Saturday Night Lullaby

A little early, but I have "real" work and then a few things on the Elvis Calendar.
My parents are going on their first real date in about 100 years tonight. I didn't want to be too nosy so I didn't ask what they were doing. But I did ask what a perfect date to them would be when they first started dating, which was actually when they were first married.
Long story short,
neighbors almost the whole of their lives,
Big Jim dated Marcelle's older sister Carol,
Carol gets sick of him and tries to pawn him off on younger sis,
Big Jim wants to get set up with Laurie because she had an "award winning personality" . . . aka boobies,
Laurie is already madly in love with my uncle Chip,
she in turns pawns Big Jim off on Marcelle,
they "hang out" a few times before he's shipped off to Germany and start writing each other
This whole process started when my mom was about 19. A little less than 20 years later, I was born. And that is how my mother met my father.
Marcelle said a perfect date would be the two going out on the town dancing. Big Jim decided to get all cute and say a perfect date would be him getting to fish in his boat and drink beers with his buddies half the night and Marcelle not nagging him about smelly fish guts in the kitchen sink. Big Jim got a smack on the dome for that one.
I asked if they had a song (in separate rooms of course, I didn't want anyone cheating).
Big Jim said Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable."
Marcelle said they didn't have a song and if she did, she couldn't remember. Classic.
Every song reminds you of the Big Guy, huh, Ma? ::wink:wink:nod::nod::

Don't get your hopes up Lady, I'm still not sold on the whole marriage deal. I need a more persuasive argument.

But until then, let's get FUCKED up with Ryan.




Have a beautiful Saturday and an even lovelier evening.
XOXO,
Cindy

The Art of Rhetoric

That's just it. Rhetoric is an art. Anyone with the right tools, the right pieces of information, proper timing and an air of authority can win an argument/debate. Winning arguments can be as easy as knowing the other sides weak points and monopolizing on them. A subsidiary form of sword fighting, or male-ego pissing contest. It seems that men in trivia contests in bars and die-hard feminists find me, and it is from these dicks I shy. I find these sophists tres drole. They don't care about truths, they care about always being right. Being right in the way my teachers have been teaching me to write papers. Start with your thesis and find points to support that thesis. Are we serious? Is that really how life works? I like to start very general, my thesis changes several times in a "good" research paper. Generally I always start with a question, and only in the end do I come up with a loose answer. Not because I'm wishy washy, but because life is wishy washy, life is grey. I believe we were put on this Earth for at least one thing and we're doing a shitty job of it so far.

Excerpts from Bertrand Russell's "A Free Man's Worship"

If Power is bad, as it seems to be, let us reject it from our hearts. In this lies Man's true freedom: in determination to worship only the God created by our own love of the good, to respect only the heaven which inspires the insight of our best moments. In action, in desire, we must submit perpetually to the tyranny of outside forces; but in thought, in aspiration, we are free, free from our fellow-men, free from the petty planet on which our bodies impotently crawl, free even, while we live, from the tyranny of death. Let us learn, then, that energy of faith which enables us to live constantly in the vision of the good; and let us descend, in action, into the world of fact, with that vision always before us.

But the beauty of Tragedy does but make visible a quality which, in more or less obvious shapes, is present always and everywhere in life. In the spectacle of Death, in the endurance of intolerable pain, and in the irrevocableness of a vanished past, there is a sacredness, an overpowering awe, a feeling of the vastness, the depth, the inexhaustible mystery of existence, in which, as by some strange marriage of pain, the sufferer is bound to the world by bonds of sorrow. In these moments of insight, we lose all eagerness of temporary desire, all struggling and striving for petty ends, all care for the little trivial things that, to a superficial view, make up the common life of day by day; we see, surrounding the narrow raft illumined by the flickering light of human comradeship, the dark ocean on whose rolling waves we toss for a brief hour; from the great night without, a chill blast breaks in upon our refuge; all the loneliness of humanity amid hostile forces is concentrated upon the individual soul, which must struggle alone, with what of courage it can command, against the whole weight of a universe that cares nothing for its hopes and fears. Victory, in this struggle with the powers of darkness, is the true baptism into the glorious company of heroes, the true initiation into the overmastering beauty of human existence. From that awful encounter of the soul with the outer world, enunciation, wisdom, and charity are born; and with their birth a new life begins. To take into the inmost shrine of the soul the irresistible forces whose puppets we seem to be -- Death and change, the irrevocableness of the past, and the powerlessness of Man before the blind hurry of the universe from vanity to vanity -- to feel these things and know them is to conquer them.

