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Showing posts with label (decidedly). Show all posts
Showing posts with label (decidedly). Show all posts
"Counting my losses, wasn't sure if I should count you." -D
"Fear is the opposite of faith." But fuck faith. And fuck fear, too.
Luckily, when you've had your heart torn in a major way, all subsequent disappointments seem insignificant by comparison.
"But I refuse to be concerned with condescending advice, cuz I'm the only motherfucker that can change my life." -I.T.
-L (8/19/13)
Luckily, when you've had your heart torn in a major way, all subsequent disappointments seem insignificant by comparison.
"But I refuse to be concerned with condescending advice, cuz I'm the only motherfucker that can change my life." -I.T.
-L (8/19/13)
"'Would that life were a song!?,' blazed those olive eyes."
(OUCH! God forsaken.) I fell out of bed again this morning. It's a mad thing, this bewildered occupancy you've taken up in my mind.
Indeed, like grinning men in beat-up cars -- wearing glasses and looking straight ahead. Like tiny-tiny girls as cute as this -- muttering with a purpose. Oh! Like skateboarding women, holding on strong with one hand -- tattooed calves painted.
What if you knew me? What would your opinion look like?
I don't understand... I like being so separate. We are arbitrary and irreparable, like the smell of pine on my palm and the utter listlessness of a waning light; like pursed lips in anticipation, waiting to flinch. Is it lyrical, at least, the meaning beyond the words?
"And they've got these long benches, see, and you have to stand up and hunch over to eat so all the chili falls out! It's awesome...it's awesome."
Now I'm feeling more at peace. It dawns on me that within our mind and soul's creativity IS the place to dwell. And that I haven't read my Tarot for quite a long time... So there it is, my conclusion: I always start the Fool, and after the journey, end up the Magician again.
-L (8/5/13)
Indeed, like grinning men in beat-up cars -- wearing glasses and looking straight ahead. Like tiny-tiny girls as cute as this -- muttering with a purpose. Oh! Like skateboarding women, holding on strong with one hand -- tattooed calves painted.
What if you knew me? What would your opinion look like?
I don't understand... I like being so separate. We are arbitrary and irreparable, like the smell of pine on my palm and the utter listlessness of a waning light; like pursed lips in anticipation, waiting to flinch. Is it lyrical, at least, the meaning beyond the words?
"And they've got these long benches, see, and you have to stand up and hunch over to eat so all the chili falls out! It's awesome...it's awesome."
Now I'm feeling more at peace. It dawns on me that within our mind and soul's creativity IS the place to dwell. And that I haven't read my Tarot for quite a long time... So there it is, my conclusion: I always start the Fool, and after the journey, end up the Magician again.
-L (8/5/13)
"When you record the moment, you record the death of the moment." -D.C.
Where am I at? And how do I feel? Such complicated questions, every time. Easier to talk shit on paper/in person than it is to cop to the fact that we'd really rather not know.
But know we do! Can't not. Still, "don't waste your worry on me, I always find what I need. Come and go as I please -- I've got my skeleton key." -D
Stuck in this tight spot between wantingwantingwanting and utterly unwilling to give any more than I'm given. Not sure if I should get over this, or just hone it down keenly into the sharpest of survival skills -- exploited in every sense of the word. Follow myself into the foolish fellowship of the fallen, rather than picking myself up again and moving the fuck on? It's only that I'd like to learn to keep still; to cease with the ceaseless motion that's haunted my movements for years now. Learn to sit with it.
"'I miss being strong,' she told me, and leaned down to give me her lips. We went on, reaching out toward bliss & contrition -- but really, it ended there."
Well, well then. And even so. Every minute of every day has a place to be; a person to see; a date to keep. I look around sometimes in wonder, wondering how I made it here with everywhere I've been before. They say hindsight is 20/20; it all looks like a big freakin' mess back there to me. Deductive reasoning be damned!
"I left through her big oak-black front door, seen only in the brief dark of the evening before, and didn't intend to enter through it again."
-L (7/29/13)
But know we do! Can't not. Still, "don't waste your worry on me, I always find what I need. Come and go as I please -- I've got my skeleton key." -D
Stuck in this tight spot between wantingwantingwanting and utterly unwilling to give any more than I'm given. Not sure if I should get over this, or just hone it down keenly into the sharpest of survival skills -- exploited in every sense of the word. Follow myself into the foolish fellowship of the fallen, rather than picking myself up again and moving the fuck on? It's only that I'd like to learn to keep still; to cease with the ceaseless motion that's haunted my movements for years now. Learn to sit with it.
"'I miss being strong,' she told me, and leaned down to give me her lips. We went on, reaching out toward bliss & contrition -- but really, it ended there."
Well, well then. And even so. Every minute of every day has a place to be; a person to see; a date to keep. I look around sometimes in wonder, wondering how I made it here with everywhere I've been before. They say hindsight is 20/20; it all looks like a big freakin' mess back there to me. Deductive reasoning be damned!
"I left through her big oak-black front door, seen only in the brief dark of the evening before, and didn't intend to enter through it again."
-L (7/29/13)
"Swing Lo, Oh Magellan"
Day after my 29th birthday, and despite the fact of having spent it entirely at the beach, not a lick of sunburn on my skinny-skin-skin. Most likely had something to do with the overcast weather, and the sun not even peeping out from behind its cover of clouds -- but I'd like to fancy folks a little charmed on their birthdays, too.
So many things going down. None of which I ever really get into here, I've noticed. Except peripherally; details at large in the ether. Why is it so much easier to stop writing than it is to stop talking, right when we're in the thick of it? Maybe sounds just carry more easily than fingertips? Maybe my fingers always feel a little on edge. Perched. If not waiting, then what?
The truth of the matter is that I may be developing a soft phobia to honesty. It's bad business, too, cuz how can you start a sentence with, "The truth of the matter is..." and avoid all the skepticism willing to rain down onto you upon earful of a self-professed phobia such as this one? Truth v. Honesty? Maybe they are not as complimentary of commentary as one would think/hope/expect. Maybe instead, one can be truly honest in her outpouring of deceit; or one may be exceptionally truthful without opening even a shred of a doorway, onto whatever she has in her to be honest about.
