beautiful. truth.

I want to rip off your logic and make passionate sense to you. I want to ride in the swing of your hips. My fingers will dig in you like quotation marks, blazing your limbs into parts of speech.

— Jeffrey McDaniel
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interesting point of view…

What if all women were bigger and stronger than you? And thought they were smarter? What if women were the ones who started wars? What if too many of your friends had been raped by women wielding giant dildos and no K-Y Jelly? What if the state trooper who pulled you over on the New Jersey Turnpike was a woman and carried a gun? What if the ability to menstruate was the prerequisite for most high-paying jobs? What if your attractiveness to women depended on the size of your penis? What if every time women saw you they’d hoot and make jerking motions with their hands? What if women were always making jokes about how ugly penises are and how bad sperm tastes? What if you had to explain what’s wrong with your car to big sweaty women with greasy hands who stared at your crotch in a garage where you are surrounded by posters of naked men with hard-ons? What if men’s magazines featured cover photos of 14-year-old boys with socks tucked into the front of their jeans and articles like: “How to tell if your wife is unfaithful” or “What your doctor won’t tell you about your prostate” or “The truth about impotence”? What if the doctor who examined your prostate was a woman and called you “Honey”? What if you had to inhale your boss’ stale cigar breath as she insisted that sleeping with her was part of the job? What if you couldn’t get away because the company dress code required you wear shoes designed to keep you from running? And what if after all that women still wanted you to love them?

— Carol Diehl, For the Men Who Still Don’t Get It

whoever “him” may be…

She wondered whether there would ever come an hour in her life when she didn’t think of him — didn’t speak to him in her head, didn’t relive every moment they’d been together, didn’t long for his voice and his hands and his love. She had never dreamed of what it would feel like to love someone so much; of all the things that had astonished her in her adventures, that was what astonished her the most.

— Philip Pullman

i do not like Beethoven

i love classical music for many reasons. the most fluent being it can be the soundtrack to anything; love, sex, anger, thought. it evokes emotion like no other music genre. it gives power to vision and strength to movement. 

when i was young i played the flute, from the time i was 8 until i was 16 and then some in college. i never appreciated the music i played, i saw it as a boring gesture that must be made to the musical gods. something that was uncool and tedious. although, secretly in an omission that i will never own up to, i loved the way it got under my skin. the way it seemed to moved me when i was playing. the way it took on its own persona and made me move with its rhythm. 

now watching my son learn to play the piano, and enduring his constant questions as to why he has to learn this “boring crap that will never mean anything”, i am reminded that not only will he one day (i hope) find it moving, but also find that its moves those who hear his playing. 

side note: i do not like Beethoven. his music, beautiful. his airtime – overused. 

 

movement

there is a level of excitement that comes when you feel the earth moving, finally moving after being still for what seems to be eons. when you know that something is happening, a silver feeling inside that seems to break the bearer, like on a perfect creme brule. my earth is moving. my life is starting. i can say that i have no idea where i am going, what is going to happen when i get there or how it is all going to work out, but thats the beauty in movement – you never know where the motion will take you, you just move and go with it. enjoying the secrecy in the next step.

fantaisie…

“Fantasies have to be unrealistic because the moment, the second you get what you seek, you don’t, you can’t want it anymore. In order to continue to exist, desire must have it’s objects perpetually absent. It’s not the “it” that you want. It’s the fantasy of “it”

one day, he will think of me this way…

“I wake up wanting you. I fall asleep wanting you. I watch a magnificent sunrise and can think only of sharing it with you. I glimpse a piece of amber and see your eyes… I’ve caught a disease, and the fever abates only when I’m near you.”

— Karen Marie Moning, To Tame A Highland Warrior

did you know… i bet not.

Here are some things people need to know about me:

1. i seriously do break out into very random songs at most random times. ex: “who are the people in your neighborhood?” while at the ob/gyn. (whistled while getting a pap)

2. i would rather have diet coke than any other beverage – even alcoholic ones.

3. i watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S daily. (i own the dvds, and i have tivo)

4. i love driving – windows down, music up. even in the winter.

5. i wear flip flops year ’round.

6. i only do laundry once a week…. i have enough clothes.

7. i daydream. a lot.

8. i have to shave my legs daily, otherwise i just dont feel right.

9. i am a huge germaphob, contagious disease-a-phob, and weird body-blemishes-a-phob.

10. i dont go a day without music.

