We get to Powells early and mostly out of boredom. There was nothing on television and we had already taken the elevator up to The Portland Grill to walk through the restaurant and get a good look at the nighttime view. It was as beautiful, lit up, as you might imagine it to be. These urban landscapes never fail to awe me when their lights go on and block out the stars, cars like little twinkly ants in a line.
We go to the bookstore to hear a famous author speak some words. I know he’s famous because I recognize the covers of his books even though I haven’t read them yet. Everything is Illuminated sits on a shelf at home gathering dust and I feel guilty just looking at it. I know he’s famous but I didn’t recognize his name until it was there in print: Jonathan Safran Foer. The Rare Books room gets crowded quickly and we are one of the lucky who end up with chairs. Of course, there is a tall moving shifting adjusting man in front of me blocking my view, as there always seems to be. They find me in theatres, at concerts and in lectures. Probably there would be one in front of me blocking the flight attendant as she showed us how to adjust our face masks on that one plane that ended up crashing. I am a magnet for these men.
Still, I get glimpses of him, Jonathan Safran Foer, when the man leans left and I shift my body quickly to the right. He’s shorter than I thought he would be. He has a closely trimmed beard and glasses that he pushes up his nose once or twice through the talk. He cracks jokes and I laugh along with the crowd. I think about how he looks like a guy I had a crush on in High School but never talked to. I think about how he sounds like a guy I have a crush on now but won’t act on. I think about how I’d been writing articles about factory farming back in first year university and how long it takes the world to take a cause mainstream. I think about how easy it is to forget how much you care about something if you don’t make yourself look at it dead in the face. I think about how much I love cheeseburgers and then feel guilty for it.
He’s so articulate. He thinks carefully before answering each question and he doesn’t shy away from the subject at all. A few angry vegans pipe up as the angry vegans sometimes do and he pats their heads with his words and makes omnivores like me feel better for trying. It’s unrealistic to expect us all to change over night but it is something to be proud of, dammit, to take baby steps in the right direction. I don’t even like red meat, much. It won’t be hard to give up. The chicken will be harder but I could probably do it if I made myself. Not even fish is safe anymore. The law is changing to veil us from how our food comes to us, neatly packaged in the supermarket. Shit, it’s all a giant lying machine like it always is. Doesn’t help to buy organic or free-range or cage-free because what does it mean really? It’s unregulated and basically functioning on the honour system, taking advantage of all of us do-good consumers.
He’s careful to list the exceptions. The farmers who take seriously their line of work, who take pride in what they do. The farmers who would gladly take you to their farms and show you the way they make a living. The farmers who don’t keep consumers out with barbed wire and guard dogs and shady legislation. It all comes down to knowing where the food you put in your body comes from. If it is meat from an animal fit to graze the food it likes, able to reproduce, able to touch the ground and see the sky, able to move or turn around… or if it is meat from an animal that has its limbs cut off and beak filed down, an animal in a cage so small it can’t move, an animal stuffed full of antibiotics on every day it exists, an animal that never knows the land or the sky but only bars and machinery. If you don’t see where it comes from then odds are it doesn’t come from the happy times farm.
Hell, if that doesn’t make you think twice about gobbling down the food that we do there is always the environment to consider. Factory farming being the biggest source of pollution. Or, if you don’t give two shits about the environment which let’s face it some people don’t, you probably at least don’t want to get swine flu right? Guess where that came from? Yeah, good ol’ factory farms; the petri dish of America.
I’m not an angry vegan, yet. I am a meat-eating enthusiast. I’ll BBQ with the best of them, so long as a fire extinguisher is nearby. But, I can’t continue to live like I don’t care because I do. I’ve cared for years, Foer just reminded me of all the things I already knew. I left the bookstore ashamed at myself for becoming one of those people who forgot their actions mattered. Who lived with eyes shaded thinking my actions are so small, so insignificant that they can’t possible register on any real scale. Foer didn’t point fingers but he sure as hell shamed me and I’m better for it. I hope he shamed every other person in that room, too.
