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Sun Salutation of Low Ceiling.

Cannot seem to wake  today.

In my bedroom.
5 p.m.
I stretch toward salute
Sun of low white ceiling.

A room considered large for its rent,  in Brooklyn.
Last tenant painted the walls forest green.
I curl towards the soil.
Bend into a child’s pose my knees are never capable.

Doctors built me legs that walk
and knees which refuse to pray.
They cease their bend at 87 degrees.
They pause to ask questions.
(My joints are agnostic, it seems)

Fetal position that my limbs never understood.
Vulnerable organs always open to the world.
I have never learned.

I beg my blood to move on these late afternoons,
Illness kept me in bed well past noon
There is writing to do.
There is the coughing up of consequence.
Must coax circulation to the window of this skin.
Call it out with a love song.
Soft crack of pebble on the window.
Threat of shatter, of romance.
Equally dangerous. Equally likely to call you from sleep.

Sugar moon skin tone
Stolen from my diabetic mother.
Everyone blamed the full moon on her.

There is no such thing as moonlight.

Picket fences gone out of style,
The millennial boys all bearded
Drinking the way towards a bourbon shortage.
This is our whiskey rebellion.

I moved to Brooklyn and now even my poems are gluten free.
There are BMWs parked along
Only one side of Lorimer Street.

 

 

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Statistically speaking we are some grand, terrifying percentage of doomed.

Ignore the color of the sky
Outside your window.
The sun reminds you of everything you should be doing
Besides this.
Tomorrow already started.
You are already late.
You may feel free to blame the fact
That men don’t wear watches these days.
The sun draws his blue lecture on punctuality
Along the silhouette of the trees.
The moon just tells you to call me.

Call this,
Sunday.
For a long time it was reserved for a different kind of man-
For my grandfather’s apartment.
In many ways the ocean you live across
Separates us less than his illness kept him from me.
One cannot simply
Buy a ticket across an old man’s memory.

Proud old men
Still die.
We build cities on top of their bodies.
They leave behind Sunday.

I read today
That the Sunday edition of The New York Times
Requires 63,000 dead trees to print.
I found this statement vague and unsubstantiated.
Suspicious.
The mathematics illogical,
Sources unclear and lacking in detail.

And yet, zealous imaginary crowds
I encounter on Facebook
Spread lies like new age paperboys
With all the shouting and selling
Though, less of the quaint headwear.

Proud old institutions still die.
We build lies on top of their bodies.
Sunday remains.

I read today
That in a sample of over 200 couples in long-distance relationships,
The average mileage between their bones
Was 125.
(I like to believe we are over-achievers)

Statistically speaking we are more prone
To idealize one-another
We divulge more.
And,
“These two tendencies become more manifested when they communicated in text-based, asynchronous and mobile media.”

(This is my version of romance)

Statistically pillow-talking
We are some grand
Terrifying
Percentage of doomed

Proud old romances still die.
When this one does,
I will build poetry over its body.

I will visit its grave on the occasional Sunday.
I will leave flowers.
I will guess at what sort you’d have liked me to offer.
I will never have asked.
Should my insecurities lead me to falter,
I will leave you carnations.
As they are both inexpensive and
Available in a variety of colors.

I read today
That the 7-day week was born in Babylon
Bled hrough Judaism.
I found several hilarious bits of propaganda attempting to argue,
That, evidently, when God was done sculpting
Earth, Eden, Adam, and Rome,
Woman born of bone.
He took the time to define
The standards of our modern calendar.

But really,
The 7-day week began with the religious significance all of us fools place on the moon.
In the end,
It’s always about the moon.

I’d venture to guess she likes the way you stay up too late to stare my way.
Perhaps she also misses New York City.
Or she likes the way you slant toward slumber
Yet, you wait for her to leave.

Every morning I ask you to tell me what the birds say.

You see.
This came from my grandfather.
I’ve never told anyone this before.
Before my grandmother,
There was her.

War breaks hearts and lungs
Reminds men that they, too, need oxygen.
There was a moment in 1945
When my grandfather needed a reason to live.
The moon wanted him to stay.
So,
She gave him Sunday.

When he died,
He willed it to me.
I’ve been holding on to it.
Just corroding away in my pocket.

I’ve been thinking.
It suits you.
So, if you’d like,
You may have it.

On Tue, May 20, 2014 at 3:44 PM, wrote:
Ignore the color of the sky
Outside your window.
The sun reminds you of everything you should be doing.
Tomorrow morning has already begun.
You are already late.
You may feel free to blame the fact
That men don’t wear watches these days.
The sun draws a blue lecture on punctuality
Along the silhouette of the trees.
The moon will just tell you to call me.

Call this, Sunday.
For a long time it was reserved for a different kind of love-
for my grandfather’s apartment.
The ocean you live across
Separates us less than his illness kept him from me.
One cannot simply
Buy a plane ticket across and old man’s memory.

Proud old men still die.
We build cities on top of their bodies.
They leave behind Sunday.

You may have it. If you’d like.

I read today
That the Sunday edition of The New York Times
Requires 63,000 dead trees to print.
I found this statement vague and unsubstantiated.
Suspicious.
The mathematics illogical,
Sources unclear and lacking in detail.

And yet, zealous imaginary crowds
I encounter on Facebook
Are spreading lies like new age paperboys
With all the shouting and selling
and less of the quaint headwear.

Proud old institutions die.
We build lies on top of their bodies.
Sunday remains.

I read today
That in a sample of over 200 couples in long-distance relationships,
the average distance between their bones
was 125 miles.
(I like to believe we are over-achievers)

Statistically speaking we are more prone
To idealize one-another
To divulge more.
And,
“These two tendencies become more manifested when they communicated in text-based, asynchronous and mobile media.”

(This is my version of romance)

Statistically pillow-talking
We are some grand
Terrifying
Percentage of doomed

Proud old romances still die.
When this one does,
I will build poetry over its body.

I will visit its grave on the occasional Sunday.
I will leave flowers.
I will guess what kind you’d have liked me to offer.
I will never have asked,
Should my
Insecurities lead me to falter,
I will leave you carnations
because they are inexpensive and
Available in a variety of colors.

I read today
That the 7 day week was born in Babylon
Bled hrough Judaism.
several hilarious articles attempt to argue
That when God was done with
Earth, Eden, Adam, and Rome,
Woman born of bone
Evidently, he took the time to define
The standards of our modern calendar.

But really,
the 7-day week began with the religious significance all us fools place on the moon.
In the end,
It’s always about the moon.

I’d venture to guess she likes the way you stay up too late just to look at me. How you wait for her to leave.

I never mentioned this,
But there was a moment in 1945
When my grandfather needed a reason to live.
The moon wanted him to stay.
So she gave him Sunday.
He willed it to me.
I’ve been holding on to it.
Just sitting here rusting in my pocket.
It suits you.
If you’d like,
You may have it.

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Let me tell you a story of

Starvation as prayer.

Nest of negative space
Home built upon fault lines.
Floor plans
Of the empty spaces on her.
Ever expanding, renovated.
Construction permit written in lipstick.
Bones
Grown wasted.
Warped with winters only known by time.
Saturated in longing.
Wooden doors no longer close properly.
Locks long parted from skeleton key.

A slow reduction of her fruit
Simmered with sugar over low flame
Ever present threat of burn.

Escoffier never translated
Carême’s recipe for
How to not love the wrong ones.
She’s at a loss,
Contemplating the consequence
of her weak American heart.

The Baumé of her blood.

Inverted. Caramelized
Maillard reaction of soul
in the presence of protein.
and flame.

Dispersed in solvent of poem.
Osmosis of ache and oxygen.

Hidden. Rhizomatic.
(These blooms lie.
Ask her, instead,
of what lives beneath the soil of her story.)

Medical chart diagnosis:
Love-letter induced delusion.
Prescription for
human contact and/or casual sex
recommended.
(Though, insurance will likely not cover cost of plane ticket, options limited)
Grief of love not yet lost.
Grief of something not love,
Just, not.

Dissolving her own skin.
Flesh eating fit of numb.
Less of her left to miss him.

When the shop owner asked
Where she went.
She meant the unnecessary parts of the girl.
The hips. The breasts.
Stores of energy carelessly spent.

The girl answered,

Amsterdam?
Or something.
Lost in transit by a Dutch mailman.
Floating somewhere in an ocean.

Washing up on the sand at Coney Island.

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On love letters and longing.

Loneliness is particularly hard
When you are in a new and beautiful place.
Though at the end of the day,
Remember that you are,
indeed,
In a new and a beautiful place.

I advise
A cigarette on your new balcony,
and poetry.
Take two and write me in the morning.

If that doesn’t work,
Buy yourself a new hat.
You seem like a man with a face for hats.
It will be cold soon.

If that doesn’t work,
There is an experimental treatment,
Anecdotal reports have been positive.
They are beginning human trials
If you are interested,
Here,
Fill out this questionnaire.

Ask if your life could benefit from love.
If so, you may qualify
To participate in an exciting study

Take these pamphlets, these letters.
Call this number.
This prescription.
This list of your options
It should be found in your city.

Ask around.
Meanwhile,
The hat should help.

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Steep Your Bones in Bourbon, Boys. Debaucherous Roads Ahead.

I forget my ways sometimes
That in the end
Logic always wins.
(And love stories never end well, any way)

This is our mutual agreement to ignore the inevitable.

How many distractions must I wake up with?
Must get my feet on the sidewalk again.
Steep those bones in bourbon, Boys.
Debaucherous roads ahead.

My knees weren’t built for all the running they like to do.
Don’t worry.
I’ll find some other way to leave you.
Because trouble never
Forgets Brooklyn for long.
The man in front of the orange stand
Always whistling the same song.
Just the same melody that suits his broken heart,
Every morning he nods my way like
He’s been waiting on me to sing.

Every day I have no words for him.

I will never love easy.
I need a few days to get my mind back to this city. To today.
Set my watch back to ticking the right way.

Steep these bones in bourbon boys.

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4/30, a resurrection of lines

It took
23 years
8 months and
12 days
To hear my grandfather say,
“I love you”

In his way, he believed in love.
The
Socio-economic benefits
Of co-habitation.
In Making a genetic contribution to the population.
He did not believe in marriage since,
Divorce is both 
Inevitable and expensive.

 He believed I was a girl worth loving. 

It took 23 years
8 months
And 26 days
To hear my grandfather accuse me of trying to kill him.

Everyone kept telling me it was just this illness talking
but Alzheimer’ss does not speak.
To speak would be to give.
It only takes.
It only steals.

In November, it took him.

I came prepared for the evening
With Eliot’s Four Quartets
The subject of his thesis.
I set my reading
In line with the pace of
His relentless
Against-all-odds-still-beating
Heart
165 beats per minute. 

Passers-by who caught a glimpse
Must have heard
Me reading bible verse
They at least heard me speak
Of end and time.
Beginning and England
Old men and spring.
November.
And
Knowing.

What it is to love a man who is dying. 

All of the Italian
I still can’t move my lips around.
The sound.
Of my grandfather wrapping
His ribcage around a breath
45 times per minute. 

Amazing how hard
His heart was working
Just
To
Stop.

Like his lungs still had something to say.

There is a history of Alzheimer’s in my family,
So be warned,
Should you ever know me.
Love me.
Someday
That may be not be enough.

Be warned.
Should we meet only this once,
Should you never think of me again
That in 68 years

You may be the only story
That I have left

To tell my granddaughter.

 

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30 in 30 has started, some notes to begin day one.

Her embrace was-

Driving in the rain
Headlights on the highway
Blinding, this must be
The light at the end everyone keeps discussing.
Rain drop percussion of
8 o’clock
When the clouds gave up
Holding on.
New England anxiety that shakes bones.
Three lanes of lost souls
Cursing their way home.
Fingernails tapping on your window
Frantic echo of an autumn storm outside Boston.
My mother’s embrace was
The moment when
You drive under an overpass and
For a second-

It stops.

Now she’s gone and it seems I only sleep when it rains.

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He’s one hell of a writer, but no good on paper.

Last night we spoke at the bar
Blends and single-malts of heartache.
3 rounds of gin and tonic.
Stories of poor decisions we’d made.

I said,
I dried up the ink on that one.
It was an exchange,
He got what he wanted from me
I dipped my pen into his chest cavity.
Took a fountain nib
Straight to hisjugular vein.
Bled the boy dry.
But, you know what they say,

“There are more ink wells in the sea.”
She said,
Let me know if you want
To go looking through shipwrecks.

I have been. It’s just-
This one’s no good on paper.
Or, he only is.
Or, this analogy is confusing.
Ill-thought-out
This analogy suits him.

This is a poem of excuses I am already making.

On paper he is
Just a headline
An inevitable obituary.
A newspaper in the age of the computer.
Too often scanned over
I am the fool still reading.

I missed my station reading him.

On paper he is
Shoved in pocket forgotten bar receipt.
Postcard for an event I can’t attend.
The pamphlets men hand me Friday afternoon.
On the corner of Graham avenue.
They ask if I know Christ,
Would I like to?
Am I willing to have faith
In what exists beyond logic?
Poetry,
Jesus, evidently.
And him.