11. i am most picky about my handbags and shoes.

12. i think my hair, my eyes and my lips are my best physical features.

13. i take pictures with film – anyone can shoot digital. (well almost)

14. i think UGGS are slippers. (i dont wear them)

15. i can not live happily without my iPhone. (on my 5th)

16. i have some of the most wild, eclectic, wacky, smart, fascinating friends in the world.

17. i let my dog sleep on my bed – if you have a problem with that you gets no love.

18. i sometimes iron my sheets, pillow cases and duvet covers.

19. i love cooking from scratch. seriously.

20. i love mix-matched lamps.

21. toothpaste with peroxide makes my tongue feel furry.

22. i love tivo.

23. i love listening to old Billie Holiday records when it rains – on my vintage record player.

24. my bed is my safe place – its like a cloud.

25. my celebrity dinner quest list:

a. David Crowder

b. Nivea Hamilton

c. David Schwimmer

d. Abel Tesfaye

e. Carlos Whittaker

f. Dwayne Carter

g. Shahrukh Khan

we would eat at ihop.

character v. reputation

“Be more concerned with your character than your reputation, because your character is what you really are, while your reputation is merely what others think you are.”   – John Wooden

 

character:

strength in my own self understanding. i know who i am – without a doubt. well maybe. 

boldness that comes from finding a voice and being quiet too long.

stubborn to a fault.

loving to fault. 

unafraid. 

 

reputation

single mother with two boys

not independent 

creative

smart

fighter

single mother of two boys

kind

follower

obsessively organized

single mother of two boys. 

 

just a simple thought

i am really exploring why i do not think love happens in real life. that two people who ‘care’ for one another may deeply care for each other, may even ‘love’ the other person. but are they so in love with that person that they cherish them, need them, feel lost without them, story-book love them.

when i see couples, i always ask myself the same question: “what is it that connects them, that brings them into this situation. will he be true to her? will she nag him to death? will their life begin and end with each other?” 

i see relationships truly has heartache. a constant battle over who has the upper-hand and who holds power over the others feelings. who does something out of fear that the other will be angry if its not done. a marriage is a lifetime of placating and patronization. this is a real relationship to me. maybe a wrong, but to me this feels, normal. feels right. 

odd isn’t. how i can wish, want and desire something different, yet ache for this dysfunctional familiarity. i do not think i know what a true loving relationship is or looks like. would i know it if i saw it?

just a simple thought. 

essentials

essentials

inspired by this i chose to share my essentials.

daily bagel and americano on ice (i like hot)

my macbook (it holds all my secrets)

Pandora Radio – i never go a day without it.

flip flops – i know its cold out. (i don’t like hot)

Twitter

#FSG  – it is my Vade Mecum

Burts Bees lip balm

earbuds – never know when you are going to have to black something out

iPhone – my life is on it

 

–share your essentials

Let go?

I’m not sure if god is just testing me or if it’s me that’s holding me back. My heart is so far from where my feet are that it almost seems unreal. Unreal that what I want most will ever be real and unreal that I will be able to make it happen. But that is what they want me to fear. What they assume I will give up. What they believe I can let go of and settle for. How can I let go of something I can not go five minutes without thinking about? How can I forgot who I know I can be? But how can I get out of their cage?!

thought as this

“Did I say that she was beautiful? I was wrong. Beauty is too tame a notion; it evokes only faces in magazines. A lovely eloquence, a calming symmetry; none of that describes this woman’s face. So perhaps I should assume I cannot do it justice with words. Suffice it to say that it would break your heart to see her; and it would mend what was broken in the same moment; and you would be twice what you’d been before.”

—  Clive Barker, Galilee

this is how want to be thought of.

 

does he love?

something that has been on my mind lately, does any man really love?

does he think about her during the day and wish he could hold her or she would hold him? does he wonder what she is doing at 2:17p while in his finance meeting? does he miss her when she goes to the beach with her friends, the way she misses him when he goes to new york on business. does he crave her touch or ache to hear her voice? does he want nothing more than to spend sundays talking, wrapped  in the covers? does he think about holding her hand when driving to the movies? does he need to be touched and see her response to his touch? does he love this way?

i don’t think i have ever been loved this way; i think i have been accepted, liked, enjoyed… but never loved. i’m not sure if this kind of love exists outside of my own thoughts. i hope it does, for this is how i love.

don’t date the the girl who reads

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you.