To argue without context, simply pretense, to play merely because you're bored, the desire to lay one's card on the table, especially when one has been bluffing the entire time, well these are all . . . base. My Nana taught me long ago, never lay your hand all out on the table unless it comes down to it and you have to. Can you beat a royal straight flush?

You may ask me why does the caged bird sing? Because still, no one is listening.

Max wore a wolf costume. But if you're getting at the truth . . . I only remember the picture on one side of the page when Max is returning home. I remember the Wild Things reaching for . . . I never remembered what they were reaching for until I stumbled across the book almost 14 years later. In my scant library I have many books by Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss . . . Maurice Sendak's Where The Wild Things Are is the only children's book in prose form. Because it was never about the words. You really should read your source material.

WTF

So tonight's list of possible activities included catching a flick. I go onto moviefone . . . I look down the list, and I stumble across the title "Race To Witch Mountain." Whaaaaaaaat? Excuse me. That can't have anything to do with "Escape to Witch Mountain," a favorite at my household . . . still. It can't. It just can't. There's no way. No. I click on the title and learn it is a remake of some sort. FML. The Rock? Seriously? I'm not entering a theater until that movie's run is finished. Disney, please stop. Just stop. Walt is turning in his grave right about now.

Fun Crazy Joaquin Phoenix Fact

He directed this dark video for People In Planes and I suppose this song finds it ways to my eardrums on occasion. Not as much as their Falling by the Wayside.




Falling by the Wayside reminds me of my favorite Spring rituals. Within the next few weeks the impulse, the desire, the need will strike me to take a dip in the Atlantic Ocean. Some years I only get up to my knees (it's fucking cold) and other years I go all in. It's purely therapeutic. The salt water (in an ironic twist) while it stings open wounds, it helps to cure them. No pain, no gain. Like busting through glass . . .
When I hear this song, it feels like floating. I think some people have horrifying experiences that leave their mark on them forever. One you often hear about is drowning. In 1989, Marcelle handed over the reigns to Big Jim (aka my mom and dad) for the day. He took us to the Aquarium. I'm not a huge fan of seeing animals in captivity, but . . . I was four. I didn't know about this inclination yet. They were having an exhibit on Sting Rays and Big Jim was holding me literally by the seat of my pants over the edge of the tank. The water was, I'm guessing about 4 feet deep, I was I'm guessing NOT 4 feet (I'm barely 5'4" now . . . okay I'm 5 ' 3 1/2 " I like to round up) soooo keep that fact in mind. These creatures are beautiful, they're like beautiful birds of the ocean the way they soar through the water. I wanted to touch one so bad. I kept getting my hand close and pulling my hand away, also a little terrified at what might happen. The next events happened quite fast, Big Jim was enjoying my curiosity as well, and then it must have dawned on him he had another kid. I heard him call for my little brother and the rest of the events outside of the water are hazy to me. One second I'm delighting in the world my hands are reaching for, the next I'm literally drowning in it. There I was, half of me in the water, the other half dangled awkwardly over the edge. The edge of the tank was slender and sharp and it hurt my belly when Big Jim let go of me. I was initially winded and what do you do you gasp for air and all I got was a mouth full of water. I couldn't reach the bottom to push myself up and I starting to kick my legs. The actual scene could not have lasted more than 30 seconds, someone from the Aquarium grabbed me. Big Jim was back at my side in less than another 30 dragging my little brother behind him. I don't blame Big Jim for dropping me, or my little bro for running off. It was an unfortunate series of events but in the end, luckily, no one was seriously hurt. I never got to touch one of those beautiful sea birds, but I did get to be in their world for a bit.