Ah well. C'est la vie, my dark and stormy love. C'est la vie.
-L (7/22/13)
So many things going down. None of which I ever really get into here, I've noticed. Except peripherally; details at large in the ether. Why is it so much easier to stop writing than it is to stop talking, right when we're in the thick of it? Maybe sounds just carry more easily than fingertips? Maybe my fingers always feel a little on edge. Perched. If not waiting, then what?
The truth of the matter is that I may be developing a soft phobia to honesty. It's bad business, too, cuz how can you start a sentence with, "The truth of the matter is..." and avoid all the skepticism willing to rain down onto you upon earful of a self-professed phobia such as this one? Truth v. Honesty? Maybe they are not as complimentary of commentary as one would think/hope/expect. Maybe instead, one can be truly honest in her outpouring of deceit; or one may be exceptionally truthful without opening even a shred of a doorway, onto whatever she has in her to be honest about.
Ah well. C'est la vie, my dark and stormy love. C'est la vie.
-L (7/22/13)
Red-brick silences.
As a matter of fact, I am tired. And my cat nestles snuggled underneath my pyramid bent knees and blankets. I didn't realize it before, but now I see.
First week full-time at my firm. Utter amazingness, the rate at which everything might suddenly come together. I can hear hawks and parrots and airplanes and AC units and rustled, muffled wild animalsounds -- all from the comfort of my own bedroom.
Tomorrow, I'll need to get out of here early to go see a person later that I hardly know, but would like to know less-hardly. In the mean time, I'd like to learn to say: "You shouldn't have called, you know... If you've already decided to be bored."
But not delicate -- not now, you'll notice. (And so on and so forth, before falling asleep.)
-L (7/8/13)
First week full-time at my firm. Utter amazingness, the rate at which everything might suddenly come together. I can hear hawks and parrots and airplanes and AC units and rustled, muffled wild animalsounds -- all from the comfort of my own bedroom.
Tomorrow, I'll need to get out of here early to go see a person later that I hardly know, but would like to know less-hardly. In the mean time, I'd like to learn to say: "You shouldn't have called, you know... If you've already decided to be bored."
But not delicate -- not now, you'll notice. (And so on and so forth, before falling asleep.)
-L (7/8/13)
Not big on make-up, shoes, or a-holes -- but you do what you got to.
In the heart of the state, rolling along at toddler speed. The road whispering gravel all the way.
"Well maybe we'll get lucky and we'll both grow old, well I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I hope so..."
Heart, body, mind, soul. Three out of four ain't bad, folks! (And I'll shave my legs when I want someone to touch them, yo.)
When you don't get to have it the way you want it, are you willing to have it the way it is?
-L (6/10/13)
"Well maybe we'll get lucky and we'll both grow old, well I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I hope so..."
Heart, body, mind, soul. Three out of four ain't bad, folks! (And I'll shave my legs when I want someone to touch them, yo.)
When you don't get to have it the way you want it, are you willing to have it the way it is?
-L (6/10/13)
"We'll leave a noooose on the aaattorney's desk..."
[I needed you more on some days than others. But you weren't there either way. And I survived.]
Months and months. "Rolling through the days with the gratitude of steam." Where am I now? Why do I stop writing? I need something new from myself. I need a truth, as of yet unthought of. And I need a story, other than my own -- at least until I can step back in as author once more, rather than playing within and throughout the sweet commitments I've given in to surround me. The emerald-stitch blueroyal, covers my eyes like a dark & weighted sheet, so that I cannot see past my sight. And for now, that's all right.
I went looking for a poet tonight. (Why is it important to record these minutes?!) I didn't know her name, but I knew what her sage voice sounds like -- her experience infiltrating its intoning rhythm. Hmmm... anyway. I'll find her soon, but tonight, with this momentary loss of inspired, I took joy in settling for hot tea in a tall glass, reading a page and a half of my slow, faux-intimate novel. And for a bit, considered gravely a particularly thirsted-for interaction, which was half-flirt, half-fret/fearful, as it left me glad but increasingly anti-climactic -- as though fading into ridiculous clumsiness, accompanying the unfamiliar scorch of my feeling shy.
My ears listened their fill of Margot and the Nucleur So & So's; my feet played cold together, swept beneath the blanket. I missed my sworn enemy, because he used to be my great love. Then, he had warmed my feet with the fleeting-est of lovers' looks. I bit my tongue to beat back the sensation the only way I knew how, because the only thing more distracting than pain is worse pain. Or at least, that which is more immediately painful, and thus inescapably tangible, as memoried musings never are. Only then might self-medication be an option worth faithful exploration, for some suddenly lonely night.
[Besides which, missing him pissed me off. That helped, too.]
-L (6/3/13)
Months and months. "Rolling through the days with the gratitude of steam." Where am I now? Why do I stop writing? I need something new from myself. I need a truth, as of yet unthought of. And I need a story, other than my own -- at least until I can step back in as author once more, rather than playing within and throughout the sweet commitments I've given in to surround me. The emerald-stitch blueroyal, covers my eyes like a dark & weighted sheet, so that I cannot see past my sight. And for now, that's all right.
I went looking for a poet tonight. (Why is it important to record these minutes?!) I didn't know her name, but I knew what her sage voice sounds like -- her experience infiltrating its intoning rhythm. Hmmm... anyway. I'll find her soon, but tonight, with this momentary loss of inspired, I took joy in settling for hot tea in a tall glass, reading a page and a half of my slow, faux-intimate novel. And for a bit, considered gravely a particularly thirsted-for interaction, which was half-flirt, half-fret/fearful, as it left me glad but increasingly anti-climactic -- as though fading into ridiculous clumsiness, accompanying the unfamiliar scorch of my feeling shy.