Parts of him have been translated into Spanish.
I only speak half of his language.
Can’t name what fraction of him
I understand yet.

On paper, this is just a guess
At the note someone left by the telephone.
Someone called,
Something incredibly important.
Life or death situation.
Please call.
Scribble. Scribble.
This poem is illegible.

This poem just a list
Of men I should have kissed
I wrote him before he existed.
This poem will self destruct in 15 seconds.
This is a poem of I want you.
But.
They just don’t make mistakes
Like they used to.

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Tonight!

20140318-084053.jpg

Brownstone Poets presents Alessandra Francesca and Phillip J. Giambri (The Ancient Mariner) on Tuesday, March 18 at 7:30 p.m. at Café Dada. Enjoy the Old World ambiance in Park Slope that’s near several subways. Feast on French-Hungarian cuisine and delectable pastries. Relax with some wine or beer, a cup of coffee or tea while listening to great poetry. There’s an open mic as well. Poetry does grow in Park Slope, Brooklyn.

Brownstone Poets presents:

Alessandra Francesca and Phillip J. Giambri (The Ancient Mariner)

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Starts at 7:30 p.m. sign up at 7:15 p.m.

Café Dada

57 Seventh Avenue (at the corner of Lincoln Place)
Park Slope, Brooklyn, NY 11217
718-622-2800

Subways:

2 or 3 to Grand Army Plaza
B or Q to Seventh Avenue
F or G to Seventh Avenue (9th Street)
R to Union Street, plus a bit of a walk.

http://www.hopstop.com/

$4 donation + food/drink – Open-Mic

Curated by Patricia Carragon

pcarragon@gmail.com

brownstonepoets.blogspot.com

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The other night some poet asked if I had a favorite flower.

My sister was the first to say,
It won’t happen like in a movie.
Except, when it does.

Mom was standing in her bathroom
I made blue-grey eye contact with her reflection
She leaned over the sink and coughed up blood and Chekhov’s gun
This was act one.

Before a diagnosis
Before grief and all it’s stages
Remind me,
Which part includes writing poems?
That ‘s the one I’m in.

I come from a long line of women who have gone sighing towards their destruction.

I’ve just gone writing towards mine.
I like to think of youth like rising action.

I was six, in my Omama’s home,
peeking in her bedroom
She was naked from the shower,
Clasping the handle of her tall armoire
Leaned her head against the drawer
And, wept.
I understood, and didn’t
Precisely what this meant.
Because,
Sometimes it does.

While Omama was dying we would visit,
Pick hibiscus from the garden
Leave them on her bed.
They aren’t much for an arrangement
They close up with the sunset.
This seems appropriate in retrospect.

When Omama went my mother said,
When I ran my fingers through her hair
it came out in fistfuls.
She was so scared.

She bought me books
I read of Sadako,
The girl who fought and died anyway.

When the doctors told my mother
I started folding cranes.
Gave up a few hundred in,
but in a moment of despair I will begin to fold again.
Never sure what I will wish for.
Though I can guess that I will love them,
And 1000 cranes won’t be enough.

I’ve been fighting with my dead mother.
The worst part is, she’s winning.
Always knew I couldn’t stand the silent treatment.

I can’t believe she’s not here, to hear.
To witness.
I am the only art project she ever finished.
I am the left-handed conclusion of all her smudged ink.
I am imprecise and covered in paint.
I am so angry. She left.
She left me to patch the bullet holes from her second act.
She went out with a bang,
Actually,
She went out with a gasp
The last thing she said went something like,
“What’s happening?”
Or
“What’s going on?”
The memory is poorly recorded.
When I ran my fingers through her hair
The stories came out in fistfuls.
She was so scared.


I’ve worked so hard to learn to live without her
That I’ve learned to live without affection.
Spend my evenings with men who know only of my body
Its empty spaces, its caverns.
He instructed me,
Bend over and grab your ankles.
He eyed my knees from every possible angle
Took him three morning-afters to notice the surgery scars.
(to ask if this was why I walk on my toes)

He assumed I took milk in my coffee
He’d drink too much wine and say,
Your skin looks like it was poured on.
There’s no use crying over spilled woman.

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I have been down this story before. There were no feelings there, only sensations. Men confuse the two.

I was looking for my hat
The red one I wear at the bakery.
This being the only article of clothing
To afford me a compliment
In a kitchen,
That makes it important.
I bought it for 5 dollars.

My uniform of subdued gender.

The curves of a woman
Only travel so far.
They will lead you toward an
Unsolicited shoulder
Massage from a sous chef.
Who says,
You seem so tense.
Well, you are touching me.
So, yes.

I was looking for my hat.
The book of his poems must have gone
Sliding off my mattress
With the rest of Monday morning.
It was waiting in the doorway
When I got home.

Had already learned the sound.
My footsteps, on my toes.
Like some failed ballerina.
How I never chose
The right key for the second lock on the first try.
The ring of bells that mark the end of a day.

Panting frayed pages.
Begged to play
To be fed.
It barked-
Take me on a walk!
To that coffee shop.
I like the girls that sit there.
They are a bakery case full
Of my day-old mistakes.

I have no energy for this evening.
Spent all day fermenting
Yeast-leavened doughs and steam-leavened stanzas.
I moved to Brooklyn,
Now even my poems are gluten-free.
I am wrapped in sugar and sweat and red hat.
I paid 5 dollars for this,
It’s important.

I awoke with his words on my bed-side table.
A reminder to take my birth control.

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This post has been edited to protect the identities of individuals involved in these events.

Saturday,
He said something that
Shattered my rose colored lenses.
Ever since, I’ve been batting pink glass
From my lashes.
Asking my reflection,
What the hell happened?
Her eyes used to know better than this.

Sunday, I watched this, and decided it was time for a change.

“Condoms” by Adrienne Nadeau

There’s a line about coffee that burned my tongue.

Monday morning
In the elevator
I was smiling at the buttons like a fool.
Free, for once, from the exhausting confines of infatuation.
I needed a week to walk in the woods, figuratively. To escape the electric hum that has been shaking my ribs since the day I moved here.
To sweat the caffeine from my system.

Then he said,
“I’m George, by the way.”
I hadn’t asked, but he made me wish I had.

These days it seems I only sleep during thunderstorms.

“Who do you want?”
Him.”
“Why?”
“Every time he says cocaine I want to cut up his words and snort his lines.”
“I have no idea what that means, but OK.”

I’m considering having two tattoos inked across my chest.
“This poem is not (just) about you.”
And
“I will not be your mistress.”

Every time he says moonlight
It reflects off my skin.

Words have a way of moving beyond these borders.
I should warn you.
This conversation is being recorded.

There is something to be said for the nice guys, for an evening filled with forehead kisses. It just doesn’t belong in a poem.

Upper east side sunrise. Red lipstick and coffee cups. I hadn’t slept yet.

A woman asked to take my picture.

Marilyn, the morning after.

I am supposed to be on vacation from making mistakes.
Supposed to be.

The boy was built for loving
Not for touching.
He’s all moon dust
Sedated-testosterone
Long conversation and.

Does this count as another subway poem if I just missed the train?

“It was nice holding [you] though.”


He sat at my table, and began,
So, what you said up there in that poem, about older men…what did you mean by that?”
“It doesn’t apply in this situation.”

“We were talking about you.”
“I heard, though just my name. What did you say?”
“I told him I was upset with him for taking you away from me.”

Correction: I am taking myself away from you. Far, far, away.

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It’s National Eating Disorder Awareness Week

I didn’t think I had to post this,
Until yesterday afternoon.
I walked in to the women’s restroom and I saw a woman pulling the same tricks I used to. I waited for her outside and politely, subtly, reached out to her.

This was my big guilty issue for years and I am proud that it isn’t one any longer. I saw on PostSecret that this week is National Eating Disorder Awareness Week, so I have decided to re-post a poem I wrote in October about my struggle. For her.

I am often told that my poetry is shocking in its honesty,  many people told me they admire my ability to go on stage and reveal these things. It was never difficult for me, until I wrote this piece. There is so much shame that goes along with bulimia, the entire illness is about it. With the help of my sister and my mother I no longer struggle with it, but the thought of reading this poem in front of my father terrified me. He’s old school Italian-American and these issues are often tricky to convey across gender lines.
Over Christmas I recited it for him.
It felt good.

So, before the poetry, here are a few links:

PostSecret has some great cards up this week
http://postsecret.com/
Frank Warren offered this link on his social media:
https://www.mentalhealthscreening.org/locator/nedsp/
Here are a few links I recommend:
For more information and how to get help:
http://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/
A questionnaire from Overeaters Anonymous(who offers online meetings and resources)
http://www.oa.org/newcomers/is-oa-for-you/

Now, My story.

The Diet Plan of J. Alfred Prufrock

Prufrock measured out his life in coffee spoons
I have measured out my own in grams,
Ounces, pounds
Percentages.
All these countless measurements
In the relentless pursuit of precision,
Perfection.
Let me tell you the ingredients that
Make up a  pastry chef
Sugar, spice,
And blind determination.

For I have worked them all already,
worked them all:

Have worked the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life in tablespoons,
I know the soufflés falling with a dying fall
Within the oven in the other room
So what shall I consume?

And yet,
The rest of my life has been
An endless cycle of
Restrict
Binge
Purge

Sugar has always been my
Drug of choice
Hell, I made I career out of it.
Just another desperate attempt to
Control the thing that
Controls everything.

All these numbers crush in on me
Memories of the day
I weighed 107 pounds
And Kyle told me I looked
fucking amazing

The best part of my mother’s death
Was that it was the only time in my life
That I ever stopped
Eating.
I guess,
I lost the greatest part of me.
In the end she weighed about 17 pounds.

Sometimes I wonder, what it was
That brought me to that place
Where I just,
I couldn’t
Eat.
Now I look back at photos of her funeral
And think
God, I was so skinny.

Last year I gave up my body
For a job.
I quit sleeping,
Destroyed my metabolism
Ate my feelings.

Last year he broke my heart
It bled into the rest of my body.
Expanded.
Until there were all these
Extra bits of me
To criticize.

I have spent the last 6 months
In the body of another woman
Looking at her through my own eyes
I look back at my journals
Realize that I wasn’t much happier then, at
114
111
107

In the end  my life
Has not been ruled by numbers,
But by shame
(They will say: “How her arms are growing thin!”)
Guilt
Binge
Purge
Restrict
Just another woman’s circus bit
Pay your dime, buy your ticket!
Watch me perform my greatest trick.
My World-Famous Disappearing Act!!

And maybe if I just give this up,
God will give her back.
Or maybe if I just
Sacrifice this meal
Everything will be alright.
Or maybe if I just
Reach this number
Then then the anxiety will get better
(“I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker”)

I’m unsure if any of these realizations
Have left me anywhere better because
All the self-loathing
All the extra bits of me
Are still here.

I guess I am just terrified to fall in love again.
To let anyone see this,
Unwrapped,
As what it is.
This, Meaning me.
Me, Meaning my body.

 Love complicates everything.
Love has left me, at least this evening
Staring at my empty stomach
Thinking- What if he should see this?
Should I go back to my old habits?
Is it worth it?

It isn’t.

There are moments
When I despise myself enough
That I would invite all of that pain back
If only just
To watch myself
Disintegrate.
Because I keep on thinking.

Won’t losing weight fix everything?

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How to make a baker smile.

The other day someone asked me,

“If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, then what is the way to a baker’s?”

“Never claim you don’t have a sweet tooth. I guess?”

I saw him in the hallway earlier, we both smiled too wide for a Monday.
He noticed that I wasn’t wearing my glasses.

I worked a long day, it ended after the hour it began. Which is fine, just a cost of loving what you do. Except, at the end of the night, after mopping, I slipped and fell in a way that will surely hurt tomorrow.

My mind focused on the impending bruises of Tuesday, I was ready to go home.  I was locking the kitchen door for the night, on my way to take out the trash. My last chore. The last thing between me and my bed. He snuck up behind me and quietly took the trash bag.

So, to answer the question: That is how.

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For Chris

I still see you sometimes.
Well, I imagine I do.
New York does this
Gives.
Takes.
Makes promises it can’t keep.

It was warm today.
The air perfumed with that glorious in-between
Scent of snow
Footprints
Cement.
The trees hummed false promises of spring.
It’s blood orange season.

I didn’t see you, but you were on my mind.
Been about ten months.
I still don’t know how you died.
No one would say.
I found out on the day after your funeral.
On Facebook.

Your roommate said,
The family wishes to keep the circumstances surrounding his death private.
You were the first friend I made in New York.
You were the first lesson I learned.

The ingredients for
Your birthday cake
Were on my kitchen table
Still in the bags, with the receipts.
I left them there for two days..
I let the butter spoil.

The last of your words I can recall,
“Alessandra, you look lovely, as always.”
I am thankful that on the three occasions I saw you
I took the opportunity twice to say,
The world needs more doctors like you.
You were applying to medical school.
I guess twice wasn’t enough.

This is what it means to grieve an almost.
To ask,
Am I allowed to miss you like I do?
I had been reminding myself
In the days leading up to your party
Not to drink too much
For fear that I would kiss you.

