Bow Your Head and Join With Me
I spoke with Ms. F., Mr. R's roommate, this morning and we have made plans to get together for dinner and catching up tomorrow evening. That's a lovely thing to have set up for the first day of a new year. No guarantees that he will be around, but he may be. It isn't the point, though. I will finally get to see her and I haven't for a couple of months. She has become engaged to her boyfriend of two years since I last took her face in, and I need to know the story of his proposal.
This is the last day of the year, and what remains is simple.
Love.
Tuesday, December 31, 2002
Monday, December 30, 2002
Did I say I felt warm and fuzzy? This too, is now up for revision. I feel instead some variation of cheated...prevented....barred. What kind of world do I occupy where my best friend gets to have an outing to the art store with the man I love while I sit at my pointless job doing not much of anything? I am not jealous of her with him (I think). I am instead, jealous of the time, jealous of the opportunity. I have not seen him for over a month, and have no immediate plans to see him...
I feel my neck tightening.
When I came home I was starving so I ate a peanutbutter & jelly sandwich with an English Breakast chaser. It has quieted the growl of the desperate animal that lives in my abdomen. Now I am watching syndicated television while reading the memoir. I feel fortunate when it comes to literature these days. I already have a new book in the queue. Devika's gift of Black Girl in Paris is the light at the end of my tunnel today.
I feel my neck tightening.
When I came home I was starving so I ate a peanutbutter & jelly sandwich with an English Breakast chaser. It has quieted the growl of the desperate animal that lives in my abdomen. Now I am watching syndicated television while reading the memoir. I feel fortunate when it comes to literature these days. I already have a new book in the queue. Devika's gift of Black Girl in Paris is the light at the end of my tunnel today.
New Year's Day, 2002 Revised
Instead of turning on my worn heeled shoes after we finished smoking our cigarettes I would have looked at you in that way that said succinctly kiss me. I had been waiting all night for you to ask me to go out into the cold with you to inhale poisonous vapors, I wanted to shiver with you... but instead I was coolheaded, and I distracted you from your desire to clasp my mouth with yours by sharing weird observations, signaling with my body that the moment was now over. So we went back inside, and settled for the tame gesture of letting our shoes touch, like our shoulders and knees touched when we sat on couches together the night before, the same night I unceremoniously took your beer from your hand and had a sip before carefully placing it back–as though I did that all the time...
I would have held your gazes longer, I would have been one of those girls who knows what to say to make a man foolish and sick with love. I felt you wanting to close the gap between us. I would not have let another whole year of the earth's turning pass without knowing the rhythm and pace of your heart.
When the clock struck midnight I would not have been standing alone in a maelstrom of confetti and kissing couples, wondering why you were no where near me in the crowd of your friends. Rather, you would have come to find me, taken my hand, and said softly 'happy new year.'
Instead of turning on my worn heeled shoes after we finished smoking our cigarettes I would have looked at you in that way that said succinctly kiss me. I had been waiting all night for you to ask me to go out into the cold with you to inhale poisonous vapors, I wanted to shiver with you... but instead I was coolheaded, and I distracted you from your desire to clasp my mouth with yours by sharing weird observations, signaling with my body that the moment was now over. So we went back inside, and settled for the tame gesture of letting our shoes touch, like our shoulders and knees touched when we sat on couches together the night before, the same night I unceremoniously took your beer from your hand and had a sip before carefully placing it back–as though I did that all the time...
I would have held your gazes longer, I would have been one of those girls who knows what to say to make a man foolish and sick with love. I felt you wanting to close the gap between us. I would not have let another whole year of the earth's turning pass without knowing the rhythm and pace of your heart.
When the clock struck midnight I would not have been standing alone in a maelstrom of confetti and kissing couples, wondering why you were no where near me in the crowd of your friends. Rather, you would have come to find me, taken my hand, and said softly 'happy new year.'
Black Coffee: No Sugar, No Cream
I've made it through 81 pages of Rebecca Walker's memoir. My morning commute was productive in that sense. Yesterday I completed Nick Hornby's How To Be Good, which was by turns delightful and frustrating. But it was supposed to be vexing--you are supposed to struggle, along with the central character, while her husband grows a conscience and makes her suffer through his impractical schemes to rid the world of all its social ills.