Today we finished up the turkey slices that were in the fridge. We made sandwiches, loading them up with tomato slices and lettuce, a sprinkling of cheese. and three different condiments. I ate it propped up in front of the television to see what crazy hijinks those Flash Forward kids would get up to this week. I ate it and washed the dishes and listened to some music and then sat down to write this and I didn’t even realize until this paragraph that it was my last turkey sandwich. But, it was.
And that is the power of one quiet man’s words on an otherwise unremarkable Wednesday night.
Jonathan Safran Foer’s book trailer.
Jonathan Safran Foer on Ellen the same day of the reading I saw! And holy Ellen, I love cheeseburgers, too.
Filed under: Books, Personal, Political | 13 Comments
Tags: Video, identity, book reviews, mistakes, life choices, food, factory farming, eating animals, vegan, jonathan safran foer, ellen
It’s waiting for me on top of my computer when I come out of my room freshly showered and dressed. I ran longer and harder today and I’m still buoyed from the cool wind and racing pulse. The long white envelope blinking my name in blue chicken scratch, a surprisingly familiar hand to decipher when all the vowels blur into one another. Is this an A or an O? Maybe an E or a U. It reminds me of hastily scribbled directions I tried to follow to be helpful:
“I think it says turn left on Hall but it could be Holl or maybe Hell.”
“What? Let me see… uh. I think that might be a—I don’t remember.”
Neither of us able to decode his writing, we laughed and drove blindly, trusting in the serendipitous knack of adventure. Though, the fates have never been particularly kind to us. I guess this is what Faith is.
I take the letter to my room and lay on my bed holding it to the light of the window. I finger the edges and then tear it open, surreptitiously, like it might disappear or someone might snatch it from me unread. It’s not exactly a love letter, though some might call it that. One page front to back and my first reaction is, “more, please,” ever the insatiable reader of his words. No, not a love letter, exactly.
I read it once stumbling over the staccato of his pen. I begin to read it again and then stop at the first paragraph and hold it to my chest, my heart beating through the paper. I remember the postcards I sent from Europe, each mailed with a ghost, stamped with the outline of my lips. Here he is. Here he always is in writing. I fold him up delicately and maybe I blink away a tear or two. I place him between the pages of my book, fifty pages past the pressed tulip, at the beginning of a new chapter, and a hundred or so pages from the end. A Student of Weather by Elizabeth Hay. I haven’t read it yet.
I feel like a student of my own storms. I have yet to pinpoint the equation, the list of variables that combine to create this moving of clouds. I can’t quite predict it. I never know what the skies will look like tomorrow, whether it will be clear or overcast. If it might rain again.
I challenged him. I told him he didn’t know me, this me that I keep so close to the chest, the me I protect and keep pristine, untouched. This is his answer, I suppose. It’s not a love letter. Not quite a love letter. It’s better. It’s a map, directions to the me that he has come to know in all my twists and turns. It’s no secret that I’ve gone astray, of all people he would detect this the most. It’s been dark here in the woods, making friends with all the creatures of the night, curling into trees for rest, cold but unwilling to find my way back, to keep on walking. His words are a bread crumb path. He is an invisible presence, taking my hand, pulling me to my feet. Walking a ways with me until I’m no longer scared, until I can go it alone.
Most days I didn’t even acknowledge that he was there. I kept my eyes on my feet trying to avoid the pitfalls. I looked ahead or to the sky but never by my side. These days I smile real smiles. I feel the sun on my face through the leaves and I thought that perhaps because I didn’t need him anymore, didn’t need him to pull me along, to point out that rock or that tree stump—that he wasn’t there any longer. I didn’t look because I never look. I keep looking ahead because I’m not quite to the treeline yet. Though, even if he isn’t holding my hand anymore, I know he’s still there. A few steps behind, maybe. Keeping one eye on me.
I imagine a conversation as the sun goes down and I braid my wet hair:
“So, maybe all this time I knew you, afterall.”
“Yes. Yes, maybe you did. But, shhh. Let’s keep that between you and me.”