I went into work that day.
The chef told me,
When I was 22
I have a friend.
He killed himself with a gun.
In the head.

I cried over the dish sink.

This weekend
I finally baked the cake.
The recipe I wrote for you.
I gave it to three men.
I gave no explanation.
Save to say,
It’s blood orange season.

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Oh dear.

I didn’t sleep last night.
Between the hours of two and three this afternoon I consumed enough caffeine that I skipped over the jittery panic phase and have completely lost my ability to function like a normal human being.

I have no words to properly describe how I feel right now. This is a profoundly unique experience. All I can say is, I am starting to wonder- what the fuck was in that tea?

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Please, remind me of my resolution.

I saw her for the first time in a long time
Everyone seemed inclined to inform me
(warn me)
Of the precise location she was standing
From the moment I walked in.

She
Was drinking red wine,
The pattern on her tie
Almost-matched-but-didn’t-quite
The one on her pants, though
She
Said she had tried,
But I’d venture a guess
She
Preferred it like this,
Just a bit off.
She
Had too many things in her pockets and
They stuck out from her body like
Drawers left open on a nightstand
While searching for something lost.
She
Had cut her hair in a rather nice way and
When she said,

“Hello.”

It sounded like an exhale.
She
Has that way about her.

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Sirens, continued.

He says,
Meet me at these coördinates
We’ll get drunk, make love
Then write about the moonlight
I’m not much of a sailor
But I’ve been tying knots
In his limbs for weeks.
Would kiss his wounds
With salted lips
Could make love from this mistake
Abandon my map.
Should probably turn back.

He pulls words from my skin
Knocks over my ink well
Holds me under till I drop my pen.
He asks me when I finally will.
Give in.

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Boston.

I am young enough that he
Holds my age against me.
Though not so young
That he feels guilty.
Holding my hands behind my back,
Holding me against his moans.

Just enough for him to look at me in
Red-lit
Red-wine soaked
Red post-coital glow
And say,
I didn’t think at my age, I’d be dating a 24 year-old.

He didn’t ask me to stay,
He just said that I could
I am old enough to know the difference.

All these men,
They ask where I grew up.
I say,
Boston.

I don’t tell them-
In October.
On the steps of the church down the street
Where I would wander.
Met others, made friends
With the characters on break from an AA meeting
Smoked too many cigarettes.
Rebelled, broke hearts.
Left love notes taped to the door.
Left my first lover.
It was a church that I never entered.

I grew up in October
When she told me it was cancer.
When I
Collapsed
On the steps.
Made a heaving, stuttered attempt at prayer
Banged on the door.

Asked Him why he’d let me save her
So many times before.
I’ve lived more than 24.  

But when he asks me,
Where?

I just say,
Boston.

I don’t tell him,
At 8 Holly Gate Circle
At 8 years old.

On our kitchen floor.
My mother lay there.
This was the first time
T
hat he let me keep her.
She slipped away
In line with her
Plummeting blood-sugar.
I sobbed to the beat
Of her beeping glucometer.
S
he danced towards white light
Diabetic coma.

I was 8 years old
Digging through her purse
The way I used to dig through dirt

In search of an
 emergency injection
Tapped air from the syringe
Stuck the needle in between
The freckles of her skin.
Clutched the telephone
Untangling the cord enough
That I could touch her
Called for
an ambulance-

But,
When he asked for my address
I just said,
Boston. 

I didn’t tell him,

At 11, maybe 12
In the arts and crafts cabin
Coughing on salt that he forced down my throat.
 Left scratch-kneed girl
Over-seasoned with guilt.

The aftermath when he told,
The bitter taste that it left-

Was worse.

Sitting on a picnic table
When my counselor whispered,
Whore
For years this was the story I never wrote
,
But by 17 I had healed
I told my mother
Who, in turn, revealed,
What
happened to him.
You see,
I grew up in a small town
45 minutes away from the city.
With the largest case of sexual abuse in the state’s history.
I grew up with boys who
Learned to love this way.

But when men ask me
Where I grew up
I just say,
Boston.

 I don’t tell them
On the steps of Sacre-Coeur
Standing out of breath and
Just out of B
reathless
Nineteen, practically penniless
W
andering alone in Paris.

I grew up laughing,
Too hard.
I grew up in his arms.
I grew up on the day she died.
Months later when I realized
The difference between dead and gone.
Standing on a bridge in Amsterdam
The first time
I realized I was in love.

In the hallway of the hospital
Waving my grandfather’s advanced directive
At the doctors.
Insisting
That despite my age
He had trusted me to speak for him
To recite the poem
Of his h
ealth-care proxy.
Not to let him live
This way
I grew up when I let him die.

  I grew up dreaming, breathing New York
Waiting for the right moment
Earning my way.
Learning from my mistakes
Sewing up wounds
I grew up writing poems about men like you.

How you’ve been marking off the days
Waiting on a calendar girl
Go ahead kid, call me February.
Call me May.
Call me the one that got away.
Call me October-
Call me twenty four.
(Call me, yours)

Go ahead kid,
Ask where I grew up.
I’ll tell you, like I did before,
Boston.

 

 

 

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He believed I was a girl worth loving.

My grandfathers are gone now.
So, I have an adopted one.
New York does this.
Gives. Takes.
Makes promises it can’t keep.
Drives you mad with grief
Longing and winter.
If you can make it,
It will give a little more.

It’s funny,
He doesn’t know it.
He carries on the same sentiments.
Same complaints
Berates me for my low self esteem
Gets me to write.
Sees past all this pale of mine
Listens,
Reminds me
My heart still beats,
sometimes.

Pa was hard to talk to
Like, running up a steep hill.
Like, running out of time.
His heart so broken
He forgot that mine was built
From the same faulty parts.
He didn’t understand why I left Adam.
It became a fevered rant of
How my grandmother left him.
Then he stopped-

When I began crying.
He couldn’t fix this emotion
But he could call his clock repairman.
My hands weren’t moving in synch.
I was just
Popped springs
Rusted gears.
His broken granddaughter clock
Spent three years collecting dust
Being wound up in the wrong ways.
Three years counting the same day.

I tried to tell him he was the only guy
I had any time for,
He told me he would gladly be miserable.
If it meant love for me.

In his way, he believed in love.
The Socio-economic benefits of co-habitation.
In making a genetic contribution to the population.
He did not believe in marriage since,
Divorce is both inevitable and expensive.

He believed I was a girl worth loving.

Which is a significant something
From him.
A soldier with a ribcage that rattled.
Shrapnel bits
From lost battles
Scarred reminders of a blonde bombshell.

My adopted grandfather
Seems to have picked up where Pa left off.
He says,
So are you seeing someone?
You seem to be writing all these love poems.

I don’t know if love is the word.
Or seeing,
I have words for each of them.
He understands
There are two men.
There were three,
But I am done with him.
I don’t know what will happen.

So I left out the story of the
“Right” one
Who tells me,
Ever since we spoke last I’ve been humming this song.
Have you ever heard it?
Who stops just to say,
I saw you leaving yesterday.
In a red shirt.
I liked how it looked.
I like how you look in red.
But,
He just, isn’t.

I told him of the other
How he comes and goes and
Disappears
How I lose interest
We are just two wanderers.
Then out of nowhere he shows up.
He surprises me.
But, I just don’t know.
I have set the bar extremely low.

My new grandfather told me,
“It sounds like it isn’t going anywhere.”

So I said,
Give it time.
Then felt my hands start ticking again.

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Call me Valentine.

Bring a date.
Bring the tattered remains of your broken heart.
Bring me a love letter, and call me yours for the night.

I’ve said I can’t reveal much more of myself than I do with my poetry, I was wrong.
So, come and watch me recite poetry in my lingerie

 Stuck On Cupid: St. Valentine’s Day Love Notes
An evening of music, poetry, and burlesque. Featuring: EmZ and Tierney Boisvert, bands The Bleed and Satorii, and the Titillating Tongues Collective. Hosted by comedian Ashlee Voorsanger.

The Titillating Tongues Collective is an outgrowth of the Inspired Word’s monthly erotica series by the same name. It includes poets Aimee Herman (who has hosted Titillating Tongues for over two years), Nichole Acosta, Jherelle Benn, Verandah-Maureen Shepard, and Alessandra Francesca as well as burlesque star Essence.

Did you see that bit above where they mention my name? You probably aren’t as excited about it as I am, but you should be.

Thursday, Feb. 13, 2014

Tammany Hall
152 Orchard Street
Manhattan, NYC
http://tammanyhallny.com/
Time: 6:30pm
21+
General Admission: $10 at the door
or
Advance tickets can be purchased http://valentinenyc.eventbrite.com/.

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Sirens

I heard him before I saw him,
and I looked at my friend and said,

“I want one.”

I wanted to learn the song of his skin,
Instead, I asked him what it is to be a siren.
The stories of the lines he’s written
Of the women.
He lured in to the water
Could he still remember the count?
How many had drowned?

Could he still taste the salt.

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SoHo and Serendipity

Part of my job at the bakery is working at tastings of our products in the stores we sell in. You see this all the time, except in our case the person sampling the product is the person who actually made it. I care about it, I care about what you have to say. I made this with my own hands. When you buy cookies for lunch, I can afford to eat dinner.

For the most part I have been working at the new Whole Foods in Brooklyn. It’s an adventure in all things Park Slope. By things, I mean babies. I spend my day awkwardly gasping for air in a sea of glowing, flawlessly coordinated families and their glowing, flawless children.

There must be something in the water(The raw coconut water, that is) because I fear if I stand there long enough I will get pregnant.

I have actually really grown to enjoy the crowd, and I see some of the same people and their glowing reviews make my day.

This week was a change, I had to demo at a store in SoHo. I sometimes joke with my Boston friends that,
“Brooklyn doesn’t know what to do with me.”
I’m not the specific shade of un-cool they adore, I am just not cool.

There’s a difference. It involves show-tunes.

Meanwhile, SoHo just doesn’t want anything to do with me. I was placed by the front door, and every time it opened I would shiver while trying to break through my frozen shell to mutter,
“Would you like to try a cookie?”

Clearly, these people don’t do cookies. Gluten free or otherwise. The first girl to talk to me was named Liz and I actually said,
“Oh God, finally a human.”
She laughed. She bought a cookie.

Eventually, I switched my sales technique to standing stone-faced and avoiding eye contact. I kid you not, it worked. I sold most of our product.

As I was shutting down, he walked in.

Now, I should explain. This was the third time.

It was June and I was on the subway heading home from Pa’s apartment. I had stopped at Bettie Paige to pick up a dress, and I had the bags with me. He caught me on the train, did a horrible job of pretending to read his book. When I got off at Union sq. I turned to see him smile at me.

He posted a missed connection on Craigslist.
“I hesitated, then ran after you towards the L train. I was too late.”

I was reluctant, as the post mentioned my Bettie Paige bags, and I was not out for another(That’s a whole collection of stories) date with a guy who thought I was a bit more Bettie Page than Doris Day. So my first thought was,
Clearly this guy is a serial killer.

My roommate set up a fake email account for me, and we exchanged correspondence until I decided it was safe enough to meet him in a public place.

We had two rather nice dates, then I never called him.
I’m not exactly sure why, it just wasn’t.

Then, a few months ago I walked into one of the open mics I frequent, and guess who was sitting in the back. Turns out he has been going for years. He had no idea I was a poet, I had no idea he liked poetry. He was with a date so I went off into a corner as to avoid trouble.

Then, Friday, in SoHo. He walks in.
He said,
“You just keep on showing up.”
So I said,
“Would you like to try a cookie?”

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Inhale for once.

I changed my mind about him.

I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a terrible thing.

Maybe I need a break from all this trouble.

All this poetry.

There’s something to be said for  lovely evenings and leaving the story be.

I’d like to escape the story for a weekend, with him.

 

 

 

 

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halibut-point-sp-10-13-2013

He asked me,
Have you ever wanted to say,
“Fuck it all”
Run away to the wildness of Vermont?

I’ve had those moments.
Except,
New York has always been the place I wanted to run to.

I’ve been daydreaming relentlessly.
Mentally, I’ve been standing
On the rocks at Halibut Point
Since four in the morning.

All day I could taste the salt.

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When in doubt, turn left(continued)

I have grown weary of this concept, perhaps I will resurrect it later. Until later, here is what else there is. I just don’t think the story is clear. The story is there, though.

So, you can guess which way I went.
Stumbled in to the arms of the wrong one,
Followed him around corners
Into his bedroom.
Spent the next day washing wine from my system.
Retraced my footsteps,
Tried to
Reverse.
Tripped over 2 a.m.
Bruises he left.
Past midnight glass of wine,
Before four cocktails in,
To 10p.m.
To my decision.

I thought of the man I’d turned from,
Run from.
The right one?
The other one.
Who teased me for the way
I protect my chest with my hands
When I speak
I said,
I think you’re confusing
My heart and my breasts.

I called him
Offered up a French 75 and apologized
When he asked about that night.
I lied.
I turned left.

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“When in doubt, turn left.”

The story begins over bourbon.
No-
The story begins in Brooklyn.
The story begins with him.

The story begins on a train,
As any decent story should.
With a woman dressed in red,
In the sixth row of the second car
Of a train leaving New York.
Shuffling toward Boston
As no decent character would.

