Thursday, July 22, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
I bent down and felt in my messenger bag, amongst the needles and tampons for a pen. It was an awkward way to move and just before I found the pen, I wondered if it was worth the effort. Just before quitting, I felt it, a little thicker than the knitting needles. I underlined the words “Did you ever get fed up?' I said 'I mean, did you ever get scared that everything was going to go lousy unless you did something?”-Catcher in the Rye. I don't know how I feel about this character Holden. At times I'm rather irritated at his Negative Nelly status, and then the next moment I feel I might fall in love with him, the way he reminds me of Marcos so. Its in these periods of memorium that I feel such a fondness for Holden. I sort of picture him to have the same build as Marcos, the same face. I think its why I got so disappointed when Holden had that prostitute to his room, and why I felt so bad for him when Maurice made him cry. And then there's the way he refers to certain types of people as “Phonies”. At first I wasn't sure I understood what he meant, and that's shocking to me now, because no one knows exactly what he means more than me. Living here in the trendy down town, you meet these “phonies” everywhere, spilling off of street corners into the gutter. The trouble is, however, that this phoniness is catching, like a stray path from piety into worldly lusts of flesh and purse-strings; Like when I said “I bent down and felt in my messenger bag”; that's phony. Why do I have to call it a messenger bag? Who do I think I am? I'm not a messenger. I'm a girl who rides her bike (when the tires actually keep air) and who carries a large bag. Its just a bag.
Traps are set everywhere, and baited heavily with sweet nectar and exotic treats (or rather the promise of them. Odds are you'll never see them with your own eyes, but rather hear merely whispers of their existence, perhaps see them on an episode of Khloe and Kourtney take Miami), mislead to the trapping claws by a trail of pressing bills and chump change. Stepping stones down to a pit of bottomless pockets, or pockets too shallow, are gradual and sneaking and before you know it, what you thought were good career moves or at least a good way to suck up to your boss turns out to be nothing more than dirty tricks to rope you in. Suddenly you find yourself stacking panties or hanging dresses (retail will cause the biggest trouble, mark my words; Hand in your application with guards around your heart.) and you find yourself filled with a lust far more permeating than any sexual deviation. If the love of money is the root of all evil, then the lust for it is far more filthy. I found myself hanging up dresses, stricken with severe disappointment, deep and all consuming, lost over the mere fact that I could not spend $80 for the pretty flower pattern “...$70 if I get the plain...” I argued to myself. A seven dollar ball of lip balm? I began to work out ways to justify the expense. I never spent the money, mind you, but I wanted to. To my core I wanted to.
And it happens to the best of us. Often our purchases are the makeshift balm we scrap together to bandage the wounds our jobs inflict upon us. I've begun to realize that the citizens who work the hardest are perhaps those who drive to work expecting, and receiving, disrespect and disappointment from the moment they walk in the door to the moment they leave. The burden of disrespect is a heavy weight on the neck of the employee, and at times it threatens to drag you a grinding halt. Worse than that; inspite of all your longing to escape from those miserable ties and fly to the heights of your potential, it is this weight that serves as an anchor, trapping you in your job, tying you to the source of you pain. And things become the distraction; Things become the justification. “So I have something to show for it.” As if that new phone, those new clothes, a new car, a motorcycle even, would be our reason amidst all the madness. And if we just had those new clothes to see in the closet, or that new phone to ring in our pockets, or that new motorcycle to drive to work, then we would forget.
Needless to say, things are taking on the appearance of something lost in shambles. A series of poor choices that at the time seemed genius, a stack of parking tickets, a car to smog, a clutch to replace, bills to pay, are burying us in a hole. And by default almost, we found ourselves slipping into an enamored affair, lured by money and possession and the comforts those nymphs promise. The dust of my thoughts are the little pieces of me, of the world, of my Bible and my God all floating around. This is the only way I can describe what it is like. All the ideals, ideas, philosophies, desires vs needs, all floating around my room. And my struggle is to pick and chose with precision and care those that should stay, and those that should go. I am one of the lucky ones; my work is rewarding. As a Nanny, I go home each day knowing I've made a difference, and feel that the emotional payback outweighs even the check every two weeks. But I haven't always been so fortunate, and even though I count my blessings now, it still is all to easy to loose my footing time and again.
I suppose this is what you will all have to listen to, now that I have been grounded without wheels. Well, I've got things with four wheels, but as I just said they've become more of a burden than a vessel of freedom. My thing with two wheels is really a thing with just one wheel, that doesn't do me much good. Hence I've got no more tales of midnight rides, no more updates on a sore behind. Now, my lucky friends, here my social commentary on life and consumerism! Poor souls. I pity you, I do, for I get the strange sense that I'm growing less inspired and more mundane by the minute.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Wrought with cramps, hormonal exhaustion, having already bypassed a lovely sounding trip to the lake due to this months troubles, I dutifully saddled my Schwinn once again. The place was that we would head half a mile south to the coffee shop, I would talk to you guys a bit, and then we'd head a mile north to grocery shop before heading home. The Advil was kicking in, and although the air was hot on my neck, its caressing was gentle and welcome. About half way to the Revue where our Americano's -One with whipped cream, one without, both iced- were waiting for us, my rickety bike began to racket even louder. I was flashing bike to that fateful ride to work. The famed goat-head fiasco. But ride on we did. It wasn't till we hopped back on the bikes -my Americano still three fourths full because I'm like some sort of turtle on two legs- that I realize something was wrong. My back tire is flat. And we just bought these new tubes.
