pedestrian thinker come Volunteer Fireman. She would never play herself that way.

I entertain these lighting flash images less and less these days. My time alone with God over the last few months has definitely reoriented my focal point. I hope to leave them behind for good. I also fear that they betray a tiny bit of insanity.

Here’s the truth. In high school I became very depressed. I didn’t know it at the time, but looking back I can see that’s what I was. I was also being eaten alive by a very stealthy form of anger. I sublimated through food. I started to pick up weight. By the time I reached college I was well on my way to being fat, and may as well have been wearing a sandwich board–sized sign that read “Reject me, Please!”

I liked no fewer than 4 guys over the course of those years who felt that I was good enough to be a friend, or “sister in the Lord,” but who never considered I was worth a second glance for much else. And in much the same way I was decisively cut off by my two friends in high school, each of these friendships ended abruptly when the guys tired of me, got wind of my feelings, or met other girls to whom they wanted to declare undying love.

I try to look back at myself, as I really was then, and make my peace with the fact that I was emotionally-unkempt, and felt like a social beggar, always afraid I was going to fall, unprovoked, out of people’s good graces. I wasn’t buff and on the crew team, I couldn’t drive, I never danced seductively with anyone, and I didn’t even have the experience of being loved by a boy with unchecked, guileless passion.

What choice do I have? If ever I were presented with a tape of my past, it would be footage of an awkward, chunky girl, whose neediness was apparent to everyone. I better love that girl, though. She’s the reason I got here. And someday, when there are no traces of her left, it will be important to me to know what she meant.

You are CLARISSA EXPLAINS IT ALL. She is a rad
chick with absolutely no fashion sense.



Which old school Nickelodeon show are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

This used to be one of my favourite songs (as a pre-teen).

The gentle weather we are having has put me in a good mood. I would not say that I experience seasonal depression, but there is clearly a variation of some sort in my outlook from season to season. It is isn't even connected to sunlight, for me, but to the warmth in the air. I think 60 degress is ideal. Give me a balmy, overcast day anytime.

I'm starting to figure out financial aid issues for school. I never thought I'd be doing this again, but I am so pleased to have a compass and a sense of purpose, something concrete to work toward, that I am willing to lose myself in a mound of paperwork, and play phone tag with people to give this dream of mine some legs.

I am drinking a decidedly sub par cup of coffee and feeling all right. How are you doing?

Monday, Monday

In a strange twist of events, and thanks to alternative programming, Monday is now my favorite television night (globally speaking) of the week. I plop down on the couch at 8 p.m. and don't get up until 11:30. I watch the entire UPN line up, and thoroughly enjoy every single show. Monday night used to be the "dead zone" of the tv week, so much so that none of the networks even seemed to try to put anything worthwhile on the schedule.

Of course the rule of 'To Each His Own' is in effect. Maybe Monday night has been great for others....

I've had a very productive day today. I've arranged for Michael to drive my moving truck, I've put in an order for my mail to be forwarded starting April 14th, and I edited the last of those Spanish culture lessons. I also involved Gordon in something of a philosophical e-mail trail about art as self, or as an extension of self. It ended with his sending me a very long article about nominalism, conceptualism, moderate realism, and exaggerated realism. Clearly, this is love, people.