“It is. All of it. Everything. It’s always between you and me.”
“I know.”
I know.
Alan Pownall – Colourful Day
Filed under: Personal | 3 Comments
Tags: alan pownall, Europe, identity, letters, relationships, travel, writing
The Halloween That Wasn’t Hollow
Cannon Beach 2, originally uploaded by birdykin.s.
It was a different kind of Halloween. There were no costumes or trick or treaters. There was only the chocolate in my Mocha Latte and incantations we murmured to stave off rain. We drove until the air changed, until we could smell the ocean heavy in the wind. We parked and joined the line of beach combers down for the weekend. I took pictures of families taking pictures of their family and of the sea foam capturing tiny rainbows in the gathered bubbles. A raven followed me down the sand and I hooked my arm through his, my father’s, and wished to be nowhere else in the world but there, with the sand and sea ruining my shoes and the waves chasing us down the beach.
We climbed up a cliff and searched through binoculars for puffins on the rocks. There was an abundance of caterpillars diligently crossing the trail from one side to the other and we waited patiently for their journey, needing nowhere else to be. For every little brown and black creature that I urged to crawl into my hand, I found a piece of myself unfurl inside me. Something that had been clenched tightly for so long becoming loosened, letting the air in. I set them down off the path, safe from harm and gave a silent thank you to the caterpillars, to my father, to the sea and to the world for making this holiday that I dreaded better than anything I could ever have hoped for.
For healing me one step, one laugh, one arm-in-arm walk at a time.
Filed under: Personal, Photos | 6 Comments
Tags: dad, fall, halloween, holidays, identity, oregon, the beach
Oh, Portland
There’s something about this city, Portland, OR. It gets under your skin and makes a home in your heart, it helps you find pieces of yourself that you didn’t even know were missing. It’s a city of dreamers and those who have forgotten how to dream. All of America’s strays and wanderers can find something different and beautiful here. Something weird and wonderful. I’ve met some pretty amazing people in this city. People that inspire me to do what they do; live hard. One of these people, the King of the Wild Things, Sean from The Anarchist Project, has kindly agreed to grace my blog with his brilliance. So read on readers, as he takes us on an adventure through this city with the best sort of company; a beautiful stranger’s.
Oh, and don’t forget to watch the video at the end, it’s a short film that will show you a lot of the places he writes about.
…..
Oh, Portland.
by Sean Brown (http://theanarchistproject.wordpress.com)
The purple sweater brought out the blue in her eyes. Fantastic eyes made of ice, she was a stunner, and she knew it. I met her at Slabtown, the bar, my bar. She had challenged me to a game of ping pong, winner buys the next round. Ping pong for drinks from a girl with icy blues; the night was looking up. We got down with the get down at 21-16, though she said she had let me win. Something about fragile egos and delicate sensibilities.
Blue black hair cut at obscure zig zag angles; she grabbed my hand, and pulled me into the instant photo booth. She wore my hat and made funny faces. She mean mugged and played serious, and of course we kissed on the last one. Or at least I thought we were going to, but she ducked away at the last instant, with a playful, “you wish.”
Out in the cool fall air, hand in hand again, we made our way down the hill, under the 405 and into the Pearl. We stopped at Low Brow, and Blitz, and Henry’s. We laughed at the pretension and the money and the insecurity. We popped into Powell’s and kissed, for real this time, in the Orange Room. We jammed across Burnside to Rocco’s and had slices of Vegan Pie chased with Barnyard Massacres and PBRs in Dixie cups. She was stunning with pizza sauce all over her pixie face. She laughed and kissed me again when I tried to hand her a napkin.
From there we sauntered over to the Ace Hotel, got cappuccinos from Stumptown, and hung out on plush leather couches in the lobby. We watched American Apparel Models dance with Polar Bears and Drag Queens. Glitz and glamorous glameratti, looking skinny and beautiful and obscene. It was alright. It was beautiful. It was wonderful. It was puppies and kittens and lemon spice babies.
