nighthawks

An ambulance siren wailed down Broadway as I rounded the corner and left it behind me. I could not stop thinking about the funeral this afternoon. Dick was my age, my friend. No more. I came to New York for Dick's funeral. His mother was overwhelmed with grief and was inconsolable. His father could not stop looking at me with these eyes that let me know I should have been there with him. I got the feeling he wondered how youth could survive when his only son was gone.

53rd street was empty and the clouds hung low over the city so that only peripheral noise was audible: somewhere a man and woman were fighting, their screaming drifted on the air like a crow's song. Poor kids ran down alleys nearby kicking a tin can. It might rain. Phillies is up ahead, I suppose I wandered here by accident. The gang and I, Dick included, always ended our nights drinking in New York, drinking coffee until we were sober enough to remember to return to our upscale hotel rooms for forty winks before returning to college on trains were we sat in 1st class seats. The place was empty except for the barman, a roustabout and his fast lady. All three lifted their heads as I pushed open the door and made my way to the stool where I sat down, trying not to let the uneasy feeling in my stomach show on my face.

I asked the barman for a coffee, no sugar, and listened for a while to the conversation of the roustabout and his fast lady. He was telling her stories of the war, about Japanese Geisha and rowdy nights on shore patrol or leave. He was in the middle of a particularly graphic story when I came in and I could tell that this fast lady was eating it up.

"Oh, Joe! You didn't kill anybody! I don't believe you would hurt a fly!" she said with restrained interest. Her voice kept low to hide her glee.

"I did kill them and I'd kill every one of those Japs if I had the chance!" He turned suddenly, solemnly to the barman and asked, "Hey, Marty, you were in the first war; you ever kill anybody?"

The barman looked up at Joe briefly, laughed to himself and continued washing and drying cups then stacking them neatly, one on top of the other.

Obviously agitated at being ignored by the barman, Joe went on telling his fast lady about how the Geisha wore their hair and then he touched her hair; or how they never showed their ankles and he touched her knee; or how their lips were just as red as her cheeks were right then against their porcelain skin, he touched her lips. The fast lady laughed nervously. He got up without a word and made his way to the WC. The fast lady looked at me briefly and then, with a look of self satisfaction, turned away, took out her compact right there at the counter in front of me and the barman and reddened her lips with the tubed wax. She stopped after the third layer.

I was done with my coffee when the Joe returned, so I asked the barman for a refill. I was thinking about the war and how I could have been dead like Dick if my father was not rich and pulled some strings to keep me in college. The truth is, I did not want to go to war and was glad to use college as an excuse. Dick's father was not the first man to look at me with disdain for being alive. Just then I caught that same look in Joe's eyes. Only this time he was not looking at me, but through me, thinking of men long gone. I held his gaze for a full minute as a futile attempt at bravery. He cracked a sideways smile before turning away - the kind of smile people smile when they have stared death in the face and stood tall.

Joe grabbed his fast lady by the arm and told her he was taking her home to meet his mother. The fast lady's eyes flashed with panic but relaxed when she realized he only wanted to show her his tattoo which he could make dance by flexing his abdominal muscles. He clinked fifty cents on the bar and walked behind his fast lady out the door, into the empty street. I could hear them shrieking like children with joy until they turned the corner as they tried to find a busy street with taxis.

dreams

In my dreams I am acutely aware that everything I could ever imagine is available to me. What's funny is that I can never make a choice about what I want, then the dream ends and I feel like a failure.

Often in my dreams I am aware that it is a dream and not reality. Somehow, I choose to continue the situation, however scary or intense it may seem.

Most of my nightmares involve an ominous invisible being that's chasing me. At points I feel I've eluded the pursuer only to realize that next step I take leads me back to him.

I ask myself how I can control the events in my dreams, especially if I'm aware that it is a dream. Sometimes I wonder if dreams are reality and life is a dream: out of our control.

I remember this because I promised myself I would never forget it at the time. My family and I were driving back home from our grandparent's houses. We lived in the country, so galaxies were visible as I rested my head against the window in an effort to see something significant about Christmas. The usual Christmas carols were playing on the radio and I had an intense feeling of being alone, cold, and small. As I looked at the stars I saw one twinkle. It could have been anything, but that night, December 16, 1987, it was my hope.

I still become sad when I listen to Christmas carols, but as I get older the holiday seems to be more enjoyable as nieces and nephews participate in their first Christmas. I vow to live vicariously through them this year and ensure they have fond memories of the day. I can't wait to introduce tradition into our growing family - this year it's the dessert bake-off between Sarah, Doug and me. Obviously I'm going to win.