Fun Crazy Joaquin Fact # 2. When Joaquin was four he went up to his dad and demanded his name be changed to something more along the lines of the names of his brother, River, and his sister, Rainbow. From that day on until he got some sense (though his sense is a hot topic of debate nowadays) he was called Leaf. I've never seen Joaquin before, but when I make the trek from the Bean to the Apple, I always try to stop at Teany. Aside from being a hot spot to spot the crazy nut-bag, it has some of the yummiest tea-bags and food around. I'm a working girl, and when I work I need coffee. When I unwind . . . nothing soothes my soul better than peppermint tea with honey.

Because it's a shitty day out . . .

I've been catching up on Julie Doucet and then going back and rereading some of her old stuff and it's just making me feel good lately. So I feel like writing a little blurb right now on Lip Plumpers so I'm going to. I "should" remove Product Whores from my Blogroll, but I'm not going to. They did an interesting little piece on Soap and Glory's Sexy Mother Pucker (which I own and love and like the post's author, I too, own way too many lip plumpers). I don't even necessarily think I need them, the plumping of the lips that is, I think my lips are fine the way they are. My dirty little secret . . . I like the burn. I'm a freak. It's odd enough I like make-up, as my close friends point out I rarely wear it, but I LOVE to buy it. Love it. Soap and Glory is my new obsession at Target. With catchy titles and silly little Anne Taintoresque puns/blurbs/photos, I can't resist. Feet Dreams may be one of my favorite products I've tried. I work on my feet all day, so after a shower/bath I really do feel like I'm "in a deal with the devil" (one of the silly blurbs on the bottle) when I rub the pups with this green-glorified-aloe-goo. With my lips on fire, my feet calm and cool (less chance I'll run), Ripple by my side, my heart on my sleeve and Julie's My Most Secret Desire under my pillow (there's always a book under my pillow) I sleep like a baby and have sweet cookie-filled dreams.

Actual last night I had a dream that my cat Sleepy Douglas (Sleepy for short) was eating Ripple, my ferocious rat. As long as it was a dream . . .

Because I Had to Rant

The other day I worked a shift for some kid shipping off to Romania to do volunteer work for a week (honestly, I did NOT make that up, I'm not THAT creative). I figured that would be my good deed for the week. Then it happened. The night was starting off so well and then a coworker handed me a clipping from a printout of a forum he had been reading about our store. I'm not real sure of the context of the forum, I only had the one post, but boy did it get my blood boiling.

"The manager at that store is a real a-hole. I was in there about a month ago and bought a new pair of shoes at the olimpia sports accross the way. I wore them in there to shop right after I purchased them. When I went into the bathroom in Marshalls which is always dirty and extra disgusting, I stepped in human poo that was all over the bathroom floor. When I told him about it he put a "closed" sign in front of it, didn't offer an assistance/apologies etc. I asked him for a disinfectant wipe for the bottom of my shoe, as I would be heading to my car and he told me to wait in line at the return desk. When I was standing there for quite some time I then asked him if I should keep waiting in line and he said he would check and he said the best he could do was a windex spray and gave me attitude. The empoyees there are extra miserable and after talking to one of them I guess the mgr there is a real problem."--- Mrs MC (source)

Dear Mrs. MC,
Please suck my left nut . . . not the right one, the left. You make me sick. The next time you come in our store looking for "cheap name brands for less" I would like you to look to the left of you and then to the right and ANYONE without a Marshalls name tag on, yes look deep into their eyes, is the culprit. I can guarantee that while the thought of walking into the public restrooms and "leaving a present" has crossed my mind several times, I would actually never do it (I have some self-respect). One of your fellow customers shit on the ground and according to OSHA not one single associate head-manager on down is certified to clean that mess. We hire an independent cleaning company (that is certified) to clean those bathrooms every morning and how you assholes continue to muck it up I'll never know. Bathrooms, by the way, that we have no legal obligation to have. Oh, sorry to hear about your new shoes that you bought at another (competing) establishment. And I know the manager you're talking about. He's a sweet-heart. You're a dumb bitch who stepped in shit. LOOK WHERE YOU'RE WALKING NEXT TIME!!!!!!
Sincerely,
Marshalls Slave For Life

Because I mentioned Weezer yesterday and I need a few of these today . . .




