Art is a hammer
There is nothing wrong with me
   that some attention cannot solve
Why I need attention so much
Is the hammer used against my art
Inspiration may come sleeting
But the result is still black ice
Invisible, dangerous, imagined or real
There is no music in my head
Or in my heart
That hasn't arrived from
Someone else's life, love, pain
That hasn't been expressed
In the words of some writer
Who at least managed to string
Sentences together
In a real story
Perhaps because my story isn't told
I have no ending to arrive at
Success, money, travel, change
Things I do not foresee
Even true love eludes me
No balcony scenes, no sonnets
No roses or suicide attempts
Many empty words, echoing
Art is a hammer
I don't have

Still writing as though
I was fourteen
heartbroken
lonely
Melodramatic

Forgetting all that I have
Comfort
Books
Family
Knowledge

Forgetting because I don't have
Your attention
You are not part of my toolbox
Like art
You elude my abilities
Whether I need you or not
Whether the nail exists
Or has purpose

2010

I just realized that I am starting off the new year and I'm NOT sick.

This is either a great sign or I've just jinxed myself.

Hmmmm . . . .

I Hate People

Dear gods, today I got this link:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/08/20/yes-she-can-59-of-huffpos_n_264411.html

Is this really a problem? Why do the comments contain such vitriol and argument? Did I really have to spend 5 minutes reading this so-called article and getting steamed over the comments?

Life is too farking short for this shite. Because the gods know that the next terrorist attack will come from a Macy's cell pissed that she wasn't wearing capri's. Or perhaps the economy will further tank because of all the people losing their appetite over something so trite and ridiculous. Or maybe that's just my appetite.

To the 41% that believe they have the right to dress anyone other than their dollies, this is why I hate you.

School's Out . . . un, In

So I'm taking an online Literature class (yeah, totally useful), but since I'm the dork that will take classes until the end of time, without gaining a degree, I'm excited.

I had to write an "Introduction" of myself for the other students and the teacher.
This is my first draft, which of course, just proves I do not make friends easily.

Good day all. My name is [xxx], and briefly, I like sarcasm, crosswords, dark beer, and watching my 1-year-old fall down. I have an addiction to adjectives, and tend to ramble (my alter-ego is a cruel editor). I'm from everywhere, and may have magical powers.
I am trepidatious about taking a literature class, being the first to admit that while I love to read, and write, I am adverse to over-analysing. Yet I thrill to the challenge of different perspectives, applying cultural mores to fiction, and the opportunity to share.
I believe that this class will satiate my love and fascination of varying cultures. I have a fondness for history, often rereading Larry Gonick's Cartoon History of the Universe, which is wry, well-research, and hilarious.
I am taking this course online due to time and place constraints, having also had only positive experiences with English courses online. Plus, I do so love to wear comfy clothes and have a cuppa while reading, researching, and writing, so it's win-win for me.
I do look forward to becoming acquainted with everyone, doubtless exposing the fact that while my written word often seems to come from a stuffy 65-year-old British man, I am usually found to be channeling an immature foul-mouthed bar wench, or so my husband tells me.

yeah. that's me.

It's not a trend . . .

So whilst avoiding housework I hit one of my favorite blogs and read this:

BernThis.Com

I thought I'd share an episode of my B&N life:

Working at the Information Counter at Barnes and Noble provided an unparalleled experience at sadly information-lacking customers and opportunities to practice subtle mocking. Alas, I left the bookstore world having failed at the subtle part.

Soon-to-be-irate Customer: I need you to help me find a book.
Moi: Sure, what's the title or author?
STBIC: Oh, I don't know. It was on the morning show. Awhile ago. It's blue.
Moi: Blue?
STBIC: Yeah. Blue cover. It was on the morning show.
Moi: Er, which morning show?
STBIC: On channel 11? In the morning? Can't you look it up?
Moi: Um, do you know what the book is about?
STBIC: It's about a girl. And her life, and stuff. It's blue.
Moi: (heroically not sighing heavily) Okay, was it a biography? Or fiction?
STBIC: Well, I don't know. Don't you have a list? Or look it up on your computer there. Jeez . . .
Moi: Hmmm, well, come with me. Maybe you'll recognize it.