My ears listened their fill of Margot and the Nucleur So & So's; my feet played cold together, swept beneath the blanket. I missed my sworn enemy, because he used to be my great love. Then, he had warmed my feet with the fleeting-est of lovers' looks. I bit my tongue to beat back the sensation the only way I knew how, because the only thing more distracting than pain is worse pain. Or at least, that which is more immediately painful, and thus inescapably tangible, as memoried musings never are. Only then might self-medication be an option worth faithful exploration, for some suddenly lonely night.
[Besides which, missing him pissed me off. That helped, too.]
-L (6/3/13)
"Children, Broad Ripple is burning..."
Two weeks and I don't know what is worth writing; every beginning feels like it will end. And end in the feeling that blogs like mine are far too self-congratulating; far too anti-social to be suffered even in Texas. And I'm not in Texas.
Even so, I realized that I love making others feel loved, and that with you it's different. It's different because I'm half in love with you -- and because it's the half I don't trust.
The half that loves you, loves you with no rhyme or reason; no track record. No reasonable rate of return. It's a love I can't define or pin down or explain, and I'm probably wise when I try to explain it away. But then there it is still, when I half look: that half of my love that you own, but have never come close to claiming.
So while I do love to make others feel loved, I can't do this for you. Not when with you I only have half my love left; not when you haven't filled that rift with half of yours.
It's dishonest even to try, really -- although I do at times try, and I am in fact dishonest. But at the end of this beginning, I stand by the proposition that dishonesty is a thing generally to be avoided, when one can be so wily. When one cannot, however, one must fall back on her more loyal defenses. Like the white flag of play-dumb friendship. Safety in the scarcity of color.
And the cat, curled up on the lap, gently clawing at the keyboard. Altogether unimpressed.
-L (5/27/13)
Even so, I realized that I love making others feel loved, and that with you it's different. It's different because I'm half in love with you -- and because it's the half I don't trust.
The half that loves you, loves you with no rhyme or reason; no track record. No reasonable rate of return. It's a love I can't define or pin down or explain, and I'm probably wise when I try to explain it away. But then there it is still, when I half look: that half of my love that you own, but have never come close to claiming.
So while I do love to make others feel loved, I can't do this for you. Not when with you I only have half my love left; not when you haven't filled that rift with half of yours.
It's dishonest even to try, really -- although I do at times try, and I am in fact dishonest. But at the end of this beginning, I stand by the proposition that dishonesty is a thing generally to be avoided, when one can be so wily. When one cannot, however, one must fall back on her more loyal defenses. Like the white flag of play-dumb friendship. Safety in the scarcity of color.
And the cat, curled up on the lap, gently clawing at the keyboard. Altogether unimpressed.
-L (5/27/13)
The allowance of life, happening to us; never the other way around.
Hmmm... One big wondering what the hell is going on, most of the time now. Putting ourselves in situations we haven't allowed for years; interviewing all over the state for the next stage of our lives; pretending to expect meaning to be gleaned from every glance/chance/near-arbitrary decision. One of the problems, I think, for people who now have trouble with seeing what's the purpose, is that everyone around us who doesn't seems so mystical, all-knowing, seductive in comparison. This can hardly be an acceptable way to operate.
"But take a minute now, think this through. Give it a second and a bird's-eye view. Think of the moments you've got left to lose - like how much time are you really down to do?!" -D
Themes, themes, themes. And metaphors. Maybe all this is just the Theme of Years? How many left, still yet to be seen. I wonder whether the sun wishes sometimes for the sweet dismal of darkness? I wonder whether it gets tired of shining, always oh-so-bright? I wonder if it hurts its own eyes; keeps itself awake all night? Even so, the dull moon would be the better companion, though lacking such timeless intensity. 'Least it'd have more than one thing to alwaysalwaysalways be talking about.
"Well I don't, don't need, need, need to know, but there's a set of my keys left under your door, and if you need a place to sleep tonight, well that's what family's for..." -D
-L (3/10/13)
"But take a minute now, think this through. Give it a second and a bird's-eye view. Think of the moments you've got left to lose - like how much time are you really down to do?!" -D
Themes, themes, themes. And metaphors. Maybe all this is just the Theme of Years? How many left, still yet to be seen. I wonder whether the sun wishes sometimes for the sweet dismal of darkness? I wonder whether it gets tired of shining, always oh-so-bright? I wonder if it hurts its own eyes; keeps itself awake all night? Even so, the dull moon would be the better companion, though lacking such timeless intensity. 'Least it'd have more than one thing to alwaysalwaysalways be talking about.
"Well I don't, don't need, need, need to know, but there's a set of my keys left under your door, and if you need a place to sleep tonight, well that's what family's for..." -D
-L (3/10/13)
"WHAT WILL YOU DO, HERMIT CRAB? WILL YOU PULL DOWN THE STARS? WILL YOU SMASH THE MOUNTAINS LIKE SHY COCONUTS TO FIND THEIR SECRETS? ... WHO ARE YOU TO DEMAND REASONS?"
"WHO ARE YOU?" -T.P.
I feel like I should re-learn to write/think/feel something else. Or else bury it to put it to rest, deeply in the soil of my words. Allow the 27 to fade/sprout/pale into 28...
For to beget flowers, perhaps? For to forget the unmemory of it all, and to pretend once more?
Or if not in pretending, then as an unwilling witness, remembering again what it feels like to see. To see something other than that thing - that thing she can't not see.
-L (12/10/12)
I feel like I should re-learn to write/think/feel something else. Or else bury it to put it to rest, deeply in the soil of my words. Allow the 27 to fade/sprout/pale into 28...
For to beget flowers, perhaps? For to forget the unmemory of it all, and to pretend once more?
Or if not in pretending, then as an unwilling witness, remembering again what it feels like to see. To see something other than that thing - that thing she can't not see.
-L (12/10/12)
"We. Featuring the words of Arundhati Roy." (Revisited.)
The grief is still deep. The rage still sharp. The tears have not dried. And a strange, deadly war is raging around the world. Yet, each person who has lost a loved one surely knows secretly, deeply, that no war, no act of revenge, no daisy-cutters dropped on someone else's loved ones or someone else's children, will blunt the edges of their pain or bring their own loved ones back. War cannot avenge those who have died. War is only a brutal desecration of their memory.