Sarahbina and Mr. Renaissance are going to the art supply store together today. Remarkably, this fact makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside (two years ago it would have made me feel undermined, blind with jealousy). Two of the people I care most about are doing something together--purely out of convenience--but still, it seems like a nice development. The Sarah-one needs to buy water colours, and Mr. R was going to go anyway... so, voila! Field trip.
When he returned her call last night he still had not replied to my edits of his letter via e-mail. After their conversation about paints and brushes, he asked to speak to me. In the course of this conversation (if it can be called that, given its brevity and my monosyllabic responses), he thanked me for my help, told me he was going to make all the changes I suggested, and would keep me apprised of the fall out. I told him that would be wonderful, that it was a great letter, etc.
I wanted him to e-mail me all this because as sick and twisted as it sounds, I prefer e-mail to actual contact with him. Because e-mail is the theory of a relationship; it is the hope of contact; it is something I can save for the files of my mounting evidence of his belonging with me; it is the buffer that keeps me from having to be my physical self to him. I am eloquent on paper, but I fear something gets lost in the translation of my bodily presence. I get nervous, absent minded, I can seem like a real stick in the mud when confronted with his physicality because I am trying desperately to keep myself in check, not give the appearance of wanting things I'm going to be denied anyway, keep my hands to myself. Whatever.
Earlier this winter I realized that I have a driving need to bring to an abrupt halt any event, relationship, or experience that is making me happy. I cannot be lulled into a false sense of security by bliss, because I have learned that despair is always waiting to blindside me. I spend countless hours trying to divine the method, time, and place devastation is going to occur. I can't relax into sing alongs, quiet moments of killer eye contact, or even pleasant dinner party conversation because I have spent my life listening for dropping shoes, doors slamming shut to me, finding out, by accident, the one piece of information I'll forever wish I didn't know...
But I want to be a real woman to him; I just don't want him to reject, again, that woman.
I've made it through 81 pages of Rebecca Walker's memoir. My morning commute was productive in that sense. Yesterday I completed Nick Hornby's How To Be Good, which was by turns delightful and frustrating. But it was supposed to be vexing--you are supposed to struggle, along with the central character, while her husband grows a conscience and makes her suffer through his impractical schemes to rid the world of all its social ills.
Sarahbina and Mr. Renaissance are going to the art supply store together today. Remarkably, this fact makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside (two years ago it would have made me feel undermined, blind with jealousy). Two of the people I care most about are doing something together--purely out of convenience--but still, it seems like a nice development. The Sarah-one needs to buy water colours, and Mr. R was going to go anyway... so, voila! Field trip.
When he returned her call last night he still had not replied to my edits of his letter via e-mail. After their conversation about paints and brushes, he asked to speak to me. In the course of this conversation (if it can be called that, given its brevity and my monosyllabic responses), he thanked me for my help, told me he was going to make all the changes I suggested, and would keep me apprised of the fall out. I told him that would be wonderful, that it was a great letter, etc.
I wanted him to e-mail me all this because as sick and twisted as it sounds, I prefer e-mail to actual contact with him. Because e-mail is the theory of a relationship; it is the hope of contact; it is something I can save for the files of my mounting evidence of his belonging with me; it is the buffer that keeps me from having to be my physical self to him. I am eloquent on paper, but I fear something gets lost in the translation of my bodily presence. I get nervous, absent minded, I can seem like a real stick in the mud when confronted with his physicality because I am trying desperately to keep myself in check, not give the appearance of wanting things I'm going to be denied anyway, keep my hands to myself. Whatever.
Earlier this winter I realized that I have a driving need to bring to an abrupt halt any event, relationship, or experience that is making me happy. I cannot be lulled into a false sense of security by bliss, because I have learned that despair is always waiting to blindside me. I spend countless hours trying to divine the method, time, and place devastation is going to occur. I can't relax into sing alongs, quiet moments of killer eye contact, or even pleasant dinner party conversation because I have spent my life listening for dropping shoes, doors slamming shut to me, finding out, by accident, the one piece of information I'll forever wish I didn't know...
But I want to be a real woman to him; I just don't want him to reject, again, that woman.