As December 16 approaches, I anticipate miracles. good things are rushing into my life like a titlewave.

God Damnit!

Oprah's done it again. It's as if a person can't read anything anymore without having her endorsement on it.

I'm watching her "best things of 2007" show, where she gives away all this swag and one of her things is my favorite book, Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett. Son of a bitch. I'm reading it right now and I almost want to stop in opposition.

She never hugs anyone on her show - she grabs their hands and does this sort of champion shake move. It's genius. I picture someone teaching her to do this. They would practice it thousands of times, making sure NOBODY could get close to Oprah. Especially the vermin who are addicted to her. She's the devil.

the sleeping assasin

I think my father is a secret agent. He did back springs when I was young and has the biggest muscles for a man who never goes to the gym. He's ridden a horse down a "Man From Snowy River" hill to pick my hat up from the ground when I dropped it riding. He's split his hand wide open stringing a barbed wire fence and he can shoot like a son of a gun.
It doesn't add up.

untying the knot

This weekend I rendered immobile by a knot between my shoulder blades. The pain numbs my entire right arm. I got a massage to help on Friday and was surprised at how tense I am. Now it's all I can think about. It's impossible to relax! Just when I think I have, I realize I haven't. This is becoming a full time job.

I'm not going home for Thanksgiving. I don't care what anyone says - being alone is going to be better than being around my dramatic family. Maybe for Christmas I'll make a vacation of it. Not stay with anyone, get a hotel in Carmel or something. And stop in Solvang on the way up there.

I took a trip to Solvang when I was little with my aunt Celsa, uncle Franco and cousin, Caterina, who we called Cricket. We were on our way down to Disneyland but it took us days to get there because we kept stopping at places. One of the places was Solvang were everything is Dutch (I suppose) and the streets are cobbled. Cricket and I were in love with the hand-dipped candles and we each got one as a souvenir. The most impressive part of the vacation was that my aunt brought a cappuccino machine with us. Each morning she would make one for us all and make espresso which she put into large green bottles with attached tops for later. We had a lot of picnics at churches. I think it must be among my fondest memories.

something about me

I've never had rhythm, but I've always had melody. I suppose it's my inherent lack of attention to detail that sets me back and that's a direct effect of of my inability to run fast.

Breath deep out.
Breath in.
Feet meet the earth: 1 2 3 4
Breath deep out.

Today I stopped short to watch men dressed in white clothes roll small, dark metal balls across the shortest grass I've ever seen. I imagine that's what heaven's like.

Villefranche - Sur - Mer

I read Hemingway that summer and reeled at his ability to animate everyday life and cast light on the subtle battle. The train rocked along the tracks, side to side all the while pulling forward, and south toward the ocean. The siren wailed, melancholy, down through. Families around me chattered in Italian, gesticulating roundly and inflecting the last word of each sentence and names. The Mamma unloaded lunch from her handbag: leftover pasta which she had fried in a skillet until it looked like a little pasta pie. She sliced and distributed it like one too and the starched sweet smell of the noodles was unleashed into the air conditioned atmosphere. Her husband was served first.

As we got closer to the equator, the passengers started speaking French, perfumes and colognes were exchanged, too, Italian for French, as soon as we crossed some invisible line. Train terminals always smell like college students living out of their backpacks and urine and are full of people speaking too loud so as to be heard above the other people speaking loudly and children shrieking and running in unpredictable zigzag patterns while their parents pay no mind to the fact that other people do not find them endearing. I focused on the empty street to my left and willed my way, with determination, away from the crowd, passing a few mangy cats on the way. French cats. I wondered if they were different from Italian cats.

At sunset, just as the sky was casting twilight, I found myself in town. Handsome people sat in cafes drinking bitter espresso or bitter aperitif. The young people smoked cigarettes and wore sunglasses despite the failing light. Young eyes do not care. I ordered a cosmopolitan and the waiter who was obviously a very smart man told me that I had “cat’s eyes,” which I promptly scribbled onto my cocktail napkin after he walked away. I lit a cigarette so that I had something to do. Later, after more drinks and before dinner, a French cowboy came and sat down at my table. He had with him a photo album full of pictures showing him getting thrown off bulls in Texas, Wyoming, and Berlin. He wore a big silver belt buckle, Wranglers and a cowboy hat, but he was still French and I would never have believed he rode bulls if he did not have that album to prove it. I studied him hard and wondered if I would accept him as a cowboy if he did not have a French accent. His jaw was squared off and his five o’clock shadow was right on time. The crease down the front of his jeans could have cut glass. I decided I would not have because a real cowboy would never wear his hat at the table, but I was lying to myself because I romanticized American men in those days.