...
It's not a clever-enough subject to speak of from a public platform, but what I would really love to talk to you about is loss. Loss and losing. Grief, failure, brokenness, numbness, uncertainty, fear, the death of feeling, the death of dreaming. The absolute relentless, endless, habitual, unfairness of the world. What does loss mean to individuals? What does it mean to whole cultures, whole people who have learned to live with it as a constant companion?
...
Another world is not only possible, she's on her way. Maybe many of us won't be here to greet her, but on a quiet day, if I listen very carefully, I can hear her breathing.
http//www.weroy.org
Just in case you missed it the first time.
-L (11/10/12)
...
It's not a clever-enough subject to speak of from a public platform, but what I would really love to talk to you about is loss. Loss and losing. Grief, failure, brokenness, numbness, uncertainty, fear, the death of feeling, the death of dreaming. The absolute relentless, endless, habitual, unfairness of the world. What does loss mean to individuals? What does it mean to whole cultures, whole people who have learned to live with it as a constant companion?
...
Another world is not only possible, she's on her way. Maybe many of us won't be here to greet her, but on a quiet day, if I listen very carefully, I can hear her breathing.
(From Come September, by Arundhati Roy.)
http//www.weroy.org
Just in case you missed it the first time.
-L (11/10/12)
"We cannot relinquish butterflies and return to uninterrupted road." -A.L.
Birthday number twenty-eight. And three days from taking the bar exam. Not the most mixable of substances, but we're pulling it off anyway, nonetheless. Not that time gives us much of an option in the matter.
Things like the essays in this book help: http://www.scribd.com/doc/93144782/Things-That-Are-Essays-by-Amy-Leach
As do sunset sailing trips, and celebratory supportive words, and demonstrative love coming from (almost) all directions of our life. And books, too. Lots of books. (Books that aren't legal treatises.) Promising themselves to us - in now less than five days and counting...
Counting down to being fully present again. Maybe you'll notice when it happens. Maybe you won't. Maybe I can say the same about me.
And maybe we'll just have to wait and see.
-L (7/21/2012)
Things like the essays in this book help: http://www.scribd.com/doc/93144782/Things-That-Are-Essays-by-Amy-Leach
As do sunset sailing trips, and celebratory supportive words, and demonstrative love coming from (almost) all directions of our life. And books, too. Lots of books. (Books that aren't legal treatises.) Promising themselves to us - in now less than five days and counting...
Counting down to being fully present again. Maybe you'll notice when it happens. Maybe you won't. Maybe I can say the same about me.
And maybe we'll just have to wait and see.
-L (7/21/2012)
Mental Meanderings & Such
What all, what all...? Graduated law school, now on to the Bar. (If only that meant what it might have meant.)
Meanwhile, M is leaving for Amsterdam and then Switzerland as of the day after tomorrow, to be gone for the next 4+ months. Not much to be done there. We've decided to call it a break-up, since god only knows when he's coming back -- and by the time he does, I'll most likely have disappeared to L.A. (Hard as it is to imagine now, but 5 years and 4 months later, and that's apparently that.)
This week I filled the two empty rooms of our house with roommates -- including the room M and I had been sharing. For the rest of the summer, I'm officially bunking down with Ms. T. (And for the record, I'm still telling myself that this is a good idea. So don't ask.) What's this mean for Bar study? A brief plummet to an unforgivably low production rate, at the moment. But I'm also still telling myself that this will change for the best during this upcoming week, when every lovely little distraction in my life shall be sadly stricken from the record, leaving nothing but myself and my brightly colored Barbri books behind. And only one thing left to talk about.
Also, I started a bi-monthly sibling grief group. Strange meanderings, this be. I skipped the first meeting due to its falling on the same night as the very last exam of my short-lived law school career. Have since attended the two others. Not sure how I feel about being on the receiving end of a support group yet. Strangely enough, I'm experiencing some friction with the older of the two co-facilitators. 'Strange' because I never have friction with strangers...and especially in this context. Or else, maybe it's the context that explains it?
At any rate, RoboB0b released the Alpha version of Gnomoria to the public, two days ago. (!!!) He's been working on it full-time and nearly non-stop for the past eleven months. I'm so excited for him, and I relish every positive word the world casually tosses his way. So much so that between this, my house's new living situation, and M's impending departure, I've been more or less useless in every other imaginable way...
Of course, it's also the 10th today. Meaning that we're now at 1 year and 8 months, to the day. Not much to say, except that I never have much to say on these indelible days. (Though these attempts shall I continue to make.) The 10th burned into my psyche, like a fire dancer burns symmetrical shapes into the darkness. No thought to atonement.
I started a more stable site to store her beloved, now forever limited memories -- but have yet to return to finish the migration from 1,000 Memories, what with everything going on. So I wouldn't have got much done today either way, is what I'm saying. Even without the temptation of ephemeral distractions. And aren't they all?
-L (6/10/12)
Meanwhile, M is leaving for Amsterdam and then Switzerland as of the day after tomorrow, to be gone for the next 4+ months. Not much to be done there. We've decided to call it a break-up, since god only knows when he's coming back -- and by the time he does, I'll most likely have disappeared to L.A. (Hard as it is to imagine now, but 5 years and 4 months later, and that's apparently that.)
This week I filled the two empty rooms of our house with roommates -- including the room M and I had been sharing. For the rest of the summer, I'm officially bunking down with Ms. T. (And for the record, I'm still telling myself that this is a good idea. So don't ask.) What's this mean for Bar study? A brief plummet to an unforgivably low production rate, at the moment. But I'm also still telling myself that this will change for the best during this upcoming week, when every lovely little distraction in my life shall be sadly stricken from the record, leaving nothing but myself and my brightly colored Barbri books behind. And only one thing left to talk about.
Also, I started a bi-monthly sibling grief group. Strange meanderings, this be. I skipped the first meeting due to its falling on the same night as the very last exam of my short-lived law school career. Have since attended the two others. Not sure how I feel about being on the receiving end of a support group yet. Strangely enough, I'm experiencing some friction with the older of the two co-facilitators. 'Strange' because I never have friction with strangers...and especially in this context. Or else, maybe it's the context that explains it?
