This City is a Zoo

So, once again I am single in the city; how did this happen? Check previous post. Now that my sentence in suburbia has come to an end, I am once again navigating the metropolitan wildlife, just trying to stay alive. As daunting and surprising as all this has been for me, I have found benefits of being single in the city. So! Much! People! Watching! I think I've discussed my primal love of people watching before, so you know how seriously I take it. It's like a sport for me. Chicago is a wonderful place to observe the animal known as 'human'. My plan for the month of July is to break down and classify the four types of male humans, explaining in depth what traits and personalities and physical characteristics they have. The four types are as follows: Peacocks, Lions, Gorillas and Birds of Prey. Any man can be placed in either of these categories. You might not believe me now, but by the end of July you'll totally get it. I promise.

My Roman Was Defeated

My Roman was a warrior of feral tactics and vicious attitude. He was the one to rule them all. He tamed me, loved me and stripped me of what I knew. His ambition was boundless, he knew of no limits. He and I

ruled over an empire of our own design. No outside enemy could have defeated us, which is why it is so troubling to know we broke ourselves. Our insides made us weak. I clung to him while the fortress burned down around us. He sat and drank while the flames devoured our love. Our Roman Empire crumbled because of doubt and drink. My Roman was defeated by his own cup and my insecurities. The enemy on the inside greatly outweighs the enemy on the outside.

Couples Table Part Deux

We can all enter as one.
Legs criss-crossed over heels, with boots caught on bangles.
A several headed, multi-armed monster looking for fun.
When the music initiates the pairings, I'm the note that dangles.

It's not that hard to dance alone on the floor.
To have to serve and slide with just your own hips.
But remember to always have eyes on the exit door.
If you get overwhelmed by memories of opportunities missed.

They can all sit down as one.
Hands held over one another, with laughter bursting about.
You seat your nicotine scented self, exhaling for fun.
Silent prayers that the laughter, before the vodka, runs out.

It's not easy to sit at the couples table and be single.
But you do it, to be nice, and polite.
It's not easy to pin on a smile, laugh, and try to mingle.
But you do it, so you don't ruin the night.

They all nod their head and say you're next.
So you nod too, as they get up to dance.
They twirl about the room in all their wonder.
And it makes you realize, you've been acting like Blanche.

It’s not my fault that everyone I wanted to take me home is gone.
So I have the crown and title of being unstable.
I'm sorry, but not I'm going to drink until dawn.
Because sometimes it's hard, sitting at this couples table.


*** *** ***

"I'm single because I was born that way." -Mae West

I can't help but wonder, if I hadn't told so, so many men to "come up and see me sometime", would I be single now? The Blanche Deveareux regimen can wear you out some nights. Other nights, it's the greatest addiction I have. This way you can sleep spread eagle, with the bed all to yourself; and, at other times, you can sleep spread eagle on top of someone else. But still, what's it like to sit at the couples table and be there rightfully? I wonder.

Slice Life

I use to have so much going for me. And now I wake up and try to figure out how much longer I can stay in bed without having to skip brushing my teeth on the way out the door. I think I peaked when I was 20. I've been cut down. Now it's a slow decline into routines and monotonous errand running. When I first came back to Illinois I thought I would lay in the corner, lick my wounds, and then come back fighting. With new inspiration, new goals, new talents and a book deal. But in reality, my life is so common. So pedestrian. The one year anniversary of the attack quickly approaches, and it makes me so uncomfortable. I'm past the point of being 'o so thankful' for being spared of any bodily harm, these days I keep playing out scenarios of what would of happened had I just grabbed a knife and gone out there. The me of today would have started slicing and fighting. But, obviously, the me of then didn't do anything but sit on my bed and cower. Maybe that's why I'm so angry and muted these days. My frustrations may have turned inward, on myself. I didn't really want to fight for my life? Not my actual blood-flowing-through-veins life, but the built-this-from-the-ground-up life. If you don't have a life worth fighting for, are you living? I think that's from a James Bond movie. Or SuckerPunch. Or maybe it's a line from Alias. Either way. I chose not to fight for my life, and now, while living the results of said decision, I don't have much of a life at all. How do I fix this? Where do I pick up a gallon of passion, a dozen inspirations and a box of future? What aisle is that on? Doesn't Meijer sell everything? Maybe I'm past grocery aisles and Quik'E'Marts, maybe I need a trip to Oz. I would like my turn to stand in front of the great wizard, even knowing it's all a fake. At least it would be an adventure, something a little more exciting then my weekly charade. I'd choose fending off flying monkeys instead of avoiding errands.



"Mishaps are like knives, that either serve us or cut us, as we grasp them by the blade or the handle." -James Russell Lowell

The Right Ghost(s)

It was seven years ago yesterday, that I lost the privilege to wear white. And I still see him everyday in my head. No bother though, I see a lot of ghosts in my head. My brain is the ultimate haunted mansion. I'll admit, lately I have been walking amongst the dead too much; I've been relying on all my dead memories to keep my alive. I sincerely doubt that's a good thing. Don't they lock you up for that? Listen to the wrong ghosts and they fit you for a straight jacket, listen to the Holy Ghost and they fit you as sane. Either way, we're all just listening to disembodied voices, spirits that float through our brain and sail through our ears. One could argue that we're all just, plain crazy; no matter the the origin of our ghost(s). If that is the case, and I do get my straight jacket, at least I'll get to wear white again. ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ "There's a ghost in my lungs and it sighs in my sleep Wraps itself around my tongue as it softly speaks Then it walks, then it walks with my legs To fall, to fall, to fall at your feet" -Florence + The Machine

Smoke Flowers

You set fire to me,
so that I can bloom and grow.
You nourish me with your exhales,
and face me toward your red glow.