Well, the story begins with me.
With poetry.

The engine nags the tracks,
With a hiss,
Resigns
With a sigh.
Resorts
To the silent treatment.
Plastic clicks of
Slammed
Luggage compartments
Conductor’s announcements
Punctuate the sentences.
Drops of bourbon stain the second stanza.
Bleed though the paper
Reveal the mirror image of a
Girl’s phone number.

Here in row 6,
It could be any year.
Though it’s surely December.
The 23rd.
The day before the day before.
The air saturated with the roar
Of conversations stumbling toward an argument.
Reminders of the last minutes-
The Cousins they’ve forgotten.
The impulse purchases.
Timeless husbands making timeless mistakes.
In fact, it could be the days
Of men who still wore hats.
The whole scene filmed in black and white.
It could be
Silent.

Suddenly,
The page vibrates
My cell phone rings,
Reading the message on the screen,
I realize.
I exclaim,
             Oh shit. He read it.

The story begins with poetry
The story hinges on a mistake.

I met him on a Saturday afternoon that was meant for someone else.
What matters is the moment I turned left.
You see, I was caught.
Not in a lie, not yet.
Just standing in between two men.
I should have turned right,
But instead-

It all goes back to my mother.
To the days before I could drive a car
When we would wander.
Get lost in what we deemed
The Bermuda triangle of Boston
My mother taught me,
“When in doubt, turn left.”

Which, makes zero sense.
Which, in practice,
Has never lead me anywhere
I meant.
Instead, it’s usually the start of an adventure.
A story of the trouble
A woman like her could cause
A reminder
That she never warned me of the flaws
Of turning left.

To be continued…

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One. Year. Later.

One year ago was, by all accounts, what should be described as the “worst day of my life.”

When it happened, I promised that it would be the start of a great story.
It has.

Today, I celebrate.

Everything fell apart. In the span of three hours. I found myself without a partner, a home, and a job. It was heartbreaking, but secretly what I wanted. It was also the most liberating experience I’ve ever had. I packed up my car with the bare essentials, as if the house had caught on fire. Then I left.

I left.

I never looked back.

I have seen many times in my past that though I worry over small situations, in the face of a true emergency I’m a good one to have around. This was an emergency- the house was on fire. My entire life reduce to ash. I didn’t know what to do, so I called my father and he said,
“Just come home…just come home.”

I knew he needed it more than I did.

So I set my sight on Boston, but I promised I wouldn’t stay. This was my chance at New York.

I was here by February.

This city has been everything I ever dreamed it could. The first time I have ever exhaled.

I was talking with a new friend last week, about the warnings people give when you tell them you are moving here.
They say,
“New York is so dirty.”
“New York is so expensive.”
They warn,
“New York is hard.”

They forget that love is hard, love is expensive, and sometimes love is dirty.
This is love.

In the last year I have accomplished so much, seen so much, loved so much.

Pa.
My Grandfather.
He has been the greatest of this. He is gone now. Had I waited, I would have missed my chance entirely. I spent so much time with him, and learned so much more about him, and myself, in the process. I wrote more about Pa this year than I have any other man. He deserves it. I miss him, but love is sometimes worth the cost.

Poetry.
I started writing again. I stopped writing when I started hurting, and on the day I left him it had been almost two years since I wrote anything of significance. I took ownership of what I had merely considered my “bad habit” until now.

I read my first spoken word piece in August. By October, I was asked to join the Epic XII. The vote of confidence Nichole Achosta gave me was worth a lot. As of today, I have 3 features(including my first) and 2 exciting collaborations to look forward to in the next year, as well as a film project.
Just, astounding.
This has been overwhelmingly rewarding, and the lovers, mentors, friends-
No, family-
that I have met along the way are the characters I’ve been waiting to write into my story.

It took me ten minutes to find a job. Well, it took me ten minutes to receive a response email. I play an important role in a small company, where I’ll gain the skills I need for when I start my own small company. I stuck it out part time until the business grew to afford me full-time. I spent eight months in a French bakery mastering croissants and the ways of moody French men

I watched a lot of sunrises set to the sound of French love songs and perfumed with the scent of fresh croissants

I moved to New York, but I spent the mornings as an American in Paris.

I wrote stories.

I drove a wedding cake 16 hours to Asheville, successfully. I watched two wonderful friends get married.
It was worth all the trouble.

I decorated a cake for Pa’s 91st birthday using only my right hand(I am left-handed)

Love. There has been so much. I reunited with old lovers. Nicole is back in my life, a love in a different sense. Devin has been a great friend. I spent one night with a man who was leaving the country the next day, we still write. I will meet him one day in Bruges for the greatest second date in the history of second dates.

I have a healthy relationship with my father for the first time.
I spoke to my brother again after two years.
I have been able to bring my extended family back into my life.
I see my mother reflected in every bit of glass this city has to offer.
She shatters on sidewalks and raindrops- I miss her, but I get to have part of her back.

I have broken hearts and almost had mine,
I spent too much emotion on red haired poets
and learned my lesson.

I learned to love solitude, independence, myself.
I don’t need companionship,  it has made my relationships far more rewarding. Has better opened me to the opportunity for something worthwhile and healthy.

I finally came out to my family.
I dated a girl named Cecelia, but I broke her heart.
That sentence will always make me laugh.

I have had a lot of love this year, and a lot of poetry.

The best of which has been this city.

There are things on the horizon-
Travel.
Owning a home, maybe a business.
There are red dresses to wear and adventures to begin.
Trouble to cause, trial and error, hard work and reward-all the things.
Smudged lipstick and calligraphy ink-watch me paint this town with them.
There will be dinner at Per Se on my birthday.
Today, there will be Champagne.

And as always,

Infatuation, Bourbon, and Poetry.

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Sometimes beautiful sneaks up on you.

I’ve grown weary of the games that I’ve been playing. Of keeping my distance. Of my wandering attentions, affections. I’ve grown weary of my lack of emotion.

I spent the evening quantifying my lustful ways, asking three men (and one woman) the same questions. Seeing who was brave enough to play.
To say.

Only one of them kept my attention, his stories of summer.
Of boats and parks, long walks and,
“We didn’t drink until the third date.”
His comment on the meaning of 5 dates in, of 5 months later.
Of, her.

Of,
“I can’t answer that, except to say within the last 5 years , because things change-their meaning changes.”
And then,
“She took me for a bike ride.”

How, when I asked if he had a favorite word he asked,
“Does it have to be in English?”
Then said,
“Pamplemousse”

I smiled, recalled to myself the story of how that was once my nickname. I filed it away with all the other things I choose not to say.
To him.

Funny, I try not to bore my muses, to instead devote my time to extracting stories from sighs and red wine. In the end he’s been the only one to ask, the only one who knows a thing about me. The only one to keep me wondering.

In the end, he’s just poetry.

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I’ve been sorting through my old writing, having run the inkwell on my muses dry for the week.

Well, I just haven’t seen any of them. I’ve been stuck in this apartment shaking off fever dreams,
Coughing up the consequence of my weak American heart.

I have nowhere to run to anymore. New York was always my refuge, my excuse, my explanation for why something wasn’t enough. Or someone.

Well, I guess there is always India. Mexico. Bruges.

New York was something different. just feasible enough that at any moment I could escape. I did escape. Often. Until I finally moved here.

This is what happens when I get locked in my bedroom for three days. Alone. Until now it’s been enough. This city, I mean.

He asks,
But what about his skin?

I am in a fight with my dead mother. For the first time in almost 5 years she has been making regular appearances in my dreams. I resent her for being the inspiration behind my best writing. She will never know! She will never know. The frustration of that matter is overwhelming. I understand that as a human I am worth more than the part of me that is missing. Her absence has made her more of a presence.

I am the only art project she ever finished, and she will never know.

I should channel this artistic frustration into something worthwhile.
Or onto someone worthwhile.

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This poem has been brewing for some time now, here is a bit of what I finally wrote down. It’s for him.

My brother is
The statue they built in your honor
They put your name in the middle of his.
In the hope that wherever it is
That he wanders
You will remain, to keep him centered.

My sister is
The hazel-eyed headline
Of every article you cut from the New York Times.
She has every statistic memorized.

And I,
I am the girl who made a promise she couldn’t keep.
When you asked me to be your suicide note.
Instead, I am the signature
On every love letter
You never sent.
I am the only woman who never left.

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From an upcoming collaboration with Nichole Acosta.

Most of what I said last night was a lie
Every time I said “You”
But meant “I”
Every time I looked away and told you
I was fine.
All those dramatic and drawn out sighs.
Just imagine,
If for once, we cut the theatrics
If I was honest.
If I told you that my day was a mess
That you are my closest target
That I wish you would just
Kiss my neck
That I wish you would just
Wash the dishes.
That I wish you would just
Stop looking at that screen and,
Just look at me.

What If I admitted
That love is too expensive
The supply of your affection too limited
My demand too high
That I can’t afford the vulnerability
At least, not in this economy
Because this isn’t a relationship
This is a game
This is a power-play
I have calculated the odds
The cost of a new heart
I can’t pay for a transplant
I won’t show you my cards.

What if I admitted
That I want to build a home in your arms,
But I understand the risks
I’ve reviewed the statistics
The cost/benefit analysis
The overwhelming evidence
Which suggests
I shouldn’t gamble with my trust again
Because I’ve learned the lesson,
That the house always wins.

So go ahead,
Ask me one more time,
Watch me tell you,
“I’m fine.”

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If only

I keep meeting men
With the same name.
By the time the 5th one introduced himself I said,
“Seriously?”
And just walked away.
I never explained.
He knew I was a writer.

I turned from my scotch to the snow,
Closed my journal behind me.
Perhaps he eyed the cover,
He asked if I had somewhere to be.
I said, no.
I was just thinking that snow
Means something different here.

He asked if I performed,
So I recited a poem for him
At him.
I brandished my weapon.
Then he asked my name
“I just figure I’ll be hearing it again sometime soon.”
I smiled,
“If only.”
And he told me,
“That can be the name of your next one.”

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Take away as much mystery as possible. What is left?

Draw five cards.

In dim-lit psychic parlor
In back corner
Of old Boston building.
Between cobblestones and church bells.
The receptionist said,
It’s very rare to see a woman request a male psychic.
Well, if women can’t be honest with themselves
How can we expect it from others?

I sat across from Keith
Perfume of incense,
Con artistry and divination
Conversation and prestidigitation.
I asked him to tell me of love
And all the other usual nonsense.
Then I drew 6 cards by mistake.

Keith broke character
Holy shit, there’s a lot going on here.

I don’t know if I agree
With what he told me.
His warnings of the second week of January.
When evidently,
Some lover with whom I have unfinished business
Would wander back in.

That must mean this is finished, then.
But go ahead, call me lover again.

This is coming at you one way or another,
You can’t stop it.
You just have to let it
Run its course

I’m not sure if this counts,
If I have paid my dues.
I’m not sure if I believe in Tarot cards.
I’m not sure if I believe you.

This is like something else, some other moment.
The strangely familiar landscape
Of his apartment
Prisms hung in negative space
Everything is white,
Except the wine.
(I am trying not to spill)
There are mirrors everywhere.
There is limited candlelight.

I know this book.
This photograph.
I saw it during that museum visit.
With Johnny,
Right before I broke his heart.
I know this shirt.
I bought it for someone once.
This word.
This room.
This overwhelming sense of déjà vu
Seems in itself familiar.
How did I get here?

I asked him to tell stories
Of best and worst and histories
I asked him of his fixation
On his own mortality.
He kept saying
If I make it that long.
I asked him
Do you make a habit of bringing home
A lot of women?
Less of a question
More an observation.
Choreographed foreplay of glass of wine,
Can I kiss you now?
Can you,
Promise me something?
Promise me that no matter what
Happens with us

That you will still give me
Your smile,
And sometimes a cookie.

Last time I was here I left with
Another woman’s hair on my sweater.
Last time I was here I assumed would be the one time.
I assumed he wouldn’t explore my writing.
I have compiled a lot of assumptions
About this one.
Go ahead, kid
Prove me wrong.

I have grown accustomed
To New Yorkers
To their wandering attentions.
I have become more like them
Though less jaded, more fascinated
Thing is.
I thought there would be more poetry in this.
Instead,
I just heard the same story twice
We were friends, we became lovers.
      She is like a sister to me.
   I still talk to her at least once a week.

The bookshelf was rearranged.
Last time
I spent the morning dissecting it.
Plotting my escape.
Humming along to Nick Drake.
I never admitted,
I have always loved this song.

This time, he
Pulled out a black box to show me.
Have you ever seen these?
 They are designed to break creative blocks.
Then he said,
Draw a card.

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I have lost 13lbs in 7 weeks.

I joke that I just want to get back to the body I used to hate. Which, means I am a bit over half way there.

Either way, these antibodies picked the wrong girl to mess with.

Still have a month until the medicine kicks in, so here is a fair warning to the world-I have been running at half capacity for two years. So, who knows what I can accomplish once I have reached a reasonable level of health.

Also, I will be attempting to phase dairy out of my diet with the New Year. So all of my poems will be about cheese from now on.