At any rate, RoboB0b released the Alpha version of Gnomoria to the public, two days ago. (!!!) He's been working on it full-time and nearly non-stop for the past eleven months. I'm so excited for him, and I relish every positive word the world casually tosses his way. So much so that between this, my house's new living situation, and M's impending departure, I've been more or less useless in every other imaginable way...
Of course, it's also the 10th today. Meaning that we're now at 1 year and 8 months, to the day. Not much to say, except that I never have much to say on these indelible days. (Though these attempts shall I continue to make.) The 10th burned into my psyche, like a fire dancer burns symmetrical shapes into the darkness. No thought to atonement.
I started a more stable site to store her beloved, now forever limited memories -- but have yet to return to finish the migration from 1,000 Memories, what with everything going on. So I wouldn't have got much done today either way, is what I'm saying. Even without the temptation of ephemeral distractions. And aren't they all?
-L (6/10/12)
The Battle of March 10th, 2012: An Unlikely Tribute (Part II)
*~*~*~*~*
When Mr. Blackshirt-Asshole-Raucous-Friend-#4 stumbled slowly back up from ground to knees to bent-over-hands-on-thighs once he'd finally climbed to his feet, his friends swooped down on him - half-checking-up, half-coat-checking him, to keep him from doing anything additionally stupid. That is, all of his friends but one. My very own biggest fan, Mr. Hippy-Ass-Skank-Steeze, instead ran back up to me and R. We'd caught up with M by then and completed our own - albeit more righteous - friend-check
Mr. h.A.S.S. got my attention by coming up to stand directly in front of me, then took hold of my hands and stared beseechingly into my eyes... and proceeded to grovel. (So bizarre, right?! I know it's wrong and totally biased of me, but I was starting to suspect him a Gemini. =P) He says to me, "Hey, listen, listen, listen, I'm so sorry, okay? I take back everything I just said, please accept my deepest apologies. We're drunk and I didn't mean any of it, let's just be cool. Okay? Please just forgive me, okay? I swear we won't let our friend do anything else. He's just really drunk, he doesn't even know what he's doing. I'm sorry for everything I said, okay? Will you please forgive me and forget all about this? We're so sorry for everything, okay?" And so on and so forth.
At this point Friends #1 & #2 had come up to us as well, basically agreeing with everything Mr. h.A.S.S. was spouting (and to be fair, neither of them looked much like heavy-weight fighters so much as weepy lovers, to begin with), and I think we were all just kinda reeling after this bi-polar-like shift in events, anyway. As a matter of fact, the only one arguably consistent in sentiment was Mr. B.A.R.F. himself, who even now strained with drunken half-heartedness against the first tree-peeing guy's hands, as the second held the first back from charging R, who stood beside me.
Seeing this sudden transference of directed aggression, R piped up and said loudly to Mr. h.A.S.S., "Look, even now your friend's trying to attack us! Swear on your honor that this is really over, and walk away. Swear on your honor that you'll calm him the fuck down and get him the fuck outta here, and we'll be done, too."
Mr. h.A.S.S.: "I swear it on my honor! I give you my honor. He's not gonna do anything, okay? We're leaving now, okay? My deepest apologies. Have a wonderful rest of your night, you guys."
Still half-shocked and with adrenaline a-pumping, nonetheless I do my best to take it in stride and firmly shake his hand after I nod my head in acquiescence. Again, pointedly looking at the single female friend who's finally starting to de-panic a bit now, I tell them back, "Deal. You guys have a good rest of your night, too, okay? BE SAFE. Stay outta jail tonight, okay? Seriously. Be safe. Have a good night."
And we back away without turning around. And they do the same. And then we all turn our backs to each other and go our separate ways: us heading back to the hostel; them to wherever their fates might lead them.
After a few strides a cop car pulls up to the intersection of the street that'd we just moments before been standing in the middle of with our new-found enemy-friends. Immediately M runs up and starts explaining how Mr. B.A.R.F. had just chased and assaulted him, etc.
Now, to be fair, M was the only one of us who'd just had his physical safety most directly threatened, and true, he wasn't exactly privy to the truce we'd just made with Mr. h.A.S.S. as representative for Mr. B.A.R.F. & co. But nonetheless, a truce we had made, and cops certainly played no part in our acceptance of their apology. With all this weird honor-y stuff swimming around in my head, I run up to where M is heatedly making his case into the window of the paused police cruiser, which carried two seriously hesitant police officers. As I walked up one of them glanced at me and asked us collectively, "Have you guys been drinking tonight?"
I replied, "We had two beers between the two of us all night. We're not drunk, but they certainly were. Nonetheless, everything's fine now. We worked it out, no one got hurt, and we're from out of town, anyway, so we won't even be around by tomorrow. So thanks for stopping but it's all good now." Although I'm not entirely sure why, I could see relief in their eyes as though I was letting them off the hook somehow.
M clearly didn't want 'that to be that', and he'd yet to catch up to my 'let bygones be bygones' attitude. But he accepted it, and with grace. Mostly because when he tried appealing to the cops one more time, one of them responded with something to the effect of, "But y'all are going your separate ways now, right? So then the situation's resolved, sounds like..."
And so M and I returned to where R stood waiting for us on the sidewalk of the intersection, and we continued our short pedestrian journey back to the sleepy little hostel we'd booked the morning before.
Our minds and emotions and bodies buzzed with the unusually heightened level of excitement they'd just been exposed to, and it was hard to fall asleep that night. We verbally replayed the experience to each other and to ourselves, analyzing each move and word and counter-action we'd felt and seen and acted upon. Shit like whatall went down that night, definitely makes a soul stop to consider... just about everything. And especially that which comprises human nature: our own or "the other," in many ways really just the same, differently colored.
(Anyway, that there's one way to ring in the 10th. Of course, if I were pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty Katie Sue, I'd probably have left some bloody lips behind me, rather than just bruised egos. But then, that's just one more reason to miss her. And heaven knows we already have too many.)