We sashayed down to Second Avenue, and then we Let The Wild Rumpus Begin! We drank whiskey and witnessed Irish Magic at Kell’s. The cigar room stank of Old Money, but we were only Old Poor. The mood was all kinds of wrong. So we tried The Thirsty Lion, but it was the same lame with a different scene. We were getting surly with each other, the mood was all wrong. But then came the Tunnels.
Shanghai Tunnels saved my life. Saved my love. Saved my night. We got Rainier in the bottles, and pronounced it the correct way. We laughed and held hands again as we watched that silly man with his silly shaved head hit on beautiful girls to no avail. I asked her to come up to my apartment in the charmingly run down Western Rooms, in a charmingly run down part of town, and stay the night. Clothing Optional.
She declined.
Loretta Lynn & Jack White – Portland, Oregon
Filed under: Links | 8 Comments
Tags: beginnings, blogs, guest posts, Links, Portland, relationships, romance, travel, Video
Step #1: Start Running
I lace up my new Nikes. I wouldn’t usually support the company but they were on sale and we can’t always be the person we want to be. Double-knotted bows and I survey myself in the mirror. Turns out I’m matching from sports bra to shoes, that was unintentional but I smile because I look cute with my matching gear and bouncy ponytail. I eat an apple and chug another glass of water. I load the first podcast in the Couch to 5k series on my ipod and take a deep breath. Here we go. Time to start Operation: Stop Being A Whiny Ass Baby a.k.a Operation Improvement.
Running through the suburban Portland streets I try not to look at the roadkill as three chipmunks and squirrels flattened into the pavement go by my feet. My stomach turns over and the automated voice tells me to stop running and walk briskly for 90 seconds. My mind is where it always is these days; on him. Memories bubble up slowly and steadily underneath me. The things I wish I had never said. The things I wish I had never done. The places I regret going and coming back from. All the footsteps that have brought me here. The song changes and I start running again pounding the thoughts back into the ground. Burying them with purpose.
By the time it’s over and I’m walking home my outlook has changed. My knee aches and I am high on endorphins. I tell myself I’ll wait one more day and that’s it. After that it’s face-forward and no looking back. We do what we do and there’s no changing it, no going back, no making up for what is lost. These are the choices that make us who we are and take us where we need to be. I’m building the pattern now that I will someday look back on and find meaning in. I’m sick of retracing my steps and always looking over my shoulder to see who’s following this time. I’ve done those things. I’ve tried that. I’ve brought destruction to the serene and colour to the black & white. I’m a little bit closer now to what happens next and I want to be ready for it. It’s time to stop dwelling. Time to stop standing still.
Time to start running.
Damien Rice – Cannonball
Filed under: Personal | 6 Comments
Tags: beginnings, damien rice, exercise, life choices, mistakes, operation improvement, relationships, running
Well. Today you’re in for a treat. It’s time to hand over the reins for the 20sb annual (sub annual? every so often?) blog swap. Yes, I totally signed up for that. It’s my new resolution #43: Be more involved. In anything and everything. In life. Maybe someday I’ll tell you the other 42 resolutions. That’s a lie, I just made them up. So, without further ado, here is Katie from Katie Dot Com.
Oh, and hey if you need your daily fix of that Birdykins melancholy that we all know and love (I hope) then head on over there to read all about how much I hate Halloween.
…..
“Then It Happened”
Katie – http://www.katieblogs.com
First off, hi, Lindsay’s friends and readers. *High Five*. It’s quite the honor to be posting over here today. Lindsay has an amazing way with words that I’m so in love with. I don’t know that I can satisfy you the way she does on a daily basis, but I’ll sure as hell try.
When I was going through school, I toyed around with a lot of ideas of what I wanted to do with my life. From archeologist to zoologist, I covered all of the bases. English was always my favorite subject and one of my teachers said to me one day, “Katie, you should be a writer.”
I didn’t even know writers got paid. Don’t judge me, I wasn’t the sharpest pencil. But once I learned that depending on how well you did, you could make a decent living, I realized that I wanted to be a writer.
I was going to be a professional writer.