Somewhere around 10:00, as the stars revealed themselves, a bottle of Absinthe appeared at our table, complete with tiny slotted spoons and cubes of sugar. More people had materialized by then: a man, whose name I cannot remember poured the green syrup over the sugar cube, then dripped a short stream of water and the potion turned white. Those handsome people - men with collars popped under their suit jackets, women with tight slacks and too much perfume and the French cowboy – spoke to one another in various languages that made me ashamed to have been born in a country run by the now grown up children of the Summer of Love. I was grateful that there was a Brit there. He whispered humid translations onto my neck until the men got too friendly and their wives spoke to them in harsh tones. I contemplated falling in love with the Brit, just for something to do, but thought better of it in the end. My heart cannot be spread that thin.

I lay on my bed back at the hotel and listened to the crickets outside my open window. French crickets. I tried to imprint their score in my memory forever.

poem

Sons of fathers without office
Sacrificed to the God of War
Shipped, free of charge to the mouth of the beast
Already in their coffins.

BMW - 7 Series (rev 1)

It is 2 am when Alex quietly opens the sliding glass door and steps gingerly over the threshold. Yesterday he saw his neighbor, the one with the pretty wife, playing catch with his sons, both in high school. Their carefree attitude sickened him as he watched them through the small opening of the curtain in the front parlor. Their laughter rung out like sirens to him and eventually he had no choice but to move away from the window.

Alex’s sheepskin slippers were getting damp from the morning dew, but he paid that no mind. He looked at his yard, then at the neighbor’s yards and congratulated himself on setting such a good example. He proposed a height standard to the homeowners association for lawns in the area, but was met with fervid opposition. So he chose to lead from behind. The moon was bright enough to read by. Genuflecting, he used the ruler he always kept handy to verify the height of his lawn. It was just right. He congratulated himself on being such a good man and turned to go back inside.

The seal on the door sucked proof that it was shut and he tiptoed upstairs. His wife’s miniature dog was awake and came to see what the commotion was. Alex kicked him a little as he made his way to the bedroom. The dog squeaked like a chew toy.

His feet were cold when he got into bed with his wife and snuggled up behind her. She had been drinking earlier and God knows she took enough sleeping pills to tranquilize a horse. He slipped his night-cold hand up her thigh and under her silky nightgown, lifted it to her back and rolled her onto her stomach. He did not care if she was asleep or whether he was hurting her. He deserved her this way. After all, he just bought her a BMW – 7 Series.

Poem of You ~the dude~

No words I could find to truly describe
Not even the extremities of her persona
With enough depth to justify that which she deserves
And the sadness I have for which I have failed
Will torment me till my dying day

However,

She is absolute
Daring though she’d never know
And in the evening when cowards descend from,
Wherever such filth is spewed to suffocate
She remains strong and content

Spirit of a Yaffle
Peeping at the many layers of your soul
Complex and totally binding to your words
She is an endless abyss of devotion,
This will challenge any faithful believer in oneself

A gift to those who know
And for those who do not,
A tragedy
But jealousy in the end
Will fill the hearts of all

A vagabond for all to enjoy
Standards and values remain true
A paradigm of holistic enchantment
Guiding and stimulating those
Who haven’t a clue

A lasting Tiger-eye in life
She moves with rhapsodic lavishness
Yet her pose remains quite simple
Breathtakingly beautiful,
Eloquent and full of grace

Nobody is Coming (rev 1)

The pinot noir tastes like apple juice since I started paying more than two dollars for it but the table is still sustainable, recyclable corrugated cardboard made in the USA.

It took me over 20 years and a lot of cups of coffee to realize that the sun sets later in the North than it does in Mexico and that it is not the water there that makes a person sick, but the antiseptic hysteria of mothers in the suburbs of major Midwest cities.

The fact is that the food we eat is laced with gluten because that is how the Government will enslave us. And by “us” I mean Texans and people who shop at Wal-Mart. Religion, too, is a grand circus, complete with magic, clowns and folks jumping through burning hoops. Do not let yourself be fooled by the definition of evil.

Lately, men approach older men with round glasses and gray pony tails in the hopes they were in Vietnam and can, therefore, relate. Tears are shed as penance for Improvised Explosive Device massacres and episodes in which they were forced to pry a screaming toddler from the grips of a schizophrenic wielding a butcher knife. The schizophrenic stabbed himself 12 times before he slit his own throat.

Somewhere, in a town very close to yours, peroxide prudes wonder why their legs were forced apart and they lost $600 on an abortion. They fall in love with the next gun smokin’ to make themselves feel pretty again. When they turn 23 they will earn an internship to Teen Vogue and eventually influence the psyche of your granddaughters.

