wilted

It seems like the uphill battle of ugly winds forever upward.

The mirror is UNkind; it's depiction of reality is at odds with the sweet, romantic saga I've tried to delude myself with for my day to day existence. Though even my delusion is a gossamer shadow--it is exposed in a soft breeze.

I have always been he quintessential ugly duckling. I spent the greater part of my childhood hiding behind gigantic plastic glasses and at least thirty extra pounds. I have never fully recovered from the cruel playground torment I was subjected to in my early years. I am still that girl alone on the swings; dateless on prom night.

I've done what I can. The glasses are long gone, for one. Mascara and lipstick are godsends. But even as I type, I am distracted by what I am convinced are unusually portly sausage fingers and less than desirable thighs. I have a laundry list of hates to match my catalog of wishes and a bottomless cauldron in which I can stir them.

My truth and my beauty seem to live at opposite ends of the same vessel, yet never seem to cross paths. I want harmony in both--to live in a song.

I want to set ablaze these unforgiving notions; to burn a trail through memory.

I want to be the swan.

And, please, to believe it.

Stuck

I am going nowhere at full speed. Here I am sitting still in a fetid pit of insurmountable frustration while everyone speeds away.

And here I sit. Stuck at a wall too tall to climb, so I kick it. I punch it and curse it, while my dilemma seems to worsen.

So here I sit. Too tired to speak, too sore to move, bleeding, and nowhere.

sentimental

I never used to cry at things. Anything, really, save for the occasional wound, a broken arm, or the vicious retribution of my brother.

I saw "Gone With the Wind" when I was eleven, and sat in relative ambivalence to Scarlett's tribulations. When I looked over, my mom wore a red-eyed, puffy faced expression of grief at which I snickered.

My mom has always been the quintessential crier. Movies, beauty, love, songs, trees. She cries. It is not a woeful cry, or a longing, but rather a tribute to God. A thank you; this is all I have.

Silly mom, I always thought with a twinge of guilt. Wait... Should I be doing that?

And then I did.

It started when I was eighteen. It was not a particularly special occasion that prompted my graceful tears of quiet awe. Just nothing and everything.

And now I, too, am a crier. Like my mom, my tears are prompted by the smallest details of day to day life. The things that do not demand my attention, but wait patiently to be noticed. The things that hint at a bigger picture.

I don't hide my tears like I used to. I've been embarrassed. I've been laughed at. But what can I do but say, "thank you. this is all I have."

Parasite

Get off my back, monkey. I do not want you: screechy, scratching, annoying, cloying little thing.

Get off and go.

You do not keep me warm. You do not offer me comfort. I'm tired of your drainage, your sly ways, your slick tricks, and your leeching. You make me itch, you make me twitch, and when you're gone I'll switch to the snug comfort self-assurance. And I will envelop myself in the ease of trust.

I will not miss your vexing nags. Things will be peaceful when you're gone, and while I stand up straighter, I will happily live here and now.

it's easier not to

My love for you is scary. I live in fear of your betrayal, my loss, and utter heartbreak.

I had always hoped you needed me the way I needed you--that you were capable of reciprocation. That you could love me back, and mean it. I watched you with undying hope; an unflagging faith in my power to elicit your unconditional love, your friendship.

I still love you through your failure. I've come to know your disappointment, though I begin to wonder: where does it become a detriment to me? At what point does my love for you entangle my despair and a growing self-loathing? You are both my biggest hope and worst fear. A complicated imbroglio of my confusion.

But my hope lives on, eternal in its patience, and I will never turn away from you. That is my love. I can't help it.

animation

I remember when I first read Voltaire's famous quote: "God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh." It made me laugh. I sat in pensive agreement and mulled over the thought of a lifetime without laughter--a thought too unreal to consider with any seriousness.

My household has always been filled with the melodious euphony of laughter. I remember waking every Saturday morning to the sounds of my mother's uproarious amusement at my father's jokes. They'd lie in bed for what seemed like hours just laughing, and though I didn't understand the jokes, I felt the warm buzz of delight from hearing her unrestrained joy.

When I was old enough, I, enjoyed admission to the adult realm of humor. The jokes I'd heard during my childhood materialized into concrete significance; a testament to my parents' amusement with the world. And I joined the fun.

I watched the best television- seinfeld and the simpsons; got lost in decades- old episodes of monty python which I imitated to my 5th grade peers. I was the go-to girl for a laugh. We'd snicker, giggle, guffaw, and chortle at every opportunity.
The funniest person in any given room, I enjoyed the prestige and humble power of my ability to leave my peers in stitches.

I earned the highest degree of celebrity during high school for not only my quirky laugh, but also my (sometimes elusive) sense of humor. I'd recite from my arsenal of jokes at the drop of a hat, and was always rewarded with the merriment of my audience.