Sunday, December 29, 2002
Griffin and Sabine
These two names were first mentioned to me in 1997. A work colleague asked if I'd ever read the trilogy by Nick Bantock... this in the context of my mentioning a series of poems I'd written--functioning as "letters" between two characters I'd named Anna and George. I had not at that time, and in truth it is only now, 5 years later, that Griffin and Sabine have actually made their way into the inner sanctum of my literary experience. I have a theory. Sometimes information gets passed to you, years before you need it, as a deposit of things to come. So that when you do experience what was foreshadowed, you can see how your whole life has been rushing you furiously toward the place you presently find yourself standing.
My tortured relationship with Mr. Renaissance that is comprised of e-mail and artistic bartering is reminiscent of this fictitious, intuitive love affair. I read the copies I borrowed from a friend greedily--in one sitting--and felt the bells of recognition tolling for me. I don't think I am seeing my often frustrating connection to Mr. R too fondly. In every way that matters, it may as well have been our story I was reading. Of course, he's promised nothing, and has certainly not moved between worlds to get to me, but the soul of what is unfolding between us was there, waiting for me to find it. Another way for me to hear the same message.
Don't give up.
These two names were first mentioned to me in 1997. A work colleague asked if I'd ever read the trilogy by Nick Bantock... this in the context of my mentioning a series of poems I'd written--functioning as "letters" between two characters I'd named Anna and George. I had not at that time, and in truth it is only now, 5 years later, that Griffin and Sabine have actually made their way into the inner sanctum of my literary experience. I have a theory. Sometimes information gets passed to you, years before you need it, as a deposit of things to come. So that when you do experience what was foreshadowed, you can see how your whole life has been rushing you furiously toward the place you presently find yourself standing.
My tortured relationship with Mr. Renaissance that is comprised of e-mail and artistic bartering is reminiscent of this fictitious, intuitive love affair. I read the copies I borrowed from a friend greedily--in one sitting--and felt the bells of recognition tolling for me. I don't think I am seeing my often frustrating connection to Mr. R too fondly. In every way that matters, it may as well have been our story I was reading. Of course, he's promised nothing, and has certainly not moved between worlds to get to me, but the soul of what is unfolding between us was there, waiting for me to find it. Another way for me to hear the same message.
Don't give up.
Saturday, December 28, 2002
Emerson Was A Transcendentalist
Ralph Waldo Emerson is the most quotable individual who has ever lived. I know, I know. He had his faults (and was probably unduly prejudiced against the Chinese), but how can you not respect a man who said "I hate quotes; tell me what you know."? Or, "Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."? Or, "Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist."?
I think he also said "Make yourself necessary to somebody."
Mr. Renaissance has typed up another of his famous scathing letters, calling attention to discrepancy, social/academic injustice, and blowing the lid off of farce. And he asked me to review it for him (as I have reviewed other documents of his in the past). This is my role in his personal revolution, that of editor-in-chief. Last year at the New Year's Eve party we attended he introduced me to people as someone who is an editor by trade, but who is really a poet. Or, quite possessively, once as "his editor."
I feel the most useful, the most in my element, when I am helping him with something, advising him, praying for him, correcting his grammar, etc. Or, conversely, the most challenged when I am showing him a poem for the first time, when I am listening to him discuss the work of his art, and what it costs him.
How could a woman not want to make love forever to this man?
Ralph Waldo Emerson is the most quotable individual who has ever lived. I know, I know. He had his faults (and was probably unduly prejudiced against the Chinese), but how can you not respect a man who said "I hate quotes; tell me what you know."? Or, "Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."? Or, "Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist."?
I think he also said "Make yourself necessary to somebody."
Mr. Renaissance has typed up another of his famous scathing letters, calling attention to discrepancy, social/academic injustice, and blowing the lid off of farce. And he asked me to review it for him (as I have reviewed other documents of his in the past). This is my role in his personal revolution, that of editor-in-chief. Last year at the New Year's Eve party we attended he introduced me to people as someone who is an editor by trade, but who is really a poet. Or, quite possessively, once as "his editor."
I feel the most useful, the most in my element, when I am helping him with something, advising him, praying for him, correcting his grammar, etc. Or, conversely, the most challenged when I am showing him a poem for the first time, when I am listening to him discuss the work of his art, and what it costs him.
How could a woman not want to make love forever to this man?