STBIC innocently follows me to the automotive section.

Moi: Here is the Kelley Blue Book. Is this what you wanted?
STBIC: What? Noooo. Wha . . . it was on the morning show!
Moi: Oh, hee hee, silly me. Follow me, please.

STBIC innocently follows me to the art section.

Moi: Here is a blue book. Is this what you wanted?
STBIC: Why . . . Wha . . . nooooo. It's, it's about a girl. And a swimming pool.
Moi: Oops. Oh, now I think I got it. Follow me.

STBIC follows me to the religious section ("But, no, no, it's about a girl!"), the teen section (huge sigh "No, no, I . . . it was . . . the morning show . . ."), the notebooks and frivolties section, and finally back to the Information desk.

Moi: Well, I sure am sorry I couldn't help you. Gee, I feel terrible. Let me call the manager.
IC: (no longer soon-to-be) Well, fine. I guess I should have . . .
Moi: Yesssssss?
IC: I guess I should have just asked the manager first.
Moi: Huh. Okay. Groovy, here he is.
Manager: So, how can I help you?
IC: I'm looking for a book, from the morning show, . . it's, uh, it's blue.
Manager: Uh, right. Do you know the author or anything about it?

At this point my manager, who knew me oh-too-well, looked at me sideways. He seemed to be trying to impress upon me the lack of my customer service ability, but I countered with a roll of the eyes that knocked over a stack of magazines and dislocated my left shoulder.

IC: It was on the morning show, . . . awhile ago . . . about a swimming pool. I think Oprah liked it.
Manager: Could it be this book here on the bestsellers kiosk? The one right next to the Information desk? The one that has been on ALL the morning shows?
IC: That's it! Wow! Thank you so much!
Moi: Huh.

Yes, it's all true. It happened more than once. I never did manage to help those poor readers. I did however get the enviable job of sorting new books and creating tasteful displays.

Maybe now it's becoming clearer why I should not have customer service jobs.

Too Early?

So here's what I want for Christmas:

1 - 12 hours to act the fool (like I did before the Nibblet)
2 - the Pessimist Mug
3 - the body I had when I was 26 years old
4 - did I say 12 hours, let's make it 18 hours
5 - the friends/friendships I had a year ago
6 - a digital projector
7 - a bit of wall to project on
8 - a new tattoo
9 - 3 extra hours every day
10 - did I say 18 hours?
11 - the ability to stop time, and/or a small wallet with limitless supplies of cash
12 - a better . . . shite, that thing that you can use to think of things, um, to remind yourself about that thing that happened . . . um, you use it to remember things . . . damn