Then he happened.
He told me he loved me – he told everyone he loved me. None of my other friends had an older man as a boyfriend that called them every lunch period. He’d pick me up from school (in my car) and as long as I was paying he was always with me. When I wasn’t willing to give all of myself to him right away, he got it elsewhere. I left school to be with him, to prove to him that I was worth his time. Then, I got smart and learned that no one should ever be taken advantage of, cheated on and expected to deal with it.
I was tricked, cheated and lied to. I recovered. I survived….
…I was going to be a professional writer.
Then he happened.
He was in the psychology field. He was sweet, loving, communicative and emotional. He gave me the first “Good Christmas” that I had in years. I could learn a lot from him – especially how to make a girl feel like complete crap and make her think it’s her fault. Though I played my own games and did things that were unacceptable, I still hung on for the sake of saying I had someone. Hanging out with my friends, drinking beer and football were frowned upon. The more I discovered who I really was, the more he disliked me and the more he tried to mold me into his perfect mate. Unfortunately for him you can’t mold a brick. Fortunately for me, bricks are strong and can withstand some pretty severe trauma.
We broke, I broke, I survived….
…I was going to be a professional writer.
Then it happened.
I got severely depressed and couldn’t figure anything out. I felt alone, disheartened and isolated. Everyone else was finding love, getting married and having children. I was working a seemingly dead-end job with no education to back me up. I needed the job more than the job needed me. My friends were constantly deserting me for whoever their current love interest was. I was only good enough when it was convenient. This left me feeling worthless and I considered ending everything.
I snapped out of it, got help and survived…
…I was going to be a professional writer.
Then it happened.
I got laid off from my job, and had no where to turn. I started crumbling emotionally again, but then remembered who I was and where I had been. I’m a survivor. I survive things. I got my act in order, started applying for Freelance positions and landed my first one. Then I landed a second, and a third.
I fell. I got back up. I survived…
…I am a professional <freelance> writer.
It happened.
Filed under: Links | 6 Comments
Tags: 20sb, beginnings, blog swap, life choices, Links, relationships
He’s the sort of guy I would have fallen in love with last year or maybe when I was 21. If my friends met him they’d exchange knowing glances because he fits the bill from personality down to worn hoodies and scruffy shoes. I know I’d have to defend myself. He’s wrapped up living ambitions and there’s something about an unshaven man furiously typing with black coffee or a cold beer by his side. I’m a sucker for wandering nomads, the emotionally unavailable, writers, artists and strays. Or, at least I used to be.
These days I can barely bring myself to flirt with the idea. I draw a circle in the sand and I sit cross-legged in the middle smiling up at the shadows that hover by the edge. I fill my pockets with love stories, how they met stories, how they knew it was right stories and I hide all the crumpled break up stories in my purse. When I’m alone I take them out and line them up one by one. The heartbreak flattened and smoothed out in front of me. I don’t believe in happy endings. I want to, but life proves time and again that if it seems happy it isn’t the end, yet. Just wait and see.
That’s okay, though. Heartbreak is far more interesting. I like the relationships that get tarnished and buried in dirt. I like the couples you see walking down the street laden down with lies, barely moving, barely getting one foot in front of the other. There is something about the seams showing, the stuffing falling out, the nose and fur worn down and one of the little black eyes missing that makes me want to hug a bear all the more. There is something beautiful in the broken down and falling apart. The remains; what love leaves behind.
I guess maybe because it’s easy to love somebody, all you have to do is let go and fall. The hard part is the aftermath, the picking up and putting together and reconstructing of yourself. The strength you either find or don’t find to move on. The mistakes you learn from or repeat again, instead.
The things you never thought you’d miss; like his cold feet on your legs or his brown hair in the sink.
All the things you knew you would miss but left behind, anyway.
Sandbox Astronomy – This Is How
Filed under: Personal | 6 Comments
Tags: breaking up, friends, music, relationships, sandbox astronomy
Late Night Ramblings
The lack of writing keeps me up tonight. Ideas bounce around in my head. Her voice and my voice collide and I’m not sure what are memories and what are fabrications. The constant drum in my head: I have to write, I have to write. But, who am I writing for?