Friday, December 27, 2002
Because I'll Never Hold the Picture of the Whole Horizon in My View
Caryl came in with me to work yesterday; we were both so tired, having gotten almost nil sleep the night before. We were only able to stick it out for half a day, so we left early and went to see Two Weeks Notice, and then headed to a popular cul de sac in the city to meet a dear friend for fresh mex food.
I finally made it home at about 7:10 in the evening (having parted ways with Caryl on the Subway), and proceeded to look over the mail (a "thanks-but-no-thanks" letter from a company I applied to 3 or 4 months ago, a bill, and a postcard from one of those video/cd clubs), steep tea, and wrap up a few ad hoc presents I purchased for Sarah.
I talked briefly with Sassafrass Teawrap, and afterward I spent some time in prayer and worship. This morning, I am back on the job, a styrofoam cup of coffee at my side, and the beautifully repeating refrain "because I'll never hold the picture of the whole horizon in my view; because I'll never rip the night in two..." swelling and soaring in my ears... because I'll never.....because I'll never.....
I do not see all of what is transpiring in my life to make my story what it is going to be, so I am going to divest myself of the burden of trying to make it all make sense.
I am better rested, but still needing more sleep, I am hopeful in a quiet sort of way. No pyrotechnics, no off the charts excitement, just in a state of belief for the things I desire.
Caryl came in with me to work yesterday; we were both so tired, having gotten almost nil sleep the night before. We were only able to stick it out for half a day, so we left early and went to see Two Weeks Notice, and then headed to a popular cul de sac in the city to meet a dear friend for fresh mex food.
I finally made it home at about 7:10 in the evening (having parted ways with Caryl on the Subway), and proceeded to look over the mail (a "thanks-but-no-thanks" letter from a company I applied to 3 or 4 months ago, a bill, and a postcard from one of those video/cd clubs), steep tea, and wrap up a few ad hoc presents I purchased for Sarah.
I talked briefly with Sassafrass Teawrap, and afterward I spent some time in prayer and worship. This morning, I am back on the job, a styrofoam cup of coffee at my side, and the beautifully repeating refrain "because I'll never hold the picture of the whole horizon in my view; because I'll never rip the night in two..." swelling and soaring in my ears... because I'll never.....because I'll never.....
I do not see all of what is transpiring in my life to make my story what it is going to be, so I am going to divest myself of the burden of trying to make it all make sense.
I am better rested, but still needing more sleep, I am hopeful in a quiet sort of way. No pyrotechnics, no off the charts excitement, just in a state of belief for the things I desire.
Thursday, December 26, 2002
I called Mr. Renaissance. I felt him slipping away and I needed to know he still existed, was not in another woman's arms, and still knew my name. We chatted for about a half hour on Christmas Eve about the trappings of family gatherings, how he's feeling about leaving school, ran down the lists of presents we bought our nearest and dearest. I was disheartened actually... Not sorry I called, but I chafed a bit when he said it was "neighborly" of me to telephone.
It snowed. My mother wanted my sisters and I out of her hair last night so she sent us out in what turned into a blinding snow of fat flurries to watch a movie. Fortunately, we were okay. The movie idea was a bust, though. The theatre was not showing any film that had a start time after 7:30, so we had no options. Instead, we went over to T.G.I.Friday's and ate a lackluster meal. By the time we left the eatery the snow had let up. It was above freezing, so the slushy rain that was left behind did not harden, really. We slipped only a bit.
The Christmas Spirit was conspicuously absent from my life this year, but I'm not the only one who felt this way... My middle sibling kept remarking "It just doesn't even feel like Christmas to me; it's just weird... I don't know...." Anyway, we all opened our presents at midnight, and went to bed.
Crystal (the middle sibling) woke up to go to work at IHOP this morning and didn't get off until about 4. That was somewhat literary. Having to waitress at a pancake house on the day of the Lord's birth.
We did have a lovely dinner of standing rib roast, honey glazed ham, roast beef, and plenty of tasty accoutrements. My youngest sibling Caryl came home with me tonight after a crushing exchange with her almost boyfriend. She will go to work with me tomorrow, and we will part ways at a metro station after meeting a friend of mine for coffee.
So, I hope I get it right before New Year's Eve...