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On a sleepy train ride back to New York. The man next to me brought no books, has no distraction. He stares at the seat in front of him. I claimed the window before he sat down. I can feel his resentment growing.

He wears a crest ring on his right hand.
He hates me.

He woke up and started reading over my shoulder.
Now he really hates me.

American looks rather lovely today, in shades of gray. Rainstorms follow us, or maybe we are just meeting them.

A storm-cloud forms in Connecticut, and meanders north at whatever pace it is that Sunday afternoon storms do. If Alessandra boards a train in Boston, how long before she remarks about the beauty of the rainy day?

We pass empty beaches, I wish the train would stop, allow me to get out for a few minutes. Just stand. Not so long as to feel cold, just long enough to take in the air. Hold some salt to my skin.

I drove around with Taylor, told him that this wasn’t what I wanted. Not him, the setting. Midnight deserved more than these side streets. If I had to leave the city it shouldn’t be for the suburbs. He drove to the nearest break in pavement, parked by the river. I was not wearing the right sort of shoes to creep down to the water.
So instead, we just spoke.

I am ready to leave Boston, I wanted to drive to Rockport. I understood that halibut point would be miserable, frozen over. Dangerous and probably closed. I still wanted to go.

I thought I would do more writing this week. Instead, I coughed up Brooklyn on Monday in a consumptive fit. Blood-letting of muses used up my inspiration. I have spent the rest of the week attempting not to focus my attentions on the wrong ones.

My father met me at the station when I arrived, which was rather sweet. Jump-cut to me running towards him, dramatic, wrapped in red coat. Hugs and affection and such.

No one to meet me at Penn Station.
Which is just fine by me.

 

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I love the cover of my new journal.

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The poem of the seven veils.

People often ask if I perform burlesque.
I don’t, but I read poetry.
Can’t reveal much more of myself.

I called up an old lover of mine
How about we just lay on the carpet
And drink too much wine?
It was that kind of night, we both needed one.
He walked into the kitchen,
I stood on my toes, stretched towards wine glass
He said
“Every time I see you,
You look more you.”
Well,
“New York gives me an excuse.”

I wondered how many times I had
Pressed the pattern of the carpet into his skin.
He smiled like 17,
Smelled like tobacco leaves.

We spoke of escape,
He was driving to L.A.
I was still breathing Brooklyn
I revealed what the psychic had told me,
About the impending doom of
The second week of January.

We spent the evening
Pressing old stories into skin
Bite marks, moans
Cigarette burns.

I recited poetry,
He laughed at all the right lines,
Reminded me,
“You collect a lot of ammunition.”

I asked him,
“Why do all the bad decisions have to be so good looking?”
And
“When did it become so hard to be easy?”

I sighed, admitted
“I’m in trouble with this one.”
Then again
Sometimes you just have to do it for the story.

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The issue was not if
I wanted to kiss you.
The issue was calculating
The potential costs of such reckless investments.
All the unspoken contracts and
fine print.
Stains of lipstick.
Broken ribs and bruised essential organs.
I can hear yours,
Beating out of rhythm.
Your lungs lean against your bones
Attempt to find their foothold
Your vocal cords moan
Beneath the weight of all
Your words.

Though, this city has different rules.
I have learned that my worst decisions
Breed my best writing.

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I hate oxytocin so much right now.

More so, I am annoyed at myself for focusing my attentions on the wrong ones last evening.

So strange, the things that make me run away.
Then, I start to think,
Oh God, you are far too much like me,
and far too sweet.
I can hear in the way
You confuse my breasts for my heart Someone must have hurt yours.
Either part.
Maybe both are a bit beaten up,
Beat a bit louder,
Maybe it was too lovely so I wandered off.

Pay your dime, buy your ticket
Offer cocktails and compliments.
Watch me perform my greatest trick,
My world famous disappearing act.

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Snow.

My walk to work this morning was all dirt, slip and sidewalk. In New York, snow means something different. It means fevered griping, though not in that particular Brooklyn way that I adore. Maybe, snow just means the ice on my shoulders has cracked and cut through me.
Either way, it snowed today.

Between this weather and my broken radiator.
The city seems set upon reminding me,
This would be better with someone.

I have always had terrible circulation, and in the cold my hands ache. Add to that my ever wobbling knees, and sometimes-I truly just need a hand to hold. There are times I have had to ask my friends,
“Could you just…hold my hand?”
The best lovers have been the ones to pick up on it, and just grab hold.
I prefer not to depend on them. Though, I will accept affection when it is offered.

Today, one of my muses wandered in.
Discussed Saturdays,
Dinner dates that were not a date.
Photographs that were taken.
(in which, I fear, my eyes gave me away)
Just when,
I was about to mention Fridays, and evenings.
All these opportunities,
And, maybe we…
He said,
“I should let you get back to working.”

So, that was today. There were also cookies, and all these measurements that have become part of every day, Measures of weight and counts of carbohydrates, inches around my waste. Miniscule promises of progress and health. I am smaller today than I was yesterday, I am dissolving the unwanted parts of me. Performing the great disappearing act we call lovely.

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Postcards. An update.

Postcards

Let’s see.

This is neither poem, nor piece of writing-just an update of sorts.
Ideas linger, cling to my walls, have yet to form themselves into something of worth. Meanwhile, life continues, appearing in the small moments between mornings turning on the oven, and evenings turning it off.

These days, the sunrise is set to the soundtrack of Al Bowlly’s crackled voice, and Satchmo as always sings love songs. This is life in New York for me, endlessly in love and lust. The most gorgeous shade of misery.

It has been 5 weeks since my Hashimoto’s diagnosis. In that time I have, through sheer determination, lost 6lbs. Which is not much, but is made all the more significant considering my current thyroid levels. So let’s just say, I lost the normal body equivalent of 100lbs and I am the normal body equivalent of perfection. I began medication on Saturday, and I am optimistic that with continued effort I will return to my old body.

Which reminds me, I often wish I had explained to her that I understand what it means to be in the wrong body. Or to rationalize on some level that this is the correct one, though it surely doesn’t seem to fit. There are all these extra bits. To question who designed this.

On Thanksgiving my Aunt Francine told me of a woman she knows, who used to draw the illustrations for the packaging of sewing patterns. Which, it seems, is an exciting story to so few of us these days. I loved it.

Last weekend I entertained the idea of sending a postcard, I went through my collection and stumbled across the one my grandfather had sent me for my 18th birthday. I never understood the choice then, but looking back I realize it was a perfect conclusion he arrived at.

“Girl with the Red Hat.”

I mean, does it get more me than that?

So, on that evening I decided not to send her a postcard,
Instead, I called my brother.

I sort of cried at him for a few hours,
But he listened,
Which is a lot to ask of someone,
Especially at 2a.m.

It was a good thing, I think, overall. Our first real conversation in years.

Though there are still a million questions to ask, it seems I may move into Pa’s apartment. It is a rather lovely anxiety to have.

I have also been offered twice within a single week the opportunity to feature as a poet. Which is, just beyond exciting.

Oh, and what else? New muses have wandered their way in, all spectacles, bourbon, and testosterone.

Myself, I have begun to drink in that joyous cocktail, Oxytocin, Serotonin, Dopamine, Adrenaline.
Would be vastly improved with dash of Vasopressin, twist of Lemon.
Though those ingredients will take time to acquire.

pa postcard 2

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New York State of Mind

Something about knowing the New York City awaits me at the end of this bus ride makes me want to write. For the first time in my life, I am making this familiar journey, but to a place I could finally call home. I have dreamed of this since I was little(though at the time I wanted to be a Broadway star). It just seems ridiculous to me that I am actually doing it. I am terrified and excited and in love.
I have been waiting for a change for quite some time, and maybe this is it.
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Motivation?

School starts again in(oh God) two days. Of my 8 million goals for this summer I haven't completed any. In fact, yesterdays goal was just go to the gym to relieve stress. Instead I went home and continued my work on plated desserts for my portfolio until it was insanely late. I knew that I had a wedding cake to decorate today(let alone Saturday work) and I was too tired to prep my supplies for the cake, or to clean the mess I made of the kitchen. The huge mess. I was actually keeping clean most of the day but once I hit the point of so tired my vision stops working I just left everything as is and attempted to go to sleep. But cake-panic set in and I got about an hour last night. Then I worked a full day before making the cake which I thought would take 2 hours but ended up taking 5. FIVE. And now I still can't sleep but I must. Agh

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*ominous music*

I'm sensing the impending doom of a (soon-to-be-failed)self-improvement binge coming on. My dreams are getting too large, let's just start with one thing. One. Today I will go to the gym and get in an aerobic workout, purely to decrease my stress about school starting up again on Tuesday. One thing. One. That is my goal for today.

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I will write anything but my history paper.

I was searching for an old notes page when I found some of the letters I wrote her. I met her 5 days before my mother died, she was working behind the counter at my favorite stationary store. She was beautiful.  We began what I only realize now was something that shouldn’t have been. I haven’t spoken to her in a long time. I found the letters I wrote her, one ends “I miss you, I miss you.”

I found old things I wrote that at the time were unsafe to publish here, but time heals all and my best writing is the kind that gets me into trouble. So read on if you will be able not to be angry at the fact that years ago I may have written something that is no longer relevant. Here are some pieces I found.

1.
I miss falling in love, I’m being trapped by the more functional elements of my life. I feel a need to create some chaos. Easier said than done, life has a way of working itself out when you least expect it. A crazy delivery guy at the bakery caught me up in his stoner-babble today, and he told me he thought I was a fairy. It was a great compliment, if you ignore the fact that he was clearly insane.

2.
I have not wished for anything since you died.

3.
I told you I needed to write, to go sit in the kitchen. It was not what I meant, though I’m unsure of my own feelings, they read(rather, they scan frantically, they pace the room, they shout at the walls) something like this: 

I will go until I can no longer feel your passive aggression seeping under the cracks of doorways, I will go until I have read enough T.S. Elliot to feel like a complete failure,


I will go until I have washed your endless dishes


The ones you will leave to grow green in the sink as your skin forms a shell of jade in your bedroom.


On your horrendous spring mattress that bites at my sides, that taunts me when I wake at 2 a.m.


When you grunt and pull the covers off my feet to leave me shivering



4.

I feel heavy with water, with wine, with the sound of your voice being cut off as I hung up the phone. When I’m not fixating on you I’m convincing myself I hate you, and doing a damn good job of it. I resent you for being able to get away with so much. I resent your inability to be happy for an entire day. I hate your violent outburst anytime you forget something. I hate your inability to forget the past. I hate you for not being smart enough to lie to me when I asked if you were interested in her.  I hate that you smoke pot and that you depend on it. I hate that I’ve developed a pill habit and a purging habit after I met you. You are driving me to insanity with every second you are not here, but when you call me I will forget this all.
5. (After my car accident)
I couldn’t move most of my body without shaking out a series of tears. I sat on the floor of the tub while he tried to bathe me. The boy wasn’t born with the inherent caring skills so many women have. He was holding the shower head low, washing soap into my eyes. The tub slowly filled with gray water. Even with the stinging and the pain of any sudden movement, the water on my back felt wonderful. I was swollen, scabby, more naked than I had ever been. There was no thought of casually leaning back so my stomach would lay flat, my thighs pushed together and my legs crossed to shrink my silhouette. There was none of that, just pain. 
 I was curled into a ball with my stomach flapping over itself, my entire body swelling with fluid. The seat belt left a strip of bruising on my chest, and my knees were steadily turning shades of purple and phlegm green. But the water on my back felt wonderful.




I was breathing through my nose, when he moved the shower hose and knocked a bottle of shampoo off the shelf. It flew past my face and smacked the few inches of water. I was watching the car come at me, I was withdrawing my body from the impact, I was feeling every muscle in my body scream as I moved away. Then I was back in the white of the tub, shaking and sobbing, and he was soaking his clothes to hold me.


6.

As a pastry-chef in training and a love-hating cynic addicted to irony, Paris was the perfect destination. When I bought the ticket I was pretending to casually fuck an art student while secretly obsessing over him. The whole love issue crept up on me in the first weeks of summer, after eating Thai food.

7.
When Nicole knocked on his dorm room door at 1 in the afternoon and I answered with my hair channeling the bride of Frankenstein, she was decidedly smug in her matchmaking success. We snuck of to the end of the hall to mime a silent conversation about the details while he stood on the other side of the door. Nicole pointed her thumb up, then turned it down, her eyebrows raised in question. I pointed my thumb up.

“I knew it!” she mouthed with a victorious shake of her fist.
She flattened her hands and moved the palms together as if in prayer, then outward. I mimicked the motion, leaving a distance between my palms that provoked a series of approving nods. When he entered the room we dropped our hands and went into a decidedly unsubtle fit of coughing, painfully trying to hold back our smiles.

8.
With the internet going on the fritz there is not much left for me to do but write. Or whatever the fuck it is I do these days.



I’ve always had a strange belief that friends are the people you can talk with endlessly and lovers are the people you don’t mind kissing when the conversation fall into awkward silence. I guess it’s true love when you can just shut the fuck up. Which reminds me, there is no hope left for this.


The “I love you” standstill has now become mutual, so I guess it’s my job to break it. Or to just let this die. Who knows.