Right now, the most important virtue is courage because the battle is real. It is not enough to do your best or love your neighbor. Even Hitler believed in himself. Here is my advice: You can drift by and be happy, but the real joy comes in serving the greater good. In Jesus’ name we pray; Amen.

Memoirs of a French Holiday

+I read Hemingway that summer and reeled at his ability to write a simple story laced with such substance. The train rocked along the tracks, south toward the ocean. The siren wailed, melancholy, down through. Families around me chattered in Italian, gesticulating and inflecting the last word of each sentence, or names. The mamma unwrapped leftover pasta which she had fried in a skillet until it looked like a little pasta pie. She sliced it like one too and the starched smell of the noodles permeated the air conditioned atmosphere.
As we got closer to the equator, the passengers started speaking French, perfumes and colognes were exchanged, too, Italian for French, as soon as we crossed the border. Train terminals always smell like pee and are full of people yelling, kids screaming: things that I can’t stand. I walked fast away from the crowd, passing a few mangy cats. French cats. I wondered if they were different from Italian cats.
At sunset I walked into town. Handsome people sat in cafes drinking bitter espresso or bitter aperitif. The young people smoked cigarettes and wore sunglasses despite the failing light. Young eyes don’t care. I ordered something – I can’t remember what I drank in those days – and the waiter (smart man) told me that I had “cat’s eyes,” which I promptly scribbled onto my cocktail napkin after he walked away. Later, a French cowboy came and sat down. He had a photo album full of pictures of him getting thrown off bulls in Texas, Wyoming, and Berlin. He wore a big belt buckle, Wranglers and a cowboy hat, but he was still French and I would never have believed he rode bulls if he didn’t have that album full of pictures.
Somewhere around 10:00 as the stars were coming out, a bottle of Absinthe was brought to our table, complete with tiny slotted spoons and cubes of sugar. A man whose name I can’t remember poured the green syrup over the sugar cube, then added a bit of water and I watched as the potion turned white. I was glad that there was a Brit there. He translated until the men got too friendly and their wives spoke to them in harsh tones.
I lay on my bed back at the hotel and listened to the crickets. French crickets. I tried to imprint that moment in my memory forever.

Nobody is Coming

The pinot noir tastes like apple juice
and the table is corrugated cardboard.
It took me over 20 years to realize
that the sun sets later in the north
than in Mexico.
Here, the men cry over IED massacres
and episodes in which they were forced
to pry a screaming 5 year old
from the arm of a schizophrenic
wielding a butcher knife.
Peroxide prudes wonder
why their legs were forced apart
and they lost $600 on an abortion.
The most important virtue is courage
because the battle is real.
You can drift by and be happy,
but the real joy comes in
serving the greater good.

Night Sweats

Ignoring blue white light of moon
in favor of artificial sense of security
reflective signs and street lamps.
A train siren wails,
melancholy,
down through.
Close to the earth.
Hug the earth so gravity will protect us.
Our greatest fear is Wyoming.

confession

I date the worst kind of men. The cowardly, cheating, uncaring, self centered, perverted fools that sweep me off my feet. I swoon at their inattention. I drip for their filth. They are unavailable, don't want me, soulless devils and I love them.

midnight text

it's thrilling to receive erotic text messages at 3 in the morning. Almost like a drug. I fall under the spell of one text, then the next until I almost drown from lack of sleep and anticipation. Oh, distance is a mean illusion.

The eight one seven

It haunts me you know. I'm not sure why. I arrive at work, daily, unwittingly, at 8:17. I happen to glance at the clock, in between gulps of Salty Dog as I'm talking my brother through crisis and it's 2017. It's in phone numbers, zip and area codes. It's there when I least expect it.

Very Superstitious

Since my first crush in what must have been 1st or 2nd grade when I wrote grocery bags full of rejected love letters to Jerad Renz, I've been superstitious of love. Inevitably, the men that I am enamored with are not enamored with me. It can happen as quickly as minute to minute - love, then hate. If I love them, it definitely means they don't love me; but if, the next day, I happen to wake up out of love with them, you can bet they'll call, myspace, tell a friend to tell a friend to tell me that they heart me.
I've tried to trick myself. I've pretended that I don't love someone in the hopes that this might trick fate or karma, or whatever it is that life is made up of, but it never works. The truth in my heart always shines through.
Recently, I talked to my therapist about this. I told him about Crush, about how I must have loved him not loving me - that if he felt any other way I probably wouldn't have been that interested. I told him about Chad, about how after he stood me up I wanted him more.
What I haven't told him is how I can't imagine love out of the context of sex. I just can't wrap my mind around the difference between a friendship and a relationship if it isn't sex. Both are a dedication to another person, and, in my experience, an almost exclusive dedication. Both involve supporting the other person's goals, dreams, and success. Both require that the other person's friends are your friends. Both require common interests and similar personalities. So what makes a friend different from a boyfriend if it isn't sex? Nothing. A relationship is a friendship with sex which may, but not necessarily include, marriage.