-L (3/18/12)
The Battle of March 10th, 2012: An Unlikely Tribute (Part I)
"Woah, look who's circumcised," M wise-cracked to some guy pissing on a tree as we strolled down the warm downtown pavement of San Luis Obispo after midnight. It was Friday night and the streets were crowded with excessively well-dressed college students and non-collegiate twenty-somethings, teeter-tottering all over town, and the cowboys and marines were out in abundance.
A few steps later and we realized that the guy to whom Mike had commented, hadn't quite liked being commented-to. "What'd you say, faggot?! Wanna come back and say that to my face? My pants are zipped-up now, so come on back here!"
The guy had a relatively slight-build and was hardly taller than my own 5'7, and since he seemed to have some friends around I wrote his comments off to saving-face, trying to ignore their loathsome content. Glancing back but without stopping I spoke up before anyone else could and called back, "Hey don't worry about it, he pees on trees all the time! We got nothing but love for you over here! He was just kidding; have a good night."
Unfortunately, the dude ignored me and continued to catcall M. After about five more seconds of the taunts he said something extra douchey (god-knows-what exactly, now) and both R and I turned back simultaneously because it was suddenly not okay to still be walking away. Admittedly a little pissed-off by now -- mostly because this was the second all-balls-out, proud-to-be-an-asshole, hyped-up-on-testosterone-type-brain-damaged dude of the night -- still my plan was to diffuse the situation, thinking I could do this by calling the guy on his challenge in a de-railing sort of way, since it wasn't exactly me he was inviting.
So I turned back around. And I started strutting back to him. Half-grinning and using a faux-masculine voice, I hit my chest with my hands as I walked toward him and announced, "What? You think you can take me? I'll take you right now, unless you're scared to hit a girl, huh?!"
I could see it in his eyes as I performed my little diversion, trying to break the ice-cold tension in the suddenly-not-so-warm air: a flicker of doubt as his eyes shifted to me, back to M and R, and then to me again. Before he could say anything in response, two of his friends stepped up to his confused defense and started to tell me not to mess. One was a pretty worried looking, cute girl; the other was a tall, blonde guy who was either sneering or smiling, depending upon the angle - I'm not even sure he knew the difference.
The worried girl started to say something to the effect of, "Listen, please don't make this an issue," to which I smiled a bit bewilderedly and replied with something to the effect back of, "Hey, I just wanted to lighten up the situation. Your friend was making it an issue; I was just trying to diffuse it..." But then out of far right field came Ultra-Douche-Bag-Friend-#3.
Like the tree-pissing-guy this one was only about my height as well, or maybe just a bit taller, but he had a much broader chest and shoulders. Looked like a gym-junkie with a buzz-cut and reeked of alcohol and military-affiliation. (Not that military-affiliation necessarily has to reek, but in this case it certainly did just that.) This guy stepped-up for real, and shit got real serious, real fast.
"Why don't you and your hippy-ass friends turn the fuck around and get the fuck back out of town, you long-haired, hippy-ass skank! You're not welcome here, you ugly hippy bitch! So step down, stop antagonizing, and get the fuck outta here!" And so on and so forth. Rather than coming up with more material, the drunken grunt just kept up with more of the same, clearly being used to intimidate folks into submission with his size and volume. Instead, feeling the shift in the air turn to serious, and hearing the change in the conversation turn into a challenge that just became impossible to laugh off, my body went still and my ears began to buzz.
Half-incredulous, half-deadly sure of myself, I stayed exactly where I was even when the dude got too close, and I stared into his eyes until he stopped talking. When he did, I said without raising my voice, "Are you fucking kidding me? Antagonizing? Your friend runs his mouth and when we try to make light of it you start talking shit like we're the ones turning this into a fight? So if it's a fight now, then quit talking shit and hit me already. I dare you. Go ahead. I'm a domestic violence lawyer; I see pieces of shit like you everyday. Go ahead, do it. I'll take your ass to court so fucking fast--"
Frankly, I don't even know where I was going with that line of discourse; what I do know is that at that point I absolutely wanted him to hit me, but I also knew that he wouldn't. Because his rage was pretend, and mine was all-too-real. I wanted him to ride out his stupid, pretend rage, so that I could then destroy his real life after the fact, in the real world, and put an end to his stupid game. It's not okay to be an asshole indefinitely, or to get your way at all costs to anyone else; he'd figure that out one day, might as well be tonight, right?
But then, there was a reason I stopped talking. Out of the corner of my eye, the very last friend, who I'd been totally unaware of up until that point, came out of the woodwork. This one was tall and barrel-chested and so drunk that he could no longer walk in a straight line - assuming this was ever a strong point. Without saying a single word, he up-and-charged M, who was still standing just a bit behind me with R.
Apparently M was less surprised by this turn of events than anyone else, however, because he turned around and booked it, and the chase was on. All along every one of the leftover friends - even my personal favorite, Mr. Hippy-Ass-Skank-Steeze - were calling out to the drunken charger to stop, and R turned and ran after M and Mr. Blackshirt-Asshole-Raucous-Friend-#4.
Still not totally out of my first movie, I started to follow R, but not before turning back to my original assailant and the others to reiterate, "Oh yeah? And now your friend is fucking chasing my boyfriend?! Who's antagonizing now, huh? Now who's being the fucking aggressor?" and addressing the now-altogether-terrified and only other female present, I said with genuine frustration, "What the fuck are you hanging out with these assholes for?" And then I turned around again to run to where the chase had been happening, but had just prematurely ended with the drunk guy running hard into two different poles - which M had almost casually weaved around - before falling into the street with a bloody nose and god knows what else...
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
-L (3/10/12)
A few steps later and we realized that the guy to whom Mike had commented, hadn't quite liked being commented-to. "What'd you say, faggot?! Wanna come back and say that to my face? My pants are zipped-up now, so come on back here!"