It snowed. My mother wanted my sisters and I out of her hair last night so she sent us out in what turned into a blinding snow of fat flurries to watch a movie. Fortunately, we were okay. The movie idea was a bust, though. The theatre was not showing any film that had a start time after 7:30, so we had no options. Instead, we went over to T.G.I.Friday's and ate a lackluster meal. By the time we left the eatery the snow had let up. It was above freezing, so the slushy rain that was left behind did not harden, really. We slipped only a bit.
The Christmas Spirit was conspicuously absent from my life this year, but I'm not the only one who felt this way... My middle sibling kept remarking "It just doesn't even feel like Christmas to me; it's just weird... I don't know...." Anyway, we all opened our presents at midnight, and went to bed.
Crystal (the middle sibling) woke up to go to work at IHOP this morning and didn't get off until about 4. That was somewhat literary. Having to waitress at a pancake house on the day of the Lord's birth.
We did have a lovely dinner of standing rib roast, honey glazed ham, roast beef, and plenty of tasty accoutrements. My youngest sibling Caryl came home with me tonight after a crushing exchange with her almost boyfriend. She will go to work with me tomorrow, and we will part ways at a metro station after meeting a friend of mine for coffee.
So, I hope I get it right before New Year's Eve...
Tuesday, December 24, 2002
I've Tasted These Days Before...
And I don't know if they are the beginning of better things, or the flavour of everything about to get worse. I don't know if they are all of my worse suspicions confirmed, or the feeling of relief that comes with finding out I worried for nothing. Is this tightness in my neck giving way to wellness after weeks of being sick? Or, is it an indication of new infections, coughs, sneezes... the coming of greater malaise?
Sarahbina and I opened our presents to/from each other last night. Her knowledge of me, the things I want, what will make my eyes sparkle, is a comforting and continually endearing aspect of her.
Today I go home to be with my family, and Tomorrow the Big Day, that I can't seem to really wrap my mind around this year.
And I don't know if they are the beginning of better things, or the flavour of everything about to get worse. I don't know if they are all of my worse suspicions confirmed, or the feeling of relief that comes with finding out I worried for nothing. Is this tightness in my neck giving way to wellness after weeks of being sick? Or, is it an indication of new infections, coughs, sneezes... the coming of greater malaise?
Sarahbina and I opened our presents to/from each other last night. Her knowledge of me, the things I want, what will make my eyes sparkle, is a comforting and continually endearing aspect of her.
Today I go home to be with my family, and Tomorrow the Big Day, that I can't seem to really wrap my mind around this year.
Monday, December 23, 2002
In Case I Got Cold (A poem with only commas)
Before you awaken I have covered miles in a drafty rail car
I sleep furtively, brokenly next to strangers
clutching at a ticket to the places I've tried to give up for good
so I can be more fully where you are, sleeping like you do
rising when you rise
waiting for our deep breaths to synch up as they did
the day we were flush back to chest
and I trusted you with my life
letting you be the gravity holding me to the world
every curve in the track bends me back to the ache in the center of your chest
the ache I want to worsen, the wound of yours I share, it can only be healed
by finding the other half of its face in the dark
Before you turn over on your side I have had my first sip of coffee
and hunger has risen in me as a dream in another woman's heart
I remember how you once explained drawing to me
your hand was balled, not really a fist, but closed up
everything is a separate shape
here is one, and here is another
that made sense, the shapes of hands, a hand in increments
of lines and planes
or later
the smudge of burgundy lipstick I smeared on your right shoulder
the same day your fingers accidentally brushed lightly over my bottom lip
when you zipped my jacket all the way up
in case I got cold
Before you awaken I have covered miles in a drafty rail car
I sleep furtively, brokenly next to strangers
clutching at a ticket to the places I've tried to give up for good
so I can be more fully where you are, sleeping like you do
rising when you rise
waiting for our deep breaths to synch up as they did
the day we were flush back to chest
and I trusted you with my life
letting you be the gravity holding me to the world
every curve in the track bends me back to the ache in the center of your chest
the ache I want to worsen, the wound of yours I share, it can only be healed
by finding the other half of its face in the dark
Before you turn over on your side I have had my first sip of coffee
and hunger has risen in me as a dream in another woman's heart
I remember how you once explained drawing to me
your hand was balled, not really a fist, but closed up
everything is a separate shape
here is one, and here is another
that made sense, the shapes of hands, a hand in increments
of lines and planes
or later
the smudge of burgundy lipstick I smeared on your right shoulder
the same day your fingers accidentally brushed lightly over my bottom lip
when you zipped my jacket all the way up
in case I got cold
Christmas With The Stars
Almost no one is here; This is the best kind of day to be at work. I have a stack of cds (almost all of which are in deference to the upcoming holiday) to serve as the soundtrack for the assignment I'm presently giving my attention. Mariah Carey is serenading the nearly empty row of cubicles where I sit with "I miss you most (at Christmas time)" and I, of course, am thinking of someone who, while presently in my life, is not truly mine.