This song finds it's way into my head often.




This song plays in my head when I see Alison's Mom!!! ♥ You don't have to go home but you can't stay here ♥ I know who I want to take me home. ♥




Haven't we all, Sharon?




My yesterday was blue, dear . . .




It's all a state of mind . . .


I won't forget about Saturday Night Lullaby, Loves. Pinky Promise.

-C

I'm out

You know why I have to leave . . . detach, that is.

I still miss you. Wish you were here.

Ever been to a Laser Show for Pink Floyd at the Science Museum in Boston? Me either.

Wouldn't it be nice . . .




Dream hard and play fair
XOXO,
T. . . , er, Cindy Mayweather

Miss Cindy Mayweather will be gone, waiting for the enjoyable May weather right around the corner. With the humidity. Until I break a sweat . . .

Update: Cindy Mayweather will be around. No matter the temperature outside or inside. :)

Some people use "we" when they write. I like to use "you." Wouldn't it be nice to think of you and I, just having a coke and shooting the shit?

Vespertine + Siddhartha = Island in the Sun

Had I had a hammock in the summer of 2002 before I left for a trip to England right before I ran away to New York, I would have been swinging in it listening to Bjork's Vespertine while reading Hesse's Siddhartha. Instead I was lying on a rickety lawn chair. I finished Siddhartha on the plane ride to England (soundtrack had turned to a lovely Beatles-Brunch inspired mix made for me by an old friend who hates me because I never visited her in Florida and I don't return phone calls, my bad, still got love for ya). I didn't read on the 12-14 hour flight back from Europe because I was sitting next to a high school English teacher from Ohio who wanted to talk to me about the AP exam (fml moment right there). Half-way through I pretended to be napping while listening to a live cd of Van Morrison I had bought in Victoria Station before we left. He asked me what I was listening to, I told him, he said he had just spent weeks in Ireland and was sick of Van. I told him I had just spent a whole sr year in AP English and I was sick of Dostoyevsky and Shakespeare.

That summer the song I found myself most often be-bopping around to in my Dino-undies (not sexy, but as Emily Doobz Badfish once proclaimed, Dinosaur Underwear Rock!! even if I'm getting to old to admit they're waaaaay better than lace) that summer would have to be Weezer's Island in the Sun.

My Mark

When I'm here (er there, or present with someone, I'm there).

I make phone dates with friends far away that I try very hard to keep. Very hard. But . . . I get sidetracked easily.

I know a lot about people . . . but specifics on books, movies, tv shows etc. I forget the details.

If people are my true friends, they'll understand (if they walk away based on any of the things one person says or just based on a few of my actions, well . . . guess they weren't really friends to begin with).

There is only one of me on this crazy web, in this crazy world.

Believe it or not, I'm prepared to explain everything I've done, I just think it would be superfluous and would only feed into your paranoia. But if that's what you need, just ask.

As much as you know, or think you know, what I know is . . .


No matter how much I tell you I care, you'll look for all the reasons why that must not be true.
If I even try to tell you that I love you, you'll scoff and say I don't.

These are all things I cannot argue with you about.

And why should I, you're as big a flake as me.

Honey bun, I know how I feel. I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it, and I wouldn't have . . . well. I tell people who see me down certain things because, well, there's no need for fuss.