The guy had a relatively slight-build and was hardly taller than my own 5'7, and since he seemed to have some friends around I wrote his comments off to saving-face, trying to ignore their loathsome content. Glancing back but without stopping I spoke up before anyone else could and called back, "Hey don't worry about it, he pees on trees all the time! We got nothing but love for you over here! He was just kidding; have a good night."
Unfortunately, the dude ignored me and continued to catcall M. After about five more seconds of the taunts he said something extra douchey (god-knows-what exactly, now) and both R and I turned back simultaneously because it was suddenly not okay to still be walking away. Admittedly a little pissed-off by now -- mostly because this was the second all-balls-out, proud-to-be-an-asshole, hyped-up-on-testosterone-type-brain-damaged dude of the night -- still my plan was to diffuse the situation, thinking I could do this by calling the guy on his challenge in a de-railing sort of way, since it wasn't exactly me he was inviting.
So I turned back around. And I started strutting back to him. Half-grinning and using a faux-masculine voice, I hit my chest with my hands as I walked toward him and announced, "What? You think you can take me? I'll take you right now, unless you're scared to hit a girl, huh?!"
I could see it in his eyes as I performed my little diversion, trying to break the ice-cold tension in the suddenly-not-so-warm air: a flicker of doubt as his eyes shifted to me, back to M and R, and then to me again. Before he could say anything in response, two of his friends stepped up to his confused defense and started to tell me not to mess. One was a pretty worried looking, cute girl; the other was a tall, blonde guy who was either sneering or smiling, depending upon the angle - I'm not even sure he knew the difference.
The worried girl started to say something to the effect of, "Listen, please don't make this an issue," to which I smiled a bit bewilderedly and replied with something to the effect back of, "Hey, I just wanted to lighten up the situation. Your friend was making it an issue; I was just trying to diffuse it..." But then out of far right field came Ultra-Douche-Bag-Friend-#3.
Like the tree-pissing-guy this one was only about my height as well, or maybe just a bit taller, but he had a much broader chest and shoulders. Looked like a gym-junkie with a buzz-cut and reeked of alcohol and military-affiliation. (Not that military-affiliation necessarily has to reek, but in this case it certainly did just that.) This guy stepped-up for real, and shit got real serious, real fast.
"Why don't you and your hippy-ass friends turn the fuck around and get the fuck back out of town, you long-haired, hippy-ass skank! You're not welcome here, you ugly hippy bitch! So step down, stop antagonizing, and get the fuck outta here!" And so on and so forth. Rather than coming up with more material, the drunken grunt just kept up with more of the same, clearly being used to intimidate folks into submission with his size and volume. Instead, feeling the shift in the air turn to serious, and hearing the change in the conversation turn into a challenge that just became impossible to laugh off, my body went still and my ears began to buzz.
Half-incredulous, half-deadly sure of myself, I stayed exactly where I was even when the dude got too close, and I stared into his eyes until he stopped talking. When he did, I said without raising my voice, "Are you fucking kidding me? Antagonizing? Your friend runs his mouth and when we try to make light of it you start talking shit like we're the ones turning this into a fight? So if it's a fight now, then quit talking shit and hit me already. I dare you. Go ahead. I'm a domestic violence lawyer; I see pieces of shit like you everyday. Go ahead, do it. I'll take your ass to court so fucking fast--"
Frankly, I don't even know where I was going with that line of discourse; what I do know is that at that point I absolutely wanted him to hit me, but I also knew that he wouldn't. Because his rage was pretend, and mine was all-too-real. I wanted him to ride out his stupid, pretend rage, so that I could then destroy his real life after the fact, in the real world, and put an end to his stupid game. It's not okay to be an asshole indefinitely, or to get your way at all costs to anyone else; he'd figure that out one day, might as well be tonight, right?
But then, there was a reason I stopped talking. Out of the corner of my eye, the very last friend, who I'd been totally unaware of up until that point, came out of the woodwork. This one was tall and barrel-chested and so drunk that he could no longer walk in a straight line - assuming this was ever a strong point. Without saying a single word, he up-and-charged M, who was still standing just a bit behind me with R.
Apparently M was less surprised by this turn of events than anyone else, however, because he turned around and booked it, and the chase was on. All along every one of the leftover friends - even my personal favorite, Mr. Hippy-Ass-Skank-Steeze - were calling out to the drunken charger to stop, and R turned and ran after M and Mr. Blackshirt-Asshole-Raucous-Friend-#4.
Still not totally out of my first movie, I started to follow R, but not before turning back to my original assailant and the others to reiterate, "Oh yeah? And now your friend is fucking chasing my boyfriend?! Who's antagonizing now, huh? Now who's being the fucking aggressor?" and addressing the now-altogether-terrified and only other female present, I said with genuine frustration, "What the fuck are you hanging out with these assholes for?" And then I turned around again to run to where the chase had been happening, but had just prematurely ended with the drunk guy running hard into two different poles - which M had almost casually weaved around - before falling into the street with a bloody nose and god knows what else...
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
-L (3/10/12)
A Luncheon Adventure
Your locket falls open again. I close it absent-mindedly; half-heartedly. Feeling traitorous.
Yesterday I was in Berkeley proper, eating a late lunch with a by now old friend. Afterward, the car I half-inherited from Grandma broke down, gently and anticlimactically, on the side of a lolling suburb street. This is the car Dad insisted that I trade for with Uncle Rick, to swap my hardy 300,000 miles for his measly 30,000. Sounded reasonable, sad as I was to see my old truck go.
And of course, how could I say 'no' to Dad, after what happened to you? When his only interest was in keeping his last daughter safe. (As if we have nearly as much control over this variable as we'd like to think...)
At any rate, Grandma's car pretended to be out of gas, and refused to go any further. We tried to persuade the engine to turn over for us and fire up, but refuse it did, until I began to worry that I'd exhaust the battery by keeping it up, and make my friend late for work in the mean time. So instead, he walked the 11-minute, 0.6-mile trek back to work before being too late, and I got to wander around in the wrong direction, in search of a gas station with a red-plastic gas can in hand. Forty minutes and a few miles later I was there and back again, and between a quart of oil and a gallon of gas, this time she fired right up.