My parents bestowed onto me what is possibly the greatest gift I could imagine: the ability to turn the world into my own personal comedy. I enjoy the better part my time wearing a bemused grin at the absurdity of the world. The minutia of my daily experiences do not escape humorous appreciation, and I think God would like it that way.

institutionalized

I took my watch off.

I'm not sure why; maybe for the change. Left it on my dresser, and drove off, disarmed by the absence of surety.

It felt like days not knowing the time. Any progression of events lacked sense without the marked importance of minutes and hours. I missed the comfort and guidance provided by the reliable, accurate tick-tock of my favorite amenity. My day's decisions seemed less navigable, and I, confused.

But I noticed: the sun seems to shine forever when I'm not wearing a watch. Time moves on discretely, asking little of me. I watch the sun set beneath the horizon, offering a fleeting glimpse of perfection; unspeakable beauty, but asking nothing of me in return.

I feel selfish.

and jealous.

My possibilities suddenly seem endless, and I am freer without the weight of a judging clock. I wish to want nothing, and be unbounded by the constraints of the human-induced penitentiary of time.

It is dark now; it is silent and infinite.
It is 9:36 and I am relieved.

impeded

I dream that one day, I will wake up and not hate the world. I'd feel well-rested at the crack of dawn and take a jog to see the sunrise. And I'd know I deserve it.

I want to believe happiness is possible. I want happiness to be my possibility, my probability. My reality, and not the abstract longing that dulls the most vibrant colors, and cheapens a sweet melody.

I want to re-experience everything. Live it all over and change the meanings. When you look at me, I want you to see someone who loves you with unbounded passion. I want to return it, unfettered by the severe gravity of profound sadness. And I want to mean it.

I want to move. I want to jump and dance, just because. I want to walk with a bounce and smile at strangers. I want to sing and scream and be seen. It's somewhere I've never been.

I want to be wanted. Needed. And I want to stop the bleeding.

I want to demolish sorry. I am not. I won't apologize, and I won't regret it.

And I will sleep at night.

And dream of waking up to a world of love.

rubbish bracelet

Dear mom,

Remember when you got your ruby bracelet? I watched you pine for it for what seemed like years. You visited it weekly to make payments, and when you finally brought it home, you were gleaming. It was beautiful, I thought, and no one should have it but you. No one deserved that kind of beauty but you.

I thought it was just a bracelet... Just a ruby tennis bracelet. Your cousin Loraine wears three or four of them pretty casually--all with diamonds--but I always liked yours best. I watched you admire it, inspect the glistening gold and deep red stones. Most people think they're garnet, you'd tell me, but they're very rare rubies. Then you started to cry. You told me that you bought the bracelet because of the Bible verse that says a virtuous woman's worth is greater rubies.

I cried, too.

Remember when you lost that bracelet? I was crushed. I said you'd find it, but you didn't believe me. Told me that you were no longer a virtuous woman.

I found it after a few days, presented it proudly to you. You were wearing it when you told us about him. A married man. Ex-marine. Met him at work. Yes, Dad knows. I remember staring at those blood red stones as my heart broke. As my world tuned upside down.

And I thought about those rare rubies for weeks after, dangling from your wrist as I watched you leave. And I think about them now and wonder what they mean to you. You still wear them, but you don't tell people about the Bible verse anymore.

I'm not sad I found your bracelet. Or that you seem to have lost the pride you once had in wearing it.

I just wonder why you lost it in the first place.

all that glitters

My closest friend loves antique birdcages. I never noticed any sort of birdcage before she professed her love for them, but I can understand their appeal: there is a certain beauty in the tarnished silver and intricate, whirling metal craftsmanship of yesteryear. I began to secretly share her love of antique birdcages; I plucked my fingers over the corroded metal while I mulled over any collection I came across. The musical echo of empty cages rockets my imagination to a world of beauty that doesn't answer to practicality or necessity (due, in large part, to the fact that I would never own a bird).

She took me by surprise one morning during one of our cherished strolls to the nearest coffeehouse when she mentioned that she used to love spray painting her antique birdcages gold.

My heart sank. I thought of the scores of exquisite antique birdcages I'd seen dying a slow, cheap death to metallic varnish; a denial of their history, of my dream of beauty for its own sake.

I didn't say anything, but couldn't help feeling betrayed. How could she, my best friend, an artist, a literature fanatic, not see the beauty I had secretly admired? She, who never fails to notice even the most intricate details, had somehow overseen the perfection and beauty of imperfection that I adored.

I wish I could spray paint my imperfections gold; hide them beneath gleaming enamel and make them pretty--or at least acceptable. Unlike my revered birdcages, I've never believed that I have a right to beauty. Even in the best of times I only like myself half as much as I should.