"Oh, that guy, yeah, bailed on me again, so I drove to Beverly and picked up my dumb bitch card. Now I'm licensed to bitch to any guy who wants to try to date me, 'You men are all the same . . . '" I had some guy rolling at work with that line. Do I believe it? No. People who are alone in that area of their life find ways to manage/deal with it. Feeling sorry for yourself for staying in on a Saturday night, sometimes alone, sometimes with good friends doesn't really accomplish much. What's even worse is having OTHER people feel sorry for you. I did get a Valentine's Gift, from a nice guy friend. He gave me the boxing cow saying, "cuz I know no one else was going to give an asshole like you anything . . ." It's fine. Because it's true. I smell a game a mile away.

We all have our anecdotes, our security blankets, our "standards." We all have our notions of how things should be. I've been thinking about the definition of love, how it's used so interchangeably, and how in other languages they're quite conscience of that fact, and we . . . well, we aren't. Did anyone really think Rock of Love or Telia Tequila's Shot of Love had ANYTHING to do with love? God I hope not. Incidentally the Rock of Love S2 Reunion did boast one of reality T.V.'s best "in your face" moments. There it was, there was Brett and his bandanna telling Daisy why he went with Amber. He kept claiming his reasoning behind being hesitant on her was because she still lived with her ex. Now maybe it's me, or maybe it's because I can handle a person being friends with their ex, no prob, that I didn't really see THAT as being a reason he should be hesitant on Daisy. Let's be honest, Daisy had little to do with Brett's problem. The problem was the other man. Yes, the other. We met Charles and Charles' sister (brought on to the show as Daisy's family because her family wasn't really in her life). Awkward. Yes, but when you know someone and trust someone, maybe that pill isn't really so hard to swallow. Nooooo, Brett took one look at Charles, younger, sorta just as creepy looking, but not in that I've had too much plastic, surgery, these-locks-are-extensions-kind-of-way, and was intimidated by him, then by the situation with Daisy. Women, don't get all on your high horse, we do it too. No one is immune to this behavior. So yeah. Brett threw Charles in Daisy's face as the reason why he was going with Amber (who Brett found out lied to him about her age and was not happy, oh shut the fuck up idiot, pssht, don't even get me started on that episode) any who, where was I, yes, that was his main beef with the inked, blond fish-face, I mean bombshell. And her response, "Well, we've been on the Charles matter for some time, and it was clear you were never going to drop it, sooooo why did you sleep with me last night?" Yeah, Brett. Suck it.


I asked my mom what she thought love was, or what it was about, or well anything really . . . and all she did was look at my dad in his reclining chair, look back at me, look at my dad and look at me. Yeah, that's love. There's no cheat sheet.

I hear you knocking. I've always heard you knocking. And you're the right one. But that's really none of your business.

There are many things that I would like to say to you. But I don't know how.

Aesthetics, Should Art Tear Us Apart?