9.
I am starving for you, trying to remember the last time I ate a full meal. I went to bed 104lbs., I woke up at 102. I’m not hungry yet, I feel great. I keep visualizing the scale hitting 100, then the number 97 keeps popping up. I pray it’s a sign. I imagine how much life will improve once I’ve just lost the weight. I imagine myself as one of those uber-skinny punky pixie dykes.



I guess I’ve decided I do like alliteration with the letter “p”. I guess I’ve decided I just want to stay in my room all day. I may go out for a walk. I used to hate walking, I still would rather drive. But I’ve realized that for the first half-mile nothing hurts, then for the next half mile or mile everything kills. But after that, the pain stops, and by the time I hit my destination I want to keep going. I’m riding the adrenaline, picturing myself getting smaller and smaller. Seeing myself as a rock star, a dancer, as yours.

We were sitting together in an oversized chair last night, avoiding calories together. When offered pizza, or food, or any non zero-calorie drink, the answer was,


“No”


In unison from us both, follow by the faded,


“thanks”


From his polite little mouth.


I wondered if Nicole was noticing, watching us disappear. I wondered if I would actually make it past 101 this time, the way I haven’t in years. I remember the time I thought 104 was too high, and to think I reached 124 and am viewing a morning weight of 102 as good is ridiculous.


Most people I know who were hit head on in a car crash don’t remember the accident, or they aren’t here. I remember every detail, but the scene played out like a nightmare. Blurry, choppy. I was driving home at 11:30, convincing myself I was mad at him so it wouldn’t hurt me not to sleep next to him for a single night. I saw the car coming towards me swerve across the median line into my lane, then straighten out, completely unaware I was driving at him. I hit the brakes and watched the car come barreling straight at me, and I cut to the left at the last second. I heard the sound of the impact, and felt the sting as the airbag punched my face. I could smell smoke, and see it, and flashing orange lights. Somehow I got my seatbelt off, managed to wedge my purse out from between the accordion passenger seat, and I ran to the side walk. I watched the other driver stumble out of his car, and I was screaming(or trying to) “YOURE DRUNK! WHY DID YOU DO THAT!”


I couldn’t feel my face at first, or my hands. Then all I could feel was my face. I was touching it, and staring at my hands covered in blood. I was trying to feel if anything was left of my teeth or jaw. All I could think of was Invisible Monsters.


I stood on the sidewalk screaming for help, watching car after car drive by for what seemed like eternity.




10.
It’s 6:44 and with every minute the fear grows that I will have to call you and be that girlfriend. You know, the nagging, whining, evil, needy, jealous, and slightly psychotic girlfriend that most girls secretly are. I also wonder if I should just warn you I’m severely on the verge of a manic episode, but I don’t know how to say it. Maybe “RUN FOR IT!” is a bit dramatic but maybe it would work, maybe it would just get you away before you have to see me typing feverishly, thinking unstoppably about everything, wanting to do everything at once and ending up doing absolutely nothing, tortured, as an anxious vibration fills me.



I pick up calls for you about apartments and I do my best to act normal, but I end up laughing nervously at things that are clearly not funny. Then I make you out to be far more responsible than you are: like any good girl friend/real estate agent would do. Smile and nod. I smile over the phone because that’s what the Cosmo I found on the flight told me to do, because it makes your happy bullshit sound genuine. It also gave me a list of ways to manipulate men into getting what I want. I feel like I’m crazy because I’m one of the few women I know who doesn’t want to manipulate the men around and then I watch myself do it subconsciously from a third person perspective, the invisible camera in the corner of the ceiling. My security system. We are smarter than you, and we know it.


I should get dressed.


I should learn to be a functioning human.


I should warn you.


I should get the fuck out of here.


And I stay, I’ll always end up stuck here. I wonder if I’ll ever leave. If I’ll end up like my coworker Emily, living at 52 with her mom and her cat. For the humor of it, keep the cat even though I’m allergic. I’ll be old and sniffly, and most likely overweight. Desperately trying to find a man on the internet, making brownies for a living. Oh God.


I can’t live here for another year. I know you’ll have an apartment but let’s be realistic, are we really going to last the rest of the fucking year? I missed the feel of a woman for the first time a few weeks ago. I randomly missed the feel of my ex-boyfriend a few days later. I guess it’s normal, to be unable to fall out of love. I don’t know if I really love you but I know I’m clinically obsessed, so it counts. And somehow I just know saying, “I have an unhealthy amount of obsessive thoughts about you” just loses that romantic ring that goes with “I love you.”


Maybe I just want a good, rough, fuck. Maybe I just want to play completely submissive for a while, and not once have a moment of going “think he’ll finish soon?”


I can’t explain it, but it just isn’t good sex. But it isn’t bad. I don’t know, it’s as if we fit perfectly in every other area. Maybe I’m just so used to be hurt(physically) that I can’t contemplate sex without pain? And it just seems strange.


11.
I had the chance to go out tonight but as usual, I am home, writing and not writing. Avoiding.



I have returned from Paris, where I spent ten days missing you, longing for you. Now I’m home, in this cell, and I just want to push you away. This sickening feeling of love was acceptable in Paris, acceptable when the irony was just too good. The only person alone in the city of light, of romance, of lovers. Sobbing over my tart tartan, growling at the thousands of couples kissing furiously, I couldn’t help but be a little happy. To smile at my own misery.


But I’m home, and we stay up late staring at each other and cooing mantras of


“I’m so glad I met you”


“I love you”


“I can’t imagine life without you.”


I came back with an increased nicotine tolerance and one good piece of writing. As it goes, it was about you. Then again, I’d gladly spend $2,000 and ten days for one piece of good writing, but this is me. One essay that will rot in a journal forever. One line that I will curl around my fingers for the next few weeks,


(And in the picture, she moans)


12.
Their conversations were moments on the highway when it’s pouring rain and you drive under a bridge, and for a moment, all is peaceful. They spoke in bursts, ranting to each other. She noticed the freakish similarities, she had no idea what he noticed.



She would leave him with blood pulsing painfully in her hands, yelling at her to create. He invaded her writing. She began speaking in third person, pretending it was fiction. Disconnecting from this reality and back into her, what was it, her art? The first sentence had been an attempt at a story but as usual it all falls through when you’re mind is going this fast.


She knew she wouldn’t be there long, she felt she could trust him and for that reason alone she didn’t. She would ask him questions and he would answer vaguely, “um, well….” They would sleep in the small bed, rather, he would sleep. She would lie awake listening to her thoughts screaming and fighting the desire to turn on the lights and start writing at his desk, nude except for her glasses.


The chemistry the week before had been perfection, yet now he chose to say,


“You know there is nothing between us”


Before entering me briefly, not finishing. I still have no idea if he was speaking in terms of latex or emotion. I told Nicole and she laughed, which one cannot help, because who really says something like that. There was mention later (or earlier, I cannot remember which) of monogamy which ended in “well, we’ll see” a comment that also was unclear. Consider this my warning boy, I can’t handle you.


He has cracked the system. He’s fucking with it completely in fact. The rules are as such:


1. Miles is the one exception to these rules.


2. I have too much pride.


3. I cannot let myself get hurt.


4. I have some issues physically and emotionally with sex.


5. I am absolute clay if you kiss me on the neck from behind.


6. If I find myself caring about you, I will find a way to fuck it up.


7. If I am not constantly reassured in blatant, word form I will over-analyze anything until I’ve decided you(not specifically you) hate me, that I must protect myself from getting hurt, that I must disappear.


8. I have issues with my body that as much as I would love to have gone away they will not, and I can’t do this on command.


9. I like to lie to myself a lot when it comes to caring for people.


The situation with you(yes specifically you) follows as such


1. You started kissing me on the neck from behind when we were cuddling.


2. You are a positive person.


3. You are extremely skinny.


4. You have severe issues with your ex.


5. You seem(according to Nicole, Kyle, and my overpowering inner voice of insecurity) to be attracted to Nicole.


6. It would only be terrible relationship karma for her to fuck you.


7. You have incredibly sexy hair.


8. You bring out the positive side in me, part of it honest, part of it as show to impress you with our intense similarities.


9. Fuck you and your sunny disposition.


10. You are an artist.


11. You have artists hands, nimble fingers with their calluses that follow the lines of my body. You have such gorgeous hands.


12. You are talented.


13. You enjoy good film but not classic Hollywood necessarily though you do know most of it.


14. You are slightly older, and will be 21 next year (both good and bad).


15. You dress well.


16. You are not too hairy.


17. You look surprisingly not too skinny naked.


18. You complement me on my figure because you are clearly blind, and I love it, and sometimes I believe it too.


19. I want you to draw me? I want to be equal on muse-level with you.


20. You are quiet.


21. You don’t always have opinions, what’s wrong with you?


22. You never ask me questions though this may be due to the fact that I tend to volunteer answers.


23. The sex was awkward. Though the first time generally is.


24. Everything else was not.


25. I faked it, but not because of your inability (boy are you able) but because I am not comfortable enough to do that yet.


26. You are extremely affectionate.


27. You cuddle.


28. You drink coffee but primarily tea.


29. You seem not to care, not to stress. I care and stress about everything.


30. You can’t tell when I’m being sarcastic.


31. You make me feel like I look desperate.


32. As much as you hate her you are so obviously still in love with her I would always be threatened, especially when you eventually dropped your grudge against her.


33. I could change your life.


34. You don’t seem to see pastry as art and I over justify it.


35. You leave your smell on me, the scent of your sweat is intoxicating.


36. You tried to steal my journal.


37. I can’t read you.


38. “You realize there is nothing between us.”


39. “Well, we’ll see.”


40. You dislike Bono.


41. I keep using the term “dating” around you.


42. You sleep around, and you’re just as affectionate.


43. You don’t make noise.


44. You make me feel strangely shy.


45. I casually identified as gay a few weeks ago..


46. You have invaded my writing.


47. You never comment on the blog thing..


48. “well give me some warning if that’s going to happen” you didn’t particularly seem to care.


49. You understand the coolness of my mother.


50. Adventure potential.


51. I will be smitten with your or bored with you in a matter of weeks, either way spells trouble.


52. I kind of like trouble. Especially the kind that that involves really good sex.




13.
I’m in trouble with this one.



“Are you upping your cynicism level because you can’t be cynical about love anymore?”


“Love? No, I don’t believe in love. I don’t do love. There is no love in this.”


(I give it until the Eiffel tower)


Everyone keeps telling me I’m going to fall in love in Paris. They’re right but they’ve got it all wrong.

14.
These days, life has been a string of moments between small deaths. Such is youth I guess. Writing next to you under the in and out light of streetlamps and our cigarettes as we drive away from something we once called love. We are both dangling our ghosts out the window between two fingers. You kiss me and you taste of spice but not of who I want you to be, all is trouble.



(Who knows what of this will be legible in natural lighting)


With remorse I return my head to the clouds to watch the fish swim, my eye caught by a species with a distinct movement.


I repeat myself:


I realized today that you are a lost cause, but that makes two of us. So maybe this could work.

15.
I drove home biting my lip to stop talking to myself.



I ran a red light at a barren intersection because there just was not time. The rare set of words that would skip the step of paper to computer were forming in my mind just as rapidly as I was losing them. I kept trying to hold on to the glimpses of the night. To capture your movements and the sound of your exhale and translate it, expand it. This is what I have left:


We stood in the wake of a black and white movie, our figures shocked by the fluorescent yellow crawling through the glass of the ATM entrance where we took refuge. He began with his hands raised to his head, combing his fingers through his hair in an overlapping pattern. He lowered his arms, leaving his hands open in front of him,


“I feel like we’re flipping through the same book.”


He said, his right index finger peeling the corner of an invisible book, turning three pages.


His choice of words was impeccable, and he had me going. To say we were “on the same page” would have been incorrect, for it would have implied a cease in motion. He was right, we were both wandering confused in the direction of a fuzzy dream city where art meets money, where broken rules find struggle to find a place in society. I calmed myself in time to notice him hook his thumbs into the straps of his back-pack and give a forced exhale.


Later:


We stood waiting for the last train to come, the conversation still going.


“It’s cold”


I said with my hands at my elbows, meaning just that. He moved towards me and put his arms around me, rubbing his hand on my back to create friction. It wasn’t something I had been searching for but I was in no mood to complain. I remembered our conversation the week before where he had mentioned that doing this actually drew blood away from vital organs, but I was in no mood to argue. Who needs vital organs anyways?

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Wednesday night writing. Episode 1.