I am drinking the first cup of coffee I've had in about a week. Funny how being sick overrides the discomfort of caffeine withdrawal. All I've wanted for days is water, herbal tea, and orange juice--the stuff I should be drinking anyway.
So yesterday I had a small scale nervous breakdown (suffice it to say I tried to shut myself up in the bedroom closet but Sarahbina convinced me to come out). But today I am cozy in a new burgundy turtleneck sweater (early christmas present), listening to Tony Bennett, who is heralding Christmas in Herald Sqaure.
Almost no one is here; This is the best kind of day to be at work. I have a stack of cds (almost all of which are in deference to the upcoming holiday) to serve as the soundtrack for the assignment I'm presently giving my attention. Mariah Carey is serenading the nearly empty row of cubicles where I sit with "I miss you most (at Christmas time)" and I, of course, am thinking of someone who, while presently in my life, is not truly mine.
I am drinking the first cup of coffee I've had in about a week. Funny how being sick overrides the discomfort of caffeine withdrawal. All I've wanted for days is water, herbal tea, and orange juice--the stuff I should be drinking anyway.
So yesterday I had a small scale nervous breakdown (suffice it to say I tried to shut myself up in the bedroom closet but Sarahbina convinced me to come out). But today I am cozy in a new burgundy turtleneck sweater (early christmas present), listening to Tony Bennett, who is heralding Christmas in Herald Sqaure.
Sunday, December 22, 2002
Saturday, December 21, 2002
3 Shopping Days Left
A Bing Crosby Special circa 1978 is blaring from the tv set; I am sipping echinacea tea (a given these days) to keep my new cold in check. The tonsillitis has morphed into a sneeze-cough thing. All in all, I'm fine. I still managed to go to dinner last night with Sassafrass Teawrap, and did some shopping around the tourist trap pavilions this morning. I took a cab there and back like a proper lady. I was impressed with myself for being home by 11:30 a.m... just in time for lunch.
Now I think I need a nap.
A Bing Crosby Special circa 1978 is blaring from the tv set; I am sipping echinacea tea (a given these days) to keep my new cold in check. The tonsillitis has morphed into a sneeze-cough thing. All in all, I'm fine. I still managed to go to dinner last night with Sassafrass Teawrap, and did some shopping around the tourist trap pavilions this morning. I took a cab there and back like a proper lady. I was impressed with myself for being home by 11:30 a.m... just in time for lunch.
Now I think I need a nap.
Friday, December 20, 2002
Othello's: Desdemona - The daughter of the Venetian senator Brabanzio. Desdemona and Othello are secretly married before the play begins. While in many ways stereotypically pure and meek, Desdemona is also determined and self-possessed. She is equally capable of defending her marriage, jesting bawdily with Iago, and responding with dignity to Othello's incomprehensible jealousy. She is strangled by Othello when he is under the impression that she was unfaithful.
* Which Tragic Shakespearean Heroin are You? *
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* Which Tragic Shakespearean Heroin are You? *
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You are a descriptive writer. An avid reader of Robert Frost, perhaps, you LOVE to use flowery words and use the paper and pen as your canvas and paintbrush. You prefer to paint a mental image rather than simply toy around with people's minds. A very inspired person, you love to be in nature and usually are a very outdoorsy type of person. A writer with a natural green thumb, perhaps?
What's YOUR Writing Style?
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What's YOUR Writing Style?
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December Don't Forget Me...