What are you up in arms about?
"Wait . . . what? Where's your TV?" That's what a dear friend said as she bustled into my unkempt room months ago, intent on watching "Another Cinderella Story." I moved some clothes to reveal a fairly decent sized flat screen my little brother got me a few years back. I had no idea where the remote was (haven't seen it since 2007) and even though a friend got me one of those "jumbo" remotes I haven't been able to figure out the code on it yet. So I asked her which station, dusted off the screen for her and moved some clutter on my bed to watch it with her. It wasn't as horrible as I thought it would be. I hate those people who say, "I don't watch TV" as if whatever it is they're doing is so fucking important they can't catch a show. If I do watch TV it's usually with someone, so most of my TV is done in the family room (my mother has seen EVERY episode of CSI, and NSCI or NCIS, or whatever and she still gets all worked up about certain scenes, it's very cute). I don't watch the news often, I watched the plane crash into the towers once and that was enough for me. I hate most news coverage on the tube anyways.
I read an interesting article in either the New Yorker or the Atlantic Monthly (I gave up trying to remember) and it said that most TV series suffer because of their marketing after their initial airing. Why stay home every Friday night to watch your favorite show when you can netflix the entire series and stay home on a rainy Saturday? True, true but for nostalgia's sake I think there's something to be said about getting a group of your friends together to watch a show. Like family game night. Shut the phones off and detach. Ahhhh. And when stuck between a rock and a hard place, there's always TiVo (or in my case a deal with the little bro). The last show I went nuts about was Gangland, and that's when it was on Thursday nights at 9. Then they moved it to Friday. Then they started to toy with my emotions. I would read online that it would be on, I would see on the TV Guide channel that it would be on, then I'd click on the History channel and fucking Mail Call would be starting. Do you know how annoying that man's voice is? Especially when you're expecting to be gripped by the history and evolution of some of the United States most notorious street gangs. Eventually, after several weeks of this, I mean there I am practically rearranging my schedule to catch this little delight, and I said screw it. I'll catch you when I catch you. One can only get one's hopes up so many times (especially when it's something you really enjoy) before you crack under the pressure. I knew a guy once that felt the same way about the Arrested Development Movie. I didn't want to watch Gangland for the longest time, but eventually, when I started living my life, doing the things I could to make myself happy, I saw that I missed that little slice of heaven/hell/er . . . pleasure, whatever, and once again put my hands at the mercy of a cable television schedule. I was not let down. And even if it hadn't aired, I wouldn't have been putting all my easter eggs into one basket (put THAT in your easter basket, haha, shitty joke alert).
But which shows are worth our time? Our pain, our anguish? To each his own my dear friends. I don't think art should tear us apart, but should bring us closer together. I'll give anything a shot (but I'm painfully honest when something, a show, an artist, a book, doesn't do it for me, and I try hard not to make anyone feel bad if they like it, variety is the spice of life). For example, and what I am about to say would have sounded blasphemous, even to my own ears, several months ago. But I found more reasons to like Twilight than I did the DaVinci Code (sorry Dan, point to Steph). It might have just been my frame of mind, I was expecting to love the DaVinci Code and DETEST Twilight, I don't know. I tried reading the DaVinci Code 3 or so summers back and kept falling asleep. I moved on, I don't think Mr. Brown minded all that much, we parted with no hard feelings.
Most of the times I think there are meatier matters in life to get up in arms about, and slap the keys harshly on the keyboard . . . unless you're protecting something important to you. Something you feel passionately about. I find that any kind of art people bring that kind of heat to protect are the ones closest to their heart. I find that the ones closest to their hearts are the ones that remind them of things you just might not be able to argue against. Are you ever going to be mad at a couple for liking a shitty song because it was the first song they kissed to? It may be unfortunate, but that Gomez chick lost her "Zune" and that was how Prince-Charming found her . . . by recognizing her playlist, nah just joshing, that's not exactly how it went down.
"Hey, so, I figured out this Zune belonged to you because it has Soulja Boy on it and I saw you 'super soak dem hoes' over there. I knew it was meant to be."
Romantic? Who the hell can define romantic nowadays? Someone is being proposed to via text message as we speak, I'm sure. I bet there's probably some sort of acronym for it. I don't think the method/messengers should ever speak louder than the intent of the sender/receiver. My dad wrote my mom post cards (drunker than a skunk I might add) while stationed as an MP in Germany and proposed to her in a letter, with a bunny and a ring (not a diamond, ick, diamonds aren't every girls best friend) after which she promptly lost the letter, the bunny fell apart, and the poorly made ring is still in her jewelry box. But they're still together forty years later so . . . yeah, who the hell really knows?
I say "beauty" to me is doing your thing, believing in the things you say and do, trying your hardest (be yourself, realistically, who else would you really be?), shouting out from the rooftops, howling at the moon, getting lost in cities and supermarkets, feeling whatever it is you want to feel, laughing, crying and flipping the bird from time to time. Saying FUCK if you mean fuck, it feels better than holding back, taking silly pictures as opposed to serious ones, dancing around in your underwear at least once a week (or in my case every morning), staying up late if you want and sleeping in if you feel like it. Doing crossword puzzles in bed and nowhere else. People watching, it's fun, and listening to each other.

If I love you, what business is it of yours?"--- Goethe.