Today was strange. This whole “you can’t drive” thing is really starting to get to me. Today I almost cracked.
I thought,
“I’ll just go out, go anywhere, I’ll go for a ride around the fucking block, no one can stop me!”
I thought about how when I get my license back I am taking off on an aimless road trip by myself.
I thought about the cute girl at Maddy’s party who I subsequently thought I should not be thinking about which really only lead me down a path of thinking of nothing else but the cute girl at Maddy’s party until I started thinking about ATCB. Or at least trying to.
The other day was strangely warm for January and the weather lit up the dangerous part of me that wants to run around in the sun, abandon all my obligations, and fly off to Paris. Alone.
He said to me,
“Why do you talk like that?”
I have to explain to him that my comments are based on statistical support and empirical evidence that have led me to a life of cynicism. I love you, but chances are that this is nothing to fall under the category of be-all-end-all. If there even is such a category.
Being on a diet is half empowering and half soul-crushing. I am doing well but the fact is almost all the time I am at least a teeny bit hungry, and thus a teeny bit cranky. This will go away as I learn to plan out my days better. It’s almost impossible not to find myself a bit angry when I am staring at the incredible-shrinking man as he lays in bed plotting his breakfast and flexing his muscles when he laughs. Do you want two eggs, or three? You skinny asshole.
I am thinking I should start renting out my father as a diet aid for women. He will eat almost anything that comes across his path. This is usually how our interactions start, he will say:
“What’s that you have there?
“Low-fat high-fiber high-protein mac-and-cheese”
“Can I have a bite?”
“No. It’s portioned and I’m carefully counting calories. There is some in the pantry if you want to make some.”
“You’re gonna make me dinner? Good. Good.”
“No. I said you could make some.”
“What, you don’t love your fathah? You don’t want to make him dinnah? What is this?! This is just another sign that the Taliban is going to win.”
“FINE. Here. Eat it.”
Wondahful.”
At this rate, all I have to do is not stand up to him and I’ll reach my goal in no time.
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My January 3rd Resolutions.

These are Resolutions that are going to begin on January 3rd 2011 at 12:00a.m. and will continue until July 4th 2011. This is my first draft.
Why January 3rd? Because my first resolution will be greatly impeded by the dinner reservation I have at Hungry Mother on January 2nd.  Cornmeal breaded catfish. Yum.
So, Here they are:
  1. From January third until July 4th eat 1200 calories a day. This should afford me a healthy weight loss of 1lb. per week. Days I am allowed to break this rule are as follows:
  1. Valentine’s Day
  2. Karen’s Birthday
  3. Nicole’s Birthday
  4. Jen’s Birthday
  5. If I go on vacation.
On days where this rule is being broken, calories are not to exceed 1650. I will keep track of what I am eating every day accurately, and not give up in the evening as I often do.
  1. Save $1000 each month in my ING account. This is an aggressive goal but one I think I can handle, especially once I am working full time again. I may edit this goal if it proves unfeasible.
  2. On Valentine’s Day, having successfully maintained my diet, wear the red dress I bought and go see Casablanca (as I always do) at the Brattle Theater.
  3. Wake up every morning and drink a full glass of water.
  4. Wash my face every night before bed.
  5. Wake up 30 minutes earlier. Spend 15 minutes meditating. Spend 10 minutes stretching. Spend 5 minutes doing floor exercises.
  6. Before my birthday, discover 5 new albums that I love all by different artists.
  7. Every Wednesday, write one new creative 500-word piece of writing.
  8. Every Wednesday, write one journal entry reviewing my goals and recording my successes and difficulties in order to maintain my motivation.
  9. Every Wednesday, clean my bedroom, my living room, and my bathroom. This day is subject to change when I return to school.

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The rare moments when I am having a hard time talking about something everything in my body shuts down. I don’t know how to talk to him anymore. I feel myself closing off.

Yesterday I passed out in Adam’s shower and had to call for his help. For a girl who tries incredibly hard to be low-maintenance,  I take a lot of effort just to keep alive. I’m tired all the time. My elbows hurts from when I fainted.

Something just doesn’t feel right and I got sick of trying to figure it out so I have just distanced myself from the problem. I don’t have the energy to focus on any emotion other than being happy, I refuse to.

I know everybody thinks new year’s resolutions are stupid but I have a lot of them that I will post about soon. The whole idea is pretty exciting for me. If they go nearly as well as my year-of-happy goals did, I’ll be set.

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Events of the past 48 hours that made an overly-dramatic impact on my emotions.

1. ATCB and I were  in the corner table at the bar we went to on our first date. He stared me dead in the eye (as always) and I didn’t look away for a good minute and a half before he finally says,
“Are you waiting for me to kiss you?”

For future reference, I am always waiting for you to kiss me.

2. I was snooping through the pile of catalogs on ATCB’s dining room table, when I saw the glasses (as in dishes, not eyewear) that Bobby had been looking for since about date three of our relationship. I set down my hot chocolate, shuffled over to ATCB’s bedroom, grabbed my phone, and hit the(as yet unchanged) speed dial 2. Four rings in, I realized what I was doing.

Right as I was about to hang up he picked up.

It was almost 11 o’clock. So I had to tell him that late on a Sunday night I was up thinking about his glassware aspirations. I tried to drop Adam’s name as many times as humanly possible. I am so thick sometimes.

3. Since I am effectively imprisoned in my home for the winter, I now have way to much free time on my hands. I am in the process of cleaning out, reorganizing, redecorating, and fixing up the top floor of my house. Within a 20 minute span I came across my mother’s perfume, a vial of her ashes, a lock of her hair, and a random piece of lined paper with useless notes she had written on it. Cue vociferous sniveling.

4. Last week I decided that it is high time I start dressing the way I have always wanted to. So I began shamelessly ordering dresses online. Tonight I got a phone call from the company I ordered 8 dresses from telling me that one would be out of stock for a few weeks, and asking if I would like to cancel my order or wait. After agreeing to wait the extra time I said,
“So, this is the point in the phone call where I should really be a giant bitch in hopes that you will give me a discount. But I don’t really want to. I could probably make up some story about how I needed that dress for a big party that is now ruined. But, instead I’m just going to ask you to pretend I did that and see if you can give me some sort of fabulous discount. Can you?”
She laughed, and got her manager to give me 40% off the dress.

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Dear Universe, I don’t understand what you’re trying to pull here.

So Saturday I was at work and the day was going really well. I had gone out for dinner at Lumiere the night before with Sweet Pea so I could check out the super cute bartender(Who I am almost certain was flirting with me).

Anyways, Saturday,  it is about 11:30 and I look at the clock and realize that even though it’s a Saturday I am probably going to get out of work on time. Amazing.

This sends me off on a mental tangent of thinking about just how happy I am. The first trimester is over, I have a couch, I have my life under control, I have this great guy in my life. The last thing I was thinking about was how happy I was.

Evidently my body rejected the joy.

Next thing I know I am opening my eyes to Mark (my manager’s) face. I look up and Sweet Pea is sobbing by my work table. I had no idea what was going on. I was covered in blood, and buttercream. I knew something had happened but I had no idea what. Everyone was yelling at me not to move. I was terrified.

In the ambulance, I still didn’t understand what had happened. I was yelling at the EMTs “I have to go back to work! Its THANKSGIVING WEEK!
They told me Jen was with me, which calmed me down. They told me I had a seizure.

I got to the hospital and my dad met us in the emergency room. I wasn’t really grasping the situation. I kept cracking jokes. I was really mad at the bandage they had wrapped around my head, I looked like a WWI vet. The gauze went all around my head and under my chin and was soaked with blood. They left room for my pigtails to stick out. Hilarious and embarrassing but mostly just hilarious.
The truth is I was panicking, I needed Adam to get there. I just knew that when he did I would be OK. So I am sitting in the emergency room crying and laughing and waiting and waiting for him to get there.

Luckily Sweet Pea was there to keep me company but I don’t think she is particularly used to this sort of thing so she seemed a bit shocked. My Dad on the other hand is totally jaded to the whole medical-crisis routine and began talking about pie. He spent 20 minutes (while I cried) debating what flavor of pie to order for Thanksgiving.

So when Adam finally arrives everything just suddenly seems like it is going to be OK. For the first time I cried in front of him. Somewhere during the whole “Oh my god I almost died” mantra that was cycling through my mind I realized that I am stupidly, shamelessly, completely in love with him.

This is nothing like the whole incident that occured the other week where he made my bed and it made me so happy I accidentally told him I love him and then took it back via text message because I am quite possibly the most insensitive defensive bitch in the world. This is more something I had been thinking about all morning that was confirmed somewhere while I was tied down in an ambulance being pierced with needles and repeatedly yelled at not to move. Ah, the romance.

So he spent the next few nights with me at the hospital. At one point, he is lying next to me on my hospital bed and I just say,
“So I’ve been thinking because of this whole “I almost died” thing that has been going on that just in case anything happens I want you to know that I love you.”

I really have a way with words sometimes.

Anyways, The Universe seems to have misinterpreted some of my requests so I’m going to revise them again.

Dear Universe,
I would like to live the rest of my life without ever having another seizure. If you could also get rid of all my other major health problems that would be lovely too. I was actually thinking about how fantastic a job you were doing when I was suddenly smited. Also, If I could lose 10 pounds that would be great.
love,
Alessandra

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Dear Universe, I’m sorry.

Work today wasn’t too too long but I did end up having to rush out the door to meet ATCB for coffee. I had some legitimately important things to discuss with him but the conversation didn’t go as I planned. I ended up only really talking about one thing-which was a kind of dumb joke he made that had bothered me. The whole thing really had nothing to do with him and everything to do with my history and my insecurities, and my tendency to turn shame into anger.

I feel like the sentence structure in that paragraph is a perfect representation of just how much coffee I had. Which really wasn’t that much but it seems to be working quite well.

Anywaaaays as I was saying I had intended to have a long, pleasant, and valuable conversation over coffee. When I got to the cafe, the only table left was the table I hate. I was trying to be nice so I took the less comfortable chair while I waited for ATCB. Problem is, this chair is in such an awkward position that my knees just weren’t fitting anywhere comfortably and when I tried to lean back my head kept hitting the fucking counter. So instead of addressing important things I spent half and hour fidgeting in that stupid fucking chair.

So the chair seemed to be the tipping point that sent my demeanor from anxious about school to pure rage, and sent me into an incredibly cranky rant. Poor ATCB had to just listen to me bitch endlessly. He did a fabulous job I must say.

After he left I moved to my favorite chair, finished my cappuccino, and worked on the rest of my marketing project. Once it was done I felt a lot better, even though there is still a ton to finish.

On my way home from coffee I realized just how awful I had been. I was not at all conforming to the attitude necessary for my “year-of-happy” and that I really have no right to complain. I am actually really lucky to be receiving an education, and to be living where I live and working in a job I love. I also realized that I was just stressing so irrationally about it all. In my short life I have been through so many things that were far worse than this, and lasted far longer. There is no reason I can’t do this and I was being a spoiled brat.

So I am sorry for complaining, and I am really grateful to have my job and be in school and know a guy who is willing to listen to me complain about it all when he isn’t even properly caffeinated.

That is my year-of-happy lesson for the day. Hope it inspires you.

Now, I am going to relax for the evening because I have accomplished a lot today and I need to clear my head a bit before tomorrow when I will harness my academic superpowers and use them to finish my work/fight the forces of evil/ save the world.

Well, maybe just to finish my work.

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Today is over. I made it through. I am just praying tomorrow will be alright at work so I will have some energy left to finish the million things due next week. When this is all done I an going to award myself with a glass of wine-or seven,

This morning on my way to school all my frustrations and mixed feelings turned into an almost violent rage. I was worried someone would cross me and I would just flip out.

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Writing this paper is ruining this film for me. Do you know how much fucking happens in 10 minutes of a Woody Allen film? Well, I can tell you it is way more than two pages worth of writing. Writing this paper is almost as complicated as Allen’s love triangles can be-though this film is like a love octagon.

Isaac is a 42 year old man Dating a 17 year old named Tracy. His  second ex wife left him for another woman and is now writing a book about their break-up.  His best friend Yale is married to his friend Connie but is having an Affair with Mary. Isaac ends up cheating on Tracy with Mary, Yale’s mistress. Good lord.

Suddenly my love life seems really easy to handle.

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Potential Side Effects.

If I watch Manhattan I will:

1. Be madly in love.
2. Feel broken hearted.
3. Be lost in a black and white film for a week.
4. Have a severe case of writer’s brain all night.
5. Probably have a sudden desire to quit life and write a novel, but end up writing letters I will never send.
6. Have to break out my Gershwin records.

Watch out people.

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Oh yeah…

Beverage presentation prepped. I am so ready.

Beverage Exam, I am going to destroy. I have been dating this exam for the past few months, I know every inch of it at this point.

What’s that you say? Manhattan is an option for my film paper? The film I know so well? That’s available for instant watch on Netflix? Oh ok, thanks for making my life easy.

My work for the marketing presentation was more complete than I thought, so my share(for the powerpoint at least) is done. Now to attack that 50 page paper….

Either way I can suddenly breathe.

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My to do list for today:

1. Go to macro and pretend to take notes while I go over my beverage presentation and study for my beverage test.

2. Go to beverage and give the presentation then rush through my test

3. hopefully have enough time before accounting to pick and watch a 10-minute movie clip from the list of acceptable films to write my final paper/scene analysis for film

4 Write my paper during accounting.

5. This is where it gets complicated: I have to try and see Jason because it’s his mothers birthday and I would be the worst friend ever if I wasn’t there.I also have to make wednesday night dinner for my dad. I also have to finish my presentation for marketing tomorrow. I am thinking I can hang out with jason while simultaneously working on the presentation. I should just send my dad into Lumiere with a note attached to his shirt that says “Dear Adam, please feed me” and attach a blank check.
6. Slowly cry myself to sleep before I do it all again tomorrow.