This is the month that I have endured. I, who am never sick, took ill twice in the space of two calendar weeks. My plans have been stalled; My messages to some have gone unanswered. I did not manage to put up a single decoration, though I made my peace with this absence, the lack of Christmasness in my little microcosm of a world (i.e., my apartment) still feels wrong on a foundational level.
I reamed out my sister, in a manner of speaking, last night. Now that I have my voice back, I used it to tell her that her instincts about men are underdeveloped, and even suggested that she get some counseling in order to help identify and obliterate her destructive choices/patterns. She was practically silent from her end.
I have already gotten quite a bit done at the office this morning. Several packages are in the courier que for delivery downtown, I have run the paces with my boss, and I am ahead of the game on my effort report.
This year's pervasive holiday theme: The Snowman. Not sure why, but they are on my radar in a way they've not been before.
This is the month that I have endured. I, who am never sick, took ill twice in the space of two calendar weeks. My plans have been stalled; My messages to some have gone unanswered. I did not manage to put up a single decoration, though I made my peace with this absence, the lack of Christmasness in my little microcosm of a world (i.e., my apartment) still feels wrong on a foundational level.
I reamed out my sister, in a manner of speaking, last night. Now that I have my voice back, I used it to tell her that her instincts about men are underdeveloped, and even suggested that she get some counseling in order to help identify and obliterate her destructive choices/patterns. She was practically silent from her end.
I have already gotten quite a bit done at the office this morning. Several packages are in the courier que for delivery downtown, I have run the paces with my boss, and I am ahead of the game on my effort report.
This year's pervasive holiday theme: The Snowman. Not sure why, but they are on my radar in a way they've not been before.
Thursday, December 19, 2002
Healing Properties
My throat was swollen; at night I experienced the chills that often accompany a fever; I had trouble sleeping, even though that is what my body longed for more than anything else. I was unconcerned, for the most part, with the goings on of the outside world. I was the kind of sick that makes truly funny, interesting, endearing things neutral. Everything is stripped of its essence. The kind of illness where you cannot imagine that you will not always feel as though you have been run over by an 18-wheeler. Nothing competes with your aches for your attention, because they are so pervasive, you can't remember when you didn't ache.
You don't miss the taste of food or gourmet coffee because the only thing you can force down your swollen throat is an awful hot water, salt, lemon fiasco--a twist on some back water relative's recipe for a cure. I gargled this stuff to no avail two or three times before I broke down and went to the clinic.
I was diagnosed with Tonsilitis. That helped me...knowing I had something real for which there are treatments...
So now it is all about celebrating Zithromax, my current drug of choice, and drinking Echinacea tea, eating softened ice cream, and once again, sleeping like a baby.
My throat was swollen; at night I experienced the chills that often accompany a fever; I had trouble sleeping, even though that is what my body longed for more than anything else. I was unconcerned, for the most part, with the goings on of the outside world. I was the kind of sick that makes truly funny, interesting, endearing things neutral. Everything is stripped of its essence. The kind of illness where you cannot imagine that you will not always feel as though you have been run over by an 18-wheeler. Nothing competes with your aches for your attention, because they are so pervasive, you can't remember when you didn't ache.
You don't miss the taste of food or gourmet coffee because the only thing you can force down your swollen throat is an awful hot water, salt, lemon fiasco--a twist on some back water relative's recipe for a cure. I gargled this stuff to no avail two or three times before I broke down and went to the clinic.
I was diagnosed with Tonsilitis. That helped me...knowing I had something real for which there are treatments...
So now it is all about celebrating Zithromax, my current drug of choice, and drinking Echinacea tea, eating softened ice cream, and once again, sleeping like a baby.
Monday, December 16, 2002
Sassafrass Tea Wrap made me a red lacquered letter box for Christmas. She wants me to foster hope by writing love letters and placing them there for safe keeping until such a time as I can give them to their rightful owner... It is a beautiful notion, but I don't know that I am capable of that kind of fancy. The box delighted me; I don't want it to just gather dust, but I fear my hope making a fool of me.
God, grant me the courage to unleash my hope, the peace of mind to state boldly what I know to be true, and the wisdom to know foolishness from faith.
God, grant me the courage to unleash my hope, the peace of mind to state boldly what I know to be true, and the wisdom to know foolishness from faith.