But I hold my dream of birdcage beauty close. I embrace it in secrecy and nourish my aspiration to delight in an imperfect beauty that is my own.

sound garden

My favorite aspect of driving is a satisfying chunk of alone time. An empty car creates a perfect concert hall to which I can dedicate my most revered music. During my solitude I revel in the uninterrupted beauty of elaborate drum solos, catchy guitar riffs, colorful bass lines, and a soulful, melodious piano. I can max out the volume, I can repeat, and three-peat, and I can bust out the drum beat.

And I can sing along.

And I do. I follow in the highest highs and the lowest lows. I am as faithful to a gyrating vibrato as I can be. I scat, hum, whistle, rap, shout, serenade, and harmonize. My musical warship blooms the ripest fruits of happiness and fulfillment; I sit in a garden of awe.

To me, music is as close to perfection as beauty can be. With every opportunity I strive to envelop myself in the warm cloak of symphony.

I thought everyone felt the same as me--until I was twelve. As sat in my mother's Chevy passenger seat peering at the drivers by; there seemed to be a distinct, yet vague something missing. When I finally figured out what the something was, I sat appalled: I couldn't hear even the slightest evidence of an enchanting melody amongst the cavalry of vehicles. Drivers sat alone, staring at the road. Their open windows shared nothing but air.

And it wasn't only on this one occasion; I began to witness an ever-repeating pattern of music-less, joyless drivers on virtually every excursion I made into the public driving arena. Even my mother's answers to my ceaseless whys did nothing to satiate my curiosity. I had yet to share the same fanatical obsession with music with another person (other than my family, my most beloved congregation of fellow freaks).

I have, since my moment of clarity as a child, observed strangers with a distracted interest in music--as something to live around, not in. But what I find truly perplexing is that I have never seen someone sing along--not even silently. I was convinced that the technological advancements that brought new frontiers to the portability of music might coerce the slightest peep out of even the most conservative individual; yet, nothing. The same dreary monotony.

It's time to stop speculating, I've decided after too many unanswered wonderments. Though I feel a tinge of regret for the unfortunate souls who cannot embrace the aweinspiring beauty of music, I suppose there is little I can do for these people but hope that they have the opportunity to witness the freak show that is me, alone, in my car, fully in bloom.

no big deal

I need to have an obsession. A fixation. A favorite color or food du jour.

"phenomenal" was my most recent obsession; my preferred adjective. The taste, color, sound, and smell of anything: all phenomenal. I wore phenomenal like a watch, constantly consulting the time. When my 24 hours were up, I moved on to "amazing."

Though words compose a more ephemeral genre of my fixations, I proudly display the rest like iridescent scales. They create an integral, yet decorative aspect to my personality. A Corinthian column of composite passions.

My initial forage into the vast world of caffeine began innocently enough-- until the occasional milky, chocolate-drizzled creations bred a fervent need for double espressos and a twoandthreecupaday habit that left me crushing my gas pedal and exploring colorful new territory in my use of expletives. A passion I could never leave behind, even the smell of coffee seems to brighten my smile and dilate my pupils. It is the exclamation point to an ordinary day, the cool side of the pillow. It is my favorite song.

I could not call myself a caffeine addict with any accuracy; my body's ambivalence to its non-presence proves that I do not need to carry on in this characteristic zeal of mine--but why stop? Who would I be without my quirky compulsion to fixate on the minutia of everyday life?

I'll consider it over another cup of coffee.

my muse

music is my best friend
my true friend
my blues
soul
and rock n r o l l
friend.
ties up all my loose ends
and doesn't
pretend.
it sends me
a w a y

sets a beat while I pray
thank the heavens
to know such a blessing
as
melody and beat
hear it when I speak
skip the track
play it back
reverse the sound
and im
abound
joypleaseuretears
and awe
I hold it close
turn it up
and take another dose

expecting

What a daunting task it is, to begin. And here I am, at the very beginning of something hoping to stumble on some combination of success, catharsis, and an artistic expression in which I can take pride.

In the webbed corners of my mind I secretly consider myself a writer, but face the same agonies as any author: the hatred of writing. The constant reconsiderations, rereadings, deletions, consultations of the thesaurus, and trying to find balance amidst that fine line of following the rules and making up my own (though I prefer the latter). AS with any creative pursuit, self-evaluation (and the discovery of imperfection) is a frightening inevitability--even more so when looking through the window of creation. I have wondered, more than a few times, "did that come from my mind?" It is both alarming and awesome to be able to surprise yourself--to discover an almost impossible incongruence between the personslity that manifests your creations, and the personality that drives to work.

A rampant fear of myriad and vast UNimportances has fueled an inordinate (and quite frankly, embarrassing) hiatus from my writing. I would like to consider myself a writer again--in the forbidding judgment of the real world, and not just in my mind.