My NY Times Modern Love

I spent the first twenty-five years of my life avoiding love. Sometimes it was conscious, but most of the time I just didn’t put that much care into my family, my friends, my relationships. I found that there was an advantage to not being heartbroken. My friends poured their woes and aches onto my sturdy unencumbered shoulders, and I was proud to be the logical, clear-minded one. I didn’t understand those “true love” and “end-of-the-world” romances that swept away my friends, removing them, for a time, from my social circles and long nights of freedom.
I spent very little time in relationships, usually ending them when they got complicated or involved making decisions based on what someone else wanted. The few relationships that involved what I simplified into “love” were really more about fitting into the world my friends lived, dating boys who were friends with my friends lovers or significant others. Even losing my virginity involved more planning than emotion, and once the deed was done, well, so was the relationship.
I moved, sometimes across the country, to dissolve complicated arrangements, or to simply avoid the face in the mirror that did not respond to the emotional needs of anyone but itself. It was a selfish existence that did not tax or demand much. Any disasters could be shrugged off after a week of self-pity, or a quick pick-me-up at the local hang-out. I saw the truth about love in the teary faces of my friends and family, as they struggled with loss and dejection. “Why do they do that to themselves?” I often asked myself, being the only one I knew who understood that love was a recipe for heartbreak and sadness. Relationships were futile arrangements between two people who started off just having fun but quickly devolved into demands for time, attention, devotion.
Then I started dating a guy that, seemingly without effort, changed all that. Granted, we were introduced by someone I deeply admired and respected, who could verbally slap me around just as he physically taught his kung-fu students to block and attack. But the guy I was dating was, in my mind, just a boy. Someone to have fun with and go on adventures with and basically treat as I’d treated every boy before. His attitude towards life was the opposite of mine, he lived every moment as if nothing else mattered. There was no planning, no thought about tomorrow, no worries, and certainly no commitment. For eight months we dated, his life not altering much other than to call occasionally, mine to become more and more about what he thought, what he wanted, how to make him want me more. The attraction changed from physical to mental, and I suddenly had no defenses, and worse, no road map.
We broke up after a year. I convinced myself that, once again, I was the wronged party, and therefore had no further responsibilities and that I could sink into self-pity and destructive behavior. We met to have that final breakup conversation, the closure, the “we’ll stay friends” talk that is full of lies. But he refused to play his appointed role, instead telling me that he recognized his faults, that he loved me, and drawing me a picture of that love and what it meant. I sat there, in the late winter sun, reeling from the sudden awareness that, yes Virginia, there is love out there, and it is calling your name. My name was being brought to that table of weakness, fear of rejection, and caring about someone more than myself. This time I embraced it.
Of course it didn’t last. Within weeks we were repeating the same shallow arguments, missed connections, and repeatedly hitting the wall of how different we were.
Even my girlfriends who’d benefited for years from my heart built on rock gave up on me. They recognized all the signs but could not convince me that love had stolen in, made a home, and then burned it down, all inside my iron-clad heart. We broke up again, and I, finally feeling that dreaded wrung-out feeling, that emotional scouring, debased myself in front of all, begging for another chance, crying uncontrollably, getting drunk and maudlin, missing work, refusing all comfort, compassion, and logic.
As most people know, it was awful. It took me years to get over, and on dark, cold nights, I know that I am not over it. The heartbreak that I refused to have had happened, and I could no longer pretend to be better than anyone else. I was feeling that despair that reverberates throughout the body, mostly echoed in every beat of my bruised heart, that came to me every night in my bed, and that woke with me in the morning and accompanied me through every action.
Time heals all, they say, and four years went by. I moved on, as they also say, and finally there was that reunion where we awkwardly chatted and pretended we were soooo much better than before. At least I did. From that meeting we started a conversation, finding that we actually had things to talk about. Our relationship in the past was physical, and then destructively needy, but now we could do the normal friend things, like talk about music, movies, dreams, and goals. Amazingly, and frighteningly, I found that I liked this new man better than I had ever l-o-v-e-d the boy. There was closure and healing in our new relationship, and I was more than willing to take that into my heart. Finally, I thought, I can move beyond that “first love” and now go out and find my “true love”.

The universe has a sick sense of humor, is all I can say. When my new friend came back east to visit we went out with mutual friends, played pool, drank some beers, and had lots of laughs. At the end of the night, he came home with me. I did it because the physical attraction was still there, I liked this person, and because I needed to prove to myself that we could be friends now, without the past. Spare me the snorts of derision. Because, of course, despite precaution, I got pregnant.
Our kung-fu teacher, the one that introduced us, had told me that this world offers you the best and the worst. What you choose is how the world decides what to offer you next. Profound, in a “what-are-you-talking-about” way. When I called my friend with the news that, um, “remember when you spent the night?” and the associated decisions that needed to be made, he was not the guy I had once dated, but my friend, truly and with all his heart. Together we talked over options, and what were not options. With maturity and affection, he left his easy and uncomplicated life, and together we started a difficult and constantly changing one.
It’s been almost two years now. We have the most beautiful, and terrifyingly intelligent, daughter, and we have a love that struggles and grows. What it will ultimately become, well, who knows? I know, now and for the remainder of my life, that I was fortunate in love. As much as it hurt to lose the first flush, I’ve got a concentrated understanding of what it means, what it takes, and what it’s worth. And, I’ve got the man who not only woke up my heart, but gave me the chance to use it.