When you look away I wither,
I mold and lose my charm.
Light up your violet stem,
your thorn does me no harm

Your ivy eyes contained me,
so now you burn across my skin.
The embers hanging from your lips
give truth to the fire within.

Your smoke rings glide across my body,
puffed petals discharged to caress my face.
Our loving flower begins to perish,
not keeping up with this lavender race.

Nutrients you no longer offer
makes for a frozen, nicotine season.
My smile is turned just like the soil
because you wilted with green reason.


*** *** ***

I don't believe it to be fatalistic, because it is just natural truth. My dear friend Gwen summarizes it nicely with: "born to blossom, bloom to perish". We spread ourselves out for all our glory, only to begin to shrink.

In The Kitchen

Tonight I made pizza. I cried the whole time I was doing it.

The last time I made pizza, I was still living in Grand Rapids. I was still living with the pup. I was still living with my boys. Before starting to write tonight I checked to see if I had mentioned it at all on here, and I did. It was November 16th 2009. I stopped at a Meijer on the way home from night class to pick up ingredients. I was taking night classes then because I had a morning job and an afternoon job, so I went to class in the evening. Clearly my time was occupied, but I missed my boys and I wanted to do something nice for them. When I got home that night two of them were on the couch playing video games, one was upstairs in his room studying medical books, and I'm pretty sure the last one was chasing girls. I began to cook and chop and assemble, the pup sat eagerly in the kitchen watching me; silently willing me to drop something to the floor so she could lap it up. It didn't take long for the two playing video games to make their way into the kitchen to see what I was making. And it didn't take long for them to claim a seat in the kitchen nook, silently willing me to drop a plate of pizza in front of them. Eventually the one that was upstairs studying came down too, entering the kitchen in a hoodie and moccasins, exclaiming that the whole house smelled of onions and wanting to know why. By the time the pizzas were out of the oven all four of us were sitting in the kitchen nook talking and telling each other what was going on in our lives( I made sure there were left overs for the one chasing girls). It felt so good. It was a perfect moment, in my life. I loved those boys, I loved that house, I loved that dog, I loved the life I had then. I will forever, until the day God puts me down, refer to them as my boys. Because that's how I saw them, I claimed them, whether they wanted it or not, and I did everything I could to keep it all together. After it fell apart, I vowed to myself to never lay claim on a guy again. And I haven't.

That was the first time I left Grand Rapids, after the second time I left Grand Rapids I vowed to never make plans for the future, and I still haven't. Since coming back to Illinois, post fleeing in the middle of the night, I haven't made any plans on what to do with my life in the future. After having everything I had made, after the life that I had built and suffered for, taken and broken so quickly I don't have the energy to try and assemble something again. What happens now, is I do whatever is in front of me. I do and/or perform so I can collect a paycheck. But something inside of me wanted to make a pizza. So I planned on making a pizza for my parents. Then my day got shot to shit when I was called my job #2 and asked why I was 80 minutes late for my shift. So my dinner plans got ruined. My baby steps got gunned down right in front of me. For the record, it was a scheduling error on job #2's fault, not mine. But the point is, I didn't get to make the pizza dinner I had planned. I didn't get to feel like an actual human, who does actual human things, and who makes actual human plans. Instead I went to work. When I got home, I still wanted to make it though. So, at ten thirty six at night, with my dad sitting across the counter watching me, I began to make a pizza in the kitchen. About five minutes in, while beginning to dice the olives, I began to cry. I began to cry, but I still made the pizza. I stood there chopping, while tears rolled down my cheeks. I cried for having to leave my life in Grand Rapids, I hadn't done that yet. I cried for the fact that I won't see the pup ever again. That gorgeous, smart and wonderful mutt who meant so much to us all. I cried because I won't see my boys ever again. And I cried because I miss them everyday; not all day, but at least once a day I have the pang of knowing everything has passed. I cried because of how silly it is that one person, one tiny, minute person, can ruin my whole world. One person wanted me dead, wanted me gone, and now everything seems topsy turvy because of it. My approach was not to dwell on it, to count my blessings and be glad I was alive; that July afternoon could have gone drastically different, I know that. But I didn't let myself acknowledge the fact that I was so pissed. I was holding it together, right up until I was making a pizza in the kitchen of my parents condo. Somewhere between the red gravy and the fresh oregano I broke open. My dad was actually really good about. When I first started we began to get up from the stool to come and comfort me, but I signaled for him to sit back down. I didn't need to be consoled, everyone had been doing that since I moved back, what I needed was to just fucking cry. So he sat and listened while I told him about the last time I had made pizza, how it was a perfect symbol of the life I once had. He let me tell him how everything was so screwed up, while I spread the dough in the pan. In between sobs I explained how it didn't seem right that one person could topple the entire structure I had made. And then, after I had put them both in the oven, he began to clean up the kitchen and I went to my bathroom and Stridexed my face. A nasty side effect of emotions is break outs, and I hate those. While I was patting down my cheeks, I thought about how wonderful it would be if I could just sizzle my anger away. It would be brilliant if I could just dump it into a bowl and put it on the bottom rack of the oven and burn it into a charred oblivion. But, that's not how it works.

The pizza was perfect. The time I shared it with my boys, and again tonight. The first night was almost two years ago exactly, and yet perfect pizza was still perfect pizza. I will never have my Grand Rapids life again, that perfection is lost forever; but I am beginning to believe that some new form of perfection can be found. If I made it once, I can make it again.

*** *** ***

"Still, there is this sense of missed opportunity. Maybe there is nothing, ever, that can equal the recollection of having been young together. Maybe its as simple as that. Richard was the person Clarissa loved at her most optimistic moment." -M. Cunningham in The Hours. (My most favorite author, and my most favorite book.)