I’ve been reading Anaïs Nin. I spend most of my day wasting time and when I go to bed I pull out the book no matter how tired I am. I pull her words up to my neck like covers and I am comforted. Her love and her passion give me something to look forward to. I’ve been living for myself these last couple of days. The worst kind of narcissism. Every word and every cloud and every pattern in the world was put there for me.
Today I saw animal faces everywhere. The outlines of jaws closing around my throat. I wasn’t scared. What is mortality but a reminder to live?
Even if living is just another cup of tea and a hundred or so words that I can finally be proud of.
Changing the subject, now. A few words for the interwebs. You might have noticed a few additions to the sidebar:
1) Sass @ Hot Piece of Sass: This woman does it all for me. She makes me laugh, cry, shudder… hell, sometimes she even turns me on. I’ve been quietly loving her blog for some time but then she had to go and give me an award and make me love her even more. Because, we all know the path to my heart is through flattery. Go check her out if you haven’t already. You won’t regret it.
2) Paige @ La Vie à Vernelle: Paige is lovely. She has always been lovely. I’ve been following her blog for ages and her twitter feed and somehow I never put two and two together. I’m easily confused, ok? Anyway, she is always ready with a bit of optimism to balance my moods. One of her recent posts really inspired me to get out, spend time with this city before I leave it. You don’t need company for that, just a thirst for adventure. Oh, and a good book.
There are a few others,
The always introspective and adventurous Floreta @ The Solitary Panda.
The devastatingly smart and spot-on Tristan @ The Almost Right Word.
The always stunning prose of moments captured by Zan @ A Cup Of Tea & A Wheat Penny.
Oh, and nothing new, but the devilishly hilarious Mr. Apron @ My Masonic Apron who recently nominated me to be 20sb’s featured blogger of November and always has only the kindest comments to leave me. Adore me some Apron, I do. Oh, and thank you loves who have voted for me so far. It’s so fantastic that I don’t even have words. Really. I know, hard to believe, me without words…
Thank you lovely bloggers who make these sleepless nights satisfying in their own way. Your words have a way of filling in all the cracks in my world. Well, some of them, anyway.
Later, gaters.
Kings of Convenience – Boat Behind
P.S.
Have you been listening to Kings of Convenience? If you haven’t you should be.
Filed under: Links, Personal, Tidbits | 3 Comments
Tags: blogs, kings of convenience, Links, music, Video
I’m one of those people, you know the ones. The people who somehow managed to make it to their mid-twenties without seeing most of the classic films that have shaped contemporary cinema. I’ve decided to rectify this gross mistake by watching as many classics as possible before next year. Get a jump on things. Without even realizing it, I rented West Side Story and made this an experience to share with the interwebs. I live-tweeted my experience of seeing WSS for the first time tonight and made a few people laugh. So, here it is in it’s entirety:
Watching West Side Story for the first time… these are the lamest gangs ever.
You know you are a bitter singleton when: actors claim love at first sight and you think “bullshit” and shake your head.
The Jets and the Sharks are probably the least intimidating gang names to ever exist.
They are all about to rumble… I hope that means a dance off.
OH NOES SOMEONE PULLED A SHINY KNIFE!! Shit just got real in the West Side.
Riff totes pulled the silent line “A pox on both your houses.”
Crap! And then Tony stabs Bernardo and suddenly this ending doesn’t look so happily ever after, afterall. Spoiler Alert.
Now we’ll see if “oops, I killed your brother in a revenge rage.” Is forgivable in the West Side.
This is awkward. She seems cool with it. I mean she’s crying but she’s also all over him.
A little more turmoil for the whole lover/brother murderer thing might be nice. Apparently in these movies a song makes everything better.
The Jets are upset over all the death so they are dancing it out in an abandoned garage. No good can come of this.
The new leader of the Jets and the squirrely wannabe girl gang member just had a moment: “Ya done good buddy boy.” “Thanks, daddy-o.”