I might be wrong

is one of the greatest LIVE Radiohead albums. I can NEVER decide which Radiohead album is my FAVORITE, but . . . I don't think I'll ever change my mind on this one. I love artist on artist stuff, and artists doing their thing live.

I Might Be Wrong, but even the DRUNKS would agree




I'm not the only sad robot, Mr. Postman. And my friends are just trying to make me feel better, via shitty jokes as well. I'm sorry I jumped the gun, I just didn't want to be waiting in that tree house again.

Twittersphere, schmitersphere

So you scoured the net looking for the things in this world that made you happy.
I scour the world looking for people to meet and love. That makes me happy.
Shitty jokes make me happy (they're just proof of an intent to make someone smile).
I think the youth and the elderly are under-appreciated sources of warmth. I think it's sick how we treat our parents/grandparents. When I was 18 all I wanted to do was runaway from home and get away from my parents . . . now all I do is regret all the times I was a teenager and told them to get lost.

Parents will be parents. The good ones will always get a little tough on your ass BUT and here's where they'll be proud of you some years down the road, if they raised you right (which my parents did) you'll know when to ignore their advice. My mother's form of advice is slamming a lot of things, a few good whacks, and the silent treatment for a few weeks. When people fight, they always say hurtful things, but in our house, it's all water under the bridge.

You ask time, and time, and time again, who am I? There really isn't much mystery. I'm a daughter, a sister and a friend.

Movie that made me laugh hysterically

and cry hysterically,

Man on the Moon

Movie's tagline: "Hello, my name is Andy and this is my poster."

Lesser known movie, but also makes me laugh and cry,

Gilda Radner: It's Always Something

Movie's tagline: Life gave her a million reasons to laugh... and one reason to cry.

Hard to believe . . .

but my parents banned MTV from the house until I fought and won that battle in the 7th grade. Forbidding something made it that much more alluring.




No, my name ain't baby . . .

What could be more convincing, moreover, than the gesture of laying one's cards face up on the table?--- Jacques Lacan

Poem from Journal (orig.date 03/11/09)

I'm a napkin note kind of person. Pieces of these poems materialize all over, and come together and grow in ways even I don't fully understand. Taking a moment from the blood . . . this poem is still about breakfast.
Oh, and this one has a title already

Q & A: A New Yorker Kind of Breakfast

It was Fraser Field the last time
my legs got stuck on the bleachers
as my father and I watched the Mad Dogs
play like any other baseball team, major, minor
or little league, the game of baseball is the game of baseball
to me he seems so forced as he
sits there in his flannel over Venture Brother tee
his bear hat left on as he eats
his blueberry bagel with butter
baiting me with a pop quiz about hometown bliss
(or piss is more like it)
my banana-nut muffin starts out sweet, but hardens and cakes in my mouth
getting tangled in all the words I want to speak, but don't
the words he forces me to swallow
cutting
me off at the start of the race then
clinging
to each word as they scrape their way down my esophagus
churning
in the acid of my stomach
burning their way out
permeating
into the rest of me
where they explode, taking out other various parts of me
I catch him hacking away all the time
trying to get at those words I tried to get out
all on my own
break
I saw the stain on the back of his jeans as he ordered at the counter of the cafe
I focus on the image of it as we slip in and out of awkward silence, "The New Yorker has the worse comics," he says
I don't take the bait, instead I am remembering that stain,
those imperfections, those unintentional mishaps, those marks on his soul
that only I know, that even he doesn't know that I know
make me in some way invincible to the reality of this moment, guard me against his axe
make me love him that much more
but
he's far, far, far
from loving my mark.*

*I must say these poems lose something not in their forms. I love figured poems. Yum.

Post XXVII just so happens to be about

how I'm feeling. I usually play this song for a friend, but today, this song is for me. Rock on Janis.




If you live by the golden rule, you'll realize that in trying to love others, you have to love yourself first.

. . . Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind
Anne Sexton, For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further

Update: I'd like to point out, the just being Ms. Janis Fucking Joplin
excludes you from the Tights Are Not Pants Manifesto.