{Or stay and save my life. }

Charles Warnke

Marie Howe

on fresh air today at lunch, Terry Gross interviewed poet Marie Howe. i was floored – she is thought-provoking, clever and somehow her words reach into your soul and clench hold of an inner ideal of what i have already thought. one poem reminds me of Emily Dickinson‘s poem from Time and Eternity, While I was Fearing it It Came; to me, a gut wrenching portrayal of how fear of anything prevents one from living and only pervades a focus on the fear or fear of that we try to ignore.

Marie Howe

How Some of It Happened

My brother was afraid, even as a boy, of going blind–so deeply that he would turn the dinner knives away from, looking at him, he said, as they lay on the kitchen table. He would throw a sweatshirt over those knobs that lock the car door from the inside, and once, he dismantled a chandelier in the middle of the night when everyone was sleeping. We found the pile of sharp shining crystals in the upstairs hall. So you understand, it was terrible when they clamped his one eye open and put the needle in through his cheek and up into his eye from underneath and left it there for a full minute before they drew it slowly out once a week for many weeks. He learned to, lean into it, to settle down he said, and still the eye went dead, ulcerated, breaking up green in his head, as the other eye, still blue and wide open, looked and looked at the clock. My brother promised me he wouldn’t die after our father died. He shook my hand on a train going home one Christmas and gave me five years, as clearly as he promised he’d be home for breakfast when I watched him walk into that New York City autumn night. By nine, I promise, and he was–he did come back. And five years later he promised five years more. So much for the brave pride of premonition, the worry that won’t let it happen. You know, he said, I always knew I would die young. And then I got sober and I thought, OK, I’m not. I’m going to see thirty and live to be an old man. And now it turns out that I am going to die. Isn’t that funny? –One day it happens: what you have feared all your life, the unendurably specific, the exact thing. No matter what you say or do. This is what my brother said: Here, sit closer to the bed so I can see you.

i know that feeling, that total take-over of body and mind, that is ingrained into your soul and every movement and thought of each and every second of each and every day – yet, the focus does not prevent the encounter any more or less than the removal of that fear.

Emily Dickinson
WHILE I was fearing it, it came,
  But came with less of fear,
Because that fearing it so long
  Had almost made it dear.
There is a fitting a dismay,  
  A fitting a despair.
’T is harder knowing it is due,
  Than knowing it is here.
The trying on the utmost,
  The morning it is new,       
Is terribler than wearing it
  A whole existence through.
To me, a huge fan of Emily Dickinson, I thought these two ideas, went hand-in-hand and I found it interesting.

“it felt like a kiss”

today like everyday I listen to the story or fresh air on NPR at lunch – today fresh air was interviewing Carole King, award-winning singer-song writer. a great interview and a lot of interesting conversation; but the statement that stuck with me all day was Carole talking about the song “He hit me (it felt like a kiss)”.

Carole spoke of the abuse she suffered from her third husband:

“… there are women — and some men — who experience domestic abuse who feel ashamed, who think it’s their fault, who think they don’t deserve to be safe or don’t remember what it’s like to be safe. And I thought, ‘If women and men read this and say, ‘Wow, she was successful. She had financial independence. She had it so together and she could be in a relationship like that … maybe I’m not so bad, maybe it’s not my fault.’ …”

what struck me was that word safe. what does it mean to be or feel safe? i don’t know that i have ever felt safe.

safe is defined by Webster as:

1: free from harm or risk : unhurt
2: secure from threat of danger, harm, or loss
i do not believe at any time in my life I have felt safe. all my life i may have been being hit (not literally) and it felt like a kiss. i have felt “safe” in unhealthy relationships, chaotic family life and dangerous choices. i have been shown that is what love is…
i think i am just beginning to realize how backwards i have been seeing love.
like being hit and then told it’s a kiss.

do you validate?

we all want/need validation.

at work. school. church. from friends, family, etc.

for our job performance. that paper you spent 3 months writing. the new wallpaper your spent all day putting up – only to remember what a b***h it is to remove.

we all want/need validation.

it’s important though, who you seek validation from and for what. example…

asking your home-boy for a high-five after tagging the side of a train – not healthy.

asking your best friend for kudos after running for a block without passing out – healthy.

I do not crave validation. but i do crave authenticity – to which no one thing/person/relationship in my life fulfills. I really have learned to live without it, but lately, due to a very inauthentic person i am made to see the difference and want the real thing.

It, on some level, brings loneliness.