Oh. Anita caught the lovers in the act. She’s pissed. “A boy who kills cannot love.” Seriously, Maria, listen to your friend.
Wait. But, now Maria is singing about being super in love. She convinces Anita. Now they are harmonizing. I think all is forgiven.
I’m totally going to pull this singing my feelings move next time I get in a fight or accidentally kill someone in a blind rage.
The plot thickens: Maria gets detained by mean bear-like cop. Anita goes to leave a message for Tony or something, I wasn’t watching.
Wow. The Jets are super racist and dance-raping Anita all over the place. This is really uncomfortable.
SHOCKING PLOT TWIST: Anita tells the Jets to tell Tony that Chino found out about them and shot her!
Tony looks like he’s going to be sick. Dance it out, Tony. Just dance it out. Nope. He’s running the streets screaming for Chino.
“CHINOOOOOO! C’mon get me too! Sob sob I want you to.”
WAIT! He sees Maria and everything might wor—oh wait, no, just got shot. He’s totally dying in her arms.
Oh nooooo she takes Chino’s gun. Crazy woman with a gun! Says they killed those people with hate. Pretty sure it was with knives and guns.
Cops show up but don’t do anything. She kisses the body. Members from both gangs carry the it away. Friends. Alls well that ends well.
Whoa whoa whoa. THE END?? I thought the Juliet-character was supposed to die in the end. This isn’t like Romeo & Juliet at all.
Good call, Maria. Why commit suicide over a 2-day romance? Sing a song, dance a little, you’ll love again.
And so ends the live tweeting of my first West Side Story experience. Tune in next time, when I watch & tweet the classics.
What classic should I watch/tweet next?
Filed under: Movies | 10 Comments
Tags: live tweet, Movies, twitter, west side story
Dance It Out
I seem to have a knack for encouraging otherwise stable and sane men to drive great distances only to be served up with a healthy portion of disappointment. They keep driving and I keep slamming a No Vacancy sign in the window. Every step they take towards me forces me two steps back. I loathe to be touched; shrinking away from every sign of affection, every kind word or loaded look.
We spend the drive from the theater to my place talking about the end of this, the reasons why. My reasons. My issues, rather. When I leave the car he follows for the hug goodbye. The hug goodbye that turns into that hug, the other hug, and then another hug goodbye. He has a rower’s arms and they fit so perfectly around me. My head finds a nook by his neck. It would be easy to turn the goodbye hug into a goodbye kiss, it would only take a tilt of the head and a look up, but I don’t. I am the Queen of Snap Decisions and this one was made when the vibrations of his condescending tone reached the inside of my ear. When icy fingers crawled up my spine and his face morphed into that of another. I no longer have the energy to smooth out the creases, to make this house a home.
I spend my Saturday night on the phone with a friend, instead. We laugh at the other’s misfortune until we both grow quiet with loaded silence. The things we do to ourselves. The puzzles we can’t solve. The mountains we can’t move. The chances we refuse to take. When we hang up I make another cup of tea, I eat another apple, I sit staring at the darkened screen of the television. Then I put my headphones on, turn the music up and dance. I shimmy. I grind my hips. I take it low. I switch to the robot until I’m out of breath and laughing at myself. I dance it out, this hole in my chest where a heart should be.
I dance. I dance and I dance. I dance until I’m red and sweating and it doesn’t seem to help much, but it sure beats crying.
The Temper Trap – Sweet Disposition
Filed under: Personal | 4 Comments
Tags: breaking up, endings, friends, identity, life choices, mistakes, music, neurosis, relationships, romance, the temper trap, Video
The Bird:
"You do not even think of your own past as quite real; you dress it up, you gild it or blacken it, censor it, tinker with it... fictionalize it, in a word, and put it away on a shelf -- your book, your romanced autobiography. We are all in flight from the real reality. That is the basic definition of Homo sapiens." -John Fowles The French Lieutenant's Woman-
the things people say
Awarded:
the leftovers:
thanks 