The silly thing is that when I drove back to Valero to fill up the tank in earnest, it was only a bit over half-empty -- exactly as the odometer had indicated to begin with. I should have had another 100 miles or so before running out of fuel. So, as to why Grandma's car decided to stop cooperating without any provocation, whether for reasons relating to a faulty fuel pump or the fiddling fates, know I do not. But I have faith in nothing, if not in you, so I'm operating under the assumption that this seemingly needless detour was in fact needful, and good.
For throughout it all, your touch on everything: your sweet face in the locket, refusing to stay hidden; the amount-per-gallon of gas, set at $4.27; 10:10, the time the clock read when I turned on the car that morning, frankly reminding me. As though I could ever forget.
All said and done, the long ride home was quiet, filled mostly with thoughts of you.
-L (3/4/12)
Yesterday I was in Berkeley proper, eating a late lunch with a by now old friend. Afterward, the car I half-inherited from Grandma broke down, gently and anticlimactically, on the side of a lolling suburb street. This is the car Dad insisted that I trade for with Uncle Rick, to swap my hardy 300,000 miles for his measly 30,000. Sounded reasonable, sad as I was to see my old truck go.
And of course, how could I say 'no' to Dad, after what happened to you? When his only interest was in keeping his last daughter safe. (As if we have nearly as much control over this variable as we'd like to think...)
At any rate, Grandma's car pretended to be out of gas, and refused to go any further. We tried to persuade the engine to turn over for us and fire up, but refuse it did, until I began to worry that I'd exhaust the battery by keeping it up, and make my friend late for work in the mean time. So instead, he walked the 11-minute, 0.6-mile trek back to work before being too late, and I got to wander around in the wrong direction, in search of a gas station with a red-plastic gas can in hand. Forty minutes and a few miles later I was there and back again, and between a quart of oil and a gallon of gas, this time she fired right up.
The silly thing is that when I drove back to Valero to fill up the tank in earnest, it was only a bit over half-empty -- exactly as the odometer had indicated to begin with. I should have had another 100 miles or so before running out of fuel. So, as to why Grandma's car decided to stop cooperating without any provocation, whether for reasons relating to a faulty fuel pump or the fiddling fates, know I do not. But I have faith in nothing, if not in you, so I'm operating under the assumption that this seemingly needless detour was in fact needful, and good.
For throughout it all, your touch on everything: your sweet face in the locket, refusing to stay hidden; the amount-per-gallon of gas, set at $4.27; 10:10, the time the clock read when I turned on the car that morning, frankly reminding me. As though I could ever forget.
All said and done, the long ride home was quiet, filled mostly with thoughts of you.
-L (3/4/12)
Typewritten touch, tainted.
Morning. Sort of. 10:40am and m'love is in the bathroom, trying to talk to his sister and shit at the same time. Being efficient and therefore incomplete with his Zen mornings, in the interest of pleasing everyone. Thing is, 'everyone' doesn't include me, for better or worse, since I'm his Zen enthusiast rather than temptress - so of course, now I'm always also incomplete.
Yesterday we went and saw his sister at her new, unwilling home, locked under the staff of a supervisor's key in a shipwrecked inland mental (health) institution slash drug rehab and treatment center. Heavy. Sad. She looked and felt as though she didn't belong (thank god), so the problem was that she was there nonetheless, and for an indefinite length of time. Watching him not watch her was hard. He would stare beseechingly into her face as he spoke to her, but when she answered back his glance would unfailingly wander out toward the (caged) freedom represented by the wide windows. They overlooked a lack of civilization; green lolling hills speckled and graced with indigenous trees.
Here, the sun is finally starting to break free of its shady gray confines, and his typewriter and mp3 player still wait patiently for his return. His water cup is drying and his coffee cup remains in his grasp, away yonder in the lavatory where he's perched. I sit pseudo-meditative with my sight fixed on the waxy leaves of a ficus plant arranged in a strange horizon-line perspective before me. A tiny beige spider flinging itself up and down its swinging strand, so like dancing rather than weaving its wiry web. My water glass not empty; my coffee mug getting there.
The view is of the drained and covered spa out back on the patio, and the bizarre black dog doing her secret deeds behind it - something about plucking unwitting quarts of half-and-half from high counter-tops and surreptitiously burying their corners just an inch beneath the dark soil. Cartons still fully intact on account of the gentle grasp of her bite.
-L (1/23/12)
Yesterday we went and saw his sister at her new, unwilling home, locked under the staff of a supervisor's key in a shipwrecked inland mental (health) institution slash drug rehab and treatment center. Heavy. Sad. She looked and felt as though she didn't belong (thank god), so the problem was that she was there nonetheless, and for an indefinite length of time. Watching him not watch her was hard. He would stare beseechingly into her face as he spoke to her, but when she answered back his glance would unfailingly wander out toward the (caged) freedom represented by the wide windows. They overlooked a lack of civilization; green lolling hills speckled and graced with indigenous trees.
Here, the sun is finally starting to break free of its shady gray confines, and his typewriter and mp3 player still wait patiently for his return. His water cup is drying and his coffee cup remains in his grasp, away yonder in the lavatory where he's perched. I sit pseudo-meditative with my sight fixed on the waxy leaves of a ficus plant arranged in a strange horizon-line perspective before me. A tiny beige spider flinging itself up and down its swinging strand, so like dancing rather than weaving its wiry web. My water glass not empty; my coffee mug getting there.
The view is of the drained and covered spa out back on the patio, and the bizarre black dog doing her secret deeds behind it - something about plucking unwitting quarts of half-and-half from high counter-tops and surreptitiously burying their corners just an inch beneath the dark soil. Cartons still fully intact on account of the gentle grasp of her bite.
-L (1/23/12)
"We. Featuring the words of Arundhati Roy."
I feel like I ought to post this link once every six months for the rest of my life.
http//www.weroy.org
So there's once, at least.
-L (1/1/12)
http//www.weroy.org
So there's once, at least.
-L (1/1/12)
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