I am, needless to say, devastated. And angry. And all together disappointed. My best intentions foiled, falling by the way side in spite of every effort spent in keeping things afloat. It is a mere symptom of a disease that creeps into your life and robs you of the capability to buy a cutting board if you needed it, or a dish-rack for dishes to dry on, or a new tube for a popped tire. The walk home was long, with each stomp of my foot I drove my curses deeper and deeper into the concrete, cursed my poverty, my bad choices, my budget. I cursed the darkness that had fallen, and I cursed every homeless tramp that passed a little too close to me. I cursed the June bug that lingered in the beam of my head light, flapping its stupid sticky wings before turning around and running into my stomach. However, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that this stupid June bug did illicit a few stupid giggles as we tried to dodge and weave our way around its lumbering flight patterns.
We passed, slowly, our favorite house, the one with an art studio that takes up half the south side of the house, the room with all the windows filled with canvases half full, and mostly full, and still blank. In the darkness of night the room was illuminated, casting a soft glow of light across the neighborhood sidewalk, creating shadows out of my spinning spokes and that crumby flat tire. I couldn't help but feel my heart skip a beat at seeing this studio that I've passed so many times now lit up and come to life; even as a drab and darkened mere room it capture my heart. Now, my soul lighted on air a bit. There sat a gray haired lady, doing something mysterious at a desk. She wore a purple t-shirt. I drove my eyes back to the ground and plunged my feet forward. I smothered the shimmer in my soul and let the yuckiness back in. Right now, I liked that better. Life sucked, and it always sucks, and even if a momentary bit of fun like bike riding comes in, make no mistake, it will go back to sucking.
We were about half way home now. A man exited his SUV to manually close the garage door behind him. We passed, my head down, Marcos' mind I'm sure reeling circles, exacting schemes to cheer me up. The man in the red shirt called to us “Do you need a little air?” He came forwards and listened with such sympathetic eyes as I lamented of the flat tire, and he begged us never mind his face; He was hit by a car while he was riding his new carbon framed bicycle, the very one he'd bought twenty minutes before. After a good five minutes full of caring glances and a bevy of Goodlucks, we were on our way again. Suddenly, my heart felt a little lighter as its beats went skipping, bouncing off the tips of my loafer shoes and sailing into the night sky.
Its amazing what a bit of kindness can do. And maybe the constant here isn't Suck, maybe the constant is actually the light streaming down from windows. And maybe I had it backwards that night on the street, perhaps life isn't all black. Maybe what's really happening is that Life always has Light in it, and even when a bit of suck and darkness sneaks in, it will always go back to Light.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
My thoughts are like dust, which would settle themselves and rest were it not for the fan or random flicking cat tail to stir them back up again. For now they are floating around the room, for the most part lacking form and shape. I should get up and do something; perhaps the dishes, or a shower would be nice, or I could pack myself up and go for a bike ride. But I can't peel myself up from the couch, from the movie I'm not watching, from the dust I'm trying to collect and decipher as it lands on my windowsill.
And so consequently there is not much to discuss today. I could tell you about the hair cut I plan to get; a chic bob that hits just below my chin and A-Lines up the back of my head. A brave move on my part I'm sure, because my hair hasn't been that short since junior high. I could tell you how I'm attempting to learn French; successful in the reading and recognizing words, massive failure in pronunciations. I could tell you about my black coffee, something that's always been an old writing standby for me; it is where I turn when there's nothing else to talk about.
Black coffee. It is (narcissistically?) one of my favorite poetic metaphors. I began taking my coffee black on my Senior trip to Disney Land- that morning I was desperate for a cup that, once the pot was set down in front of me I gripped it and slammed it down, refusing to wait for the cream and sugar. Shortly following that same year my parents divorced, and I had separate 18th birthday parties, separate graduation parties, and soon stopped speaking to my father altogether. I became somewhat of a minimalist; I looked at life and all that had been ripped away, and chose to help these demons along and did away with the rest, accepting only the bare essentials. I wanted nothing of frills or pleasures. The only pretty thing I prized was my white Orchid. I listened to a lot of Bob Dylan and fantasied about one day hitting the road, leaving my life behind like dust discarded dust from old worn out tires. Where would I go? Colorado to live with Teresa. I'm sure she would have set me up in a tent next to her garden. We could have built a fort in her living room and I could have been happy there for some time. I was so ready for this that I packed up my clothes in my red suitcase, and used only those, lived out of it, for months. Love now meant nothing to me, and I was convinced that I would die alone, on a mountain top, raising llamas, and that when I died it would be so cold that I would become a sort of Ice Mummy. Anyways, Coffee was the bare essential; creamer was the fancy extra. I've since reconciled myself to having a bounty, a plenty, a cup that is full. It wasn't easy; when love and marriage came a long I didn't know how to behave for quite sometime. But I've adjusted, and sometimes take creamer and sugar in my coffee, but it still is only when I'm feeling fancy.