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FuckFuckFuckFuckFuck

I feel like a giant stress aneurism just burst in my brain. Everything is due in the next two weeks and I have nothing done, and no clue about some assignments. My mind has been wandering around Paris for three months drinking champagne and kissing cute bartenders. My visa has run out.

I dont even know where to start. I just want to curl up in a ball and hide out until Thanksgiving break. I thought I could just be a normal lazy college student for ONE TERM and not care, and I really didn’t. I’m just not built for a life of academic crime.

Gah I am going to lock myself in a closet and work for two weeks on homework.

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I am exhausted and freezing and if my knees swell any more I won’t be able to hold them straight. But of course its day two of the holidays, and I will probably be at work forever. Not to mention I have to get home and try and finish my costume before working on the two huge projects and two huge papers due next week. I’m feeling really overwhelmed. And cold.

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Turning into my mother.

I just realized this design is so simple I could totally build it on my own. I have all the tools already.

Plus, I could design the arms/backs to be removable so I have infinite options.

And I could get the perfect fabric.

And I could stuff it with memory foam and have the most comfy couch ever.

And I could install magnets inside each side of the cubes so they will stay put once assembled!

Or I could just buy a fucking couch and stop being so nutty.

But how amazing would that be if I built it?

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The journey continues…

So, I was really really bored today so I decided to continue my quest.

 After travelling this far, I remembered a couch I had seen far back at Crate & Barrel. I loved the concept but I hated the colors they offered, and it wasn’t particularly comfortable
Here is the inspiration
I love the concept, it is clean and simple. It was really uncomfortable because the cushions are made with some recyled materal roughly as comfortable as sitting on a rock.
I also didnt like that it had no arms. This is a couch for miserable people with no elbows.

Unfortunately, since I have not only one but two elbows this just wont do.
So I’m having my own made, but there are so many options for pieces I cant decide!However, I have foud several companies who offer a similar product and specialize in very customized furniture.
So here is the new concept:
    A sectional couch made up of a series of modular cubes (or rectangles) that can be assembled or reassembled in a lot of ways.
I have made a chart of some of my thoughts. Each piece also works alone as a chair.
I also offered some of the colors I am considering so you can imagine them better.

Which is your favorite or which pieces would you buy and how many of each?

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Love you forever, but you’re driving me insane

When I heard the song come on the radio yesterday I couldn’t help but remember.
                                I was 17 and I still loved you.

I was standing on a balcony in Italy, overlooking the Alps.
I was freezing.
As always, I had smoked too many cigarettes.

When I heard her singing I could smell the stale tobacco on my coat.
     I could taste it.
I could see my breath sigh its way into the evening.

          God, I really missed you.

Its so strange how vivid some memories are.
Flash forward and I’m standing in the airport:

                                 It was New Year’s Eve.

I called to tell you I wanted you back.
         I called to tell you I had a bottle of champagne.
               You answered and told me you had plans with someone else.

I didn’t know I still had any thought of you left.
Guess I was wrong.

    I’m so glad I left you.

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Some examples of couch possibilities

Now imagine them all in black fabric. Just plain black. Or maybe red, I am having swatches sent to me. But think black. These all come from a site that makes very customizable couches so I can most likely mix and match some pieces.

Couch One
I like that this one has solid pieces so its smooth for napping and things wont be lost between the cushions. I hate the material they used. It’s what I want but I haven’t fallen in love with it.

Couch Two
I really wish the back on this was solid. But…
Imagine you are at my fabulous party(held by me) and this is in the center of the room. People can sit almost anywhere! I also like that it is so clean and square and not messy looking. This couch can also be built to an size I want and I could probably switch out the back.

Couch Three
I know the back is way too low on these, and the way they arranged the pillows is really lame.
But I just really like it.
Why must I be so practical?

Couch Four
So, this one is made with black velvet, though the picture is bad. It’s pretty close to my drawing and looks soo comfortable. If I did get this couch I kind of like the idea of black velvet but it would not be the kind shown, because I hate the way it leaves marks when you touch it. It would drive me crazy.

Couch Five
This is similar to four, but its purple and has different feet.

Couch Six
This couch is completely different but I just had to throw it in here because it fucking rocks. Why do I have to be an adult? WHY?!

Thoughts?

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The plot thickens

So yesterday I went to the doctor for my yearly physical and it was awful and embarassing, but I’m being very responsible.

Anyways, to make myself feel better I decided to continue my quest for the ultimate sofa.

I had some luck at one furniture store and the saleswoman helped me design a custom, and ridiculously expensive, sofa. But it wasn’t perfect.

So, I want this sofa to invite people to come and sit and talk, or cuddle. It also has to be nap worthy. Though honestly, I just want it to be supercool and very me.

Macro was so boring I made you a lovely picture so you can understand what I’m thinking.
I also included a diagram showing why the shape is so awesome.

The couch :

Try not to be jealous of my insane artistic ability/warped sense of geometry.

 

Thoughts?
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I don’t know if I am the only one who does this but I think I have started to look at my life, the people around me, and myself as part of a story.

I expect people to reach a climax, have an epiphany, and grow or change.
I view rain as baptismal.
I feel love should never be too easy for fear of boredom, or too hard for fear of the story getting old.
I think villains will be punished. Eventually.

I imagine the one I’m falling for is sitting somewhere, perfectly lit, in the quiet scene I set for them when I am away. In my mind they wait for a movement in the plot, reflecting on everything that happened thus far. They drink coffee. They busy themselves. Their emotions slowly acquire a dramatic-almost feverish-flair.

I hint at things in conversation to foreshadow my future plans, and shed light on some of my fears.
Sometimes I personify the divine(the light, the sound, the universe, etc.) and view it as a reader. 

Maybe I am crazy, maybe I am brainwashed by literature and film. It keeps my days interesting. It makes the mundane seem important. It’s just my usual habit for daydreaming taking on a new form.
I realized today on my drive to school that the couch has left the realm of being a practical object and become a metaphor.for my deep rooted need for security, my desire to prove my worth and maturity, and my need to express my creative side.

I looked at couches with ATCB. If I was a character, would that represent my character becoming more comfortable or more insecure? We weren’t looking together in any sort of way, he was just accompanying me. Maybe he is a foil. Maybe I am a foil.

We had dramatically different preferences in cloth options. Mine are more flamboyant and “retro” in an affected,borderline-obnoxous, though appropriately “quirky” way. His choices are more earthy, dark, textured, and modern American. Interesting.

It’s just a couch.

But, this leads me to some questions for you:

If you were the main character in a book
1. What would be your fatal flaw?
2. What journey are you on? What is your motivation?
3. What is your biggest conflict?
4. Who are your most important supporting characters?
5. What is a recurring symbol in your life?
6. Is there an antagonist?
7. Who is telling your story?

please answer.

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sometimes my horoscope is terrifyingly spot on

“You may feel as though the most important people in your life don’t really get how hard you’ve worked to achieve a certain special moment. Something you’ve wanted and worked for over a very long time has come to fruition, or is in the process of doing so. Yet those closest to you may not fully realize just how big a moment this is in your life. You’ve been much, much closer to this dream, and you probably have a much broader understanding of just how complicated it is. Give your loved ones the benefit of the doubt. As things start to unfold, they’ll begin to “get it.”

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Confessions of a crazed sick girl

So I guess the Universe heard that I had an actual weekend and decided to just stomp all over it.

To be fair, the trip to Maine with ATCB was actually quite fun.

Though, as soon as. I left work on Saturday and sat down on my couch to relax I began to have what I thought was an allergic reaction. It turned out to be some sort of plague.

Of course, this happens right before my vacation, and last through mid-terms.

Fabulous.

So I was really good and totally toughed it out on our trip. Though once we crossed back into Massachusets I admitted that I was floating somewhere between agony and death.

Ok, maybe that is an incredibly-ridiculously-overly-dramatic-description, but I was hungry at the time and realizing slowly that this would mean not kissing ATCB. Tragedy.

So…did I mention I am super sensitive to cold medicine?

So I’m at home sniffling and coughing and wheezing(in an incredibly sexy way), ATCB comes to the rescue with lentil soup- my favorite food. I haven’t had it in weeks since I threw out all the convenience food in my house. Yeah, I know, he’s perfect blah blah blah.

Now, at this point I have taken enough medicine that I am shamelessly high. Cue the sitar music, because I was gone. This is why I only take cold medicine when I am in my house, preferably alone.

So ATCB prances in like Lancelot(if Lancelot delivered soup) and I go all googley eyed and become a whimpering-sniffling-lovey-dovey-mess.

Did I mention I was on a LOT of meds?

So I kind of curl up next to him on the couch and I try to nuzzle him with my head because I can’t use my nose since it is preparing to fall off my face. Something really wierd happened and I just started attacking him with cheesy lovey ranting.

Note to self:
Boyfriend + Food = good decision
Boyfriend + Wine = great decision
Boyfriend + Cold Medicine = bad bad decison

The poor guy. He probably thinks I have gone completely insane and become that girl.

I seriously could have just gone on all night telling him how perfect he is, breaking only for an occasional coughing fit.

I am so grossed out by myself.

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Thank You Universe

I did well on all the tests I got back thus far, despite skipping some classes.

Tonight I decided to just screw it an move my brother’s stuff out of his room and start converting it into my living room. The painting phase has begun! (Next phase: dream couch)

My dad is gone for two weeks so I have the house all to myself

I have Sunday off which means I get to have a real Saturday night! Then I get a real weekend, and I get to go to Maine with ATCB. I also get to go to brunch, I have never had brunch. Since it is a combination of two meals, am I entitled to eat two meals worth of food? I don’t care I’ll probably be too excited about the concept to even eat.

I seem to have reconciled things with two people I had a bit of a falling out with at the end of summer.

I think I may be getting over the metaphorical wall that I put up to keep people away.

Today I set up an IRA and an investment account. It was nerve-wracking and exciting. It was hard to put away all that money and think of the fun I could have with it, but I feel decently responsible. I also think I deserve to spoil myself a little bit (so I bought paint).

There is a bottle of American Darling waiting for me in my fridge.

My life is perfect. Thank you universe.

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You know what REALLY bothers me?!

1. The situation going on with my beverage professor’s pants. Someone needs to tell her that none of us want to see that and she needs to buy properly fitted pants and/or blindfolds for her students.

2. Mystery bruises that continue to appear on my body.

3. My comforter at home refuses to let my body reach a proper temperature. I have to become a contortionist in order to sleep with just enough of my body covered. I occasionally find myself so knotted in my covers that I wake up in the middle of the night and have to wiggle my way out of the cocoon I have created just so I can breathe again.

4. My father.

5. I seem to be falling all over the place: falling down, falling onto the street, falling in love, falling out of it.

6. In addition to all the falling I’ve been doing a lot of dropping, I think I may have seriously dropped the ball this time.

7. The intense professor flirting competition that goes on in my film class. Why can’t we just have an old, ugly professor? Who isn’t funny?

8. The fact that I could sort out all of my problems in 5 minutes if she was still here.

9. The fact that now I’m the only one who laughs so much at the world and I can’t find anyone who just gets it.

10. Today in my beverage class one of my classmates, Patrick, was talking a lot about food science  and asking questions. I agreed with a lot of what he said and I was really happy that someone else was as much of a food science geek as me. Then everyone in the class starting teasing him for it, and I was the only one to stand up for him. At a culinary school. Half the class took food tech classes, why is it that only two of us seem to have learned anything? Grrrr. They now refer to us as “elephants” because we hold on to information and evidently that is an intolerable flaw.

11. The fact that my professor gave me a 107 on my test instead of 110 because on the extra credit we had to identify 5 scents and I wrote almond instead of roasted almond. Bitch.
 Actually, I should be more specific: raging bitch.

12. The vast excess of cheese in my life and the desperate demand for chocolate.

13. Pretty much everything about my body.

14. The fact that I have no one to talk to at my school under the age of 35. Why am I so old? I’m so sick of wandering around by myself.

15. The fact that I just can’t decide what to do about anything. This is so unlike me, and it’s torturous.

16. The fact that since my name begins with “A” a lot of people have me listed first in their phonebook, and people constantly dial me from their pockets. I get so excited because some old friend is calling me only to discover it is an accident.

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I can’t decide how I feel about this and it is slowly driving me insane.

I have become a crazed woman, standing in a parking lot waving her arms and cursing at the sky.

It seems that since my emotions refuse to rest in one place I have decided to toss them towards the moon, and shatter them on the pavement.

Feel free to find them, pick them up, and show me where to put them.

Or maybe just help me find a better place to hide them.
Before they fall out accidentally, and one of us gets hurt.

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I am such a creep. Episode 2.

You may or may not remember this little gem.

Well, I’ve done it again.

So…

I’m sitting on a bench in the hallway studying before my next class. The girl sitting next to me has her bag open between us, her books and folders falling everywhere and onto my legs.

So she says,

“I’m sorry if my bag is like, hitting you.”

and I say…

“No worries, I don’t mind being hit a little.”

Yeah.

I dont know why I said that. I did not mean it the way it sounded.

Ugh. Why am I so creepy sometimes?

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