Later

A wish from Ana to me while stoned on acid, 1 June, 1995

Trish, you've asked to write in Journal about this wonderful truth I've just found out. I will try to tell you many truths I know, I'll number them. Some might hurt you. Some might make you cry, not with your usual sad tears, but tears will make your entire body fry with absolute tears that taste just like this tea. Truths go like this:
1. you are not in any trouble with the devil. Something else is haunting you. Believe me, Trish. I can see your soul as of now, and it's so amazing to say that it is the most beautiful soul in the universe that's ever seen by me. It's not purple. I really expected it to be purple, but Trish, it's silvery-gold not silver and gold, but silvery-gold. Like a Rainbow star, every color together makes silvery-gold. It has no shape. Actually, I can't even actually see with my eyes. I can just feel it, and I know everything to know about it, not just the outside of it, just the beautiful middle inside, like it's straight to the heart. Now the silvery-gold has a rose tint. Trish, if you could feel the beauty of your soul, you'd cry. You'd cry because you'd stop thinking nasty thoughts about yourself, you'd just see the fact that you are beautiful and all of your ugly thoughts will just melt away like a rainbow slips away. The reason you are crying is because you are afraid that without these nasty soul-messiers you will be truly happy. Change is always scary, Trish, but see yourself with this new light and then the beauty in you can truly shine though. I forgot to tell you, bit I see the black mark on you r soul. You and I see the same soul, but out of different eyeshadow. The ugliness in your soul is my black mark. Actually, he's not all black, he's fading into a dark brown. This is because I can see you are starting to believe in yourself and since you and I are Bod you are believing stronger in god. This is why your spot is lightening. This brings me to what I told you in the Kitchen. It's about lying to your soul. All of your sad thoughts and fears are lies. This is why your ugliness is fighting with the beauty. Hopefully, your beauty can win sometime. I hope this helps you understand that fear of a bad trip is what will cause a bad trip. You have to have your mind ready to accept your true self or the Evil men that are trying to get you will win and you'll have a bad trip. So sweetheart, you have to clear the inside of your head and you can have a fantastic trip. Purple, Blue, green, Ev everything. If not it will scare you. Now, don't be afraid. Keep reading witch. Read about Archie Fiesta. Then it might make you understand what I'm saying better, clearer. Anyway, I have more to say but y'r begging for your book so I''l let you have it back (heart) and (peace) for ever. Ask ME anything today. This is the wise pot and I'm omniscient right now. I (heart) you.


Corrine, Lexy, all those uglies, all of them are messengers of your soul. That girl was a messenger of your soul too. It shows the spot lighting up. Get it:?

Listen, Dixie

from a journal entry, 5/12/99 - The Oregon Days
In dreams, I walk out to my car and find $100 bills taped to it - all over - hundreds of them. I go into a Wendy's and some woman tells me my hair is beautiful and smells it. I walk around the salad bar and find a rave. Instead of darkness and deep bass there is incredible light-ness and music like tiny bells. I didn't like the people there so I kicked and punched a bunch of them on my way out.
A woman walked into my room. She was Hispanic and I loved her. She was of the voodoo and she told me about my eyes and their depth. Hers weren't so bad either. She told me great things are going to happen to me.
Checks were written out to me for thousands of dollars and signed by the U.S. Army.

Photography

Go see Chuck McGrath at Alden's Images: aldensimages@cox.net or 619.300.9968

fallinsummer

I tell you, it feels like the end of October, not the end of July. It's not just the weather, although it has been cloudy, cool, and I've even noticed leaves wafting down from trees. It's that it feels cloudy and cool and the light is a bit filtered, as if through an orangey-yellow lens like it is in fall. At night I lie in bed and shiver a little, snuggling down into my blanket and curling my legs up to my belly to encourage body heat. My skin is warm, but not fooled by itself. I lie awake listening to cars drive down the 5 on streets that sound wet.

Single Mom

This is a term that I have recently become uncomfortable with. The world single preceding the word mom implies, not only that the mother has no partner, but that she is alone in the process of being a mother. Seldom does one hear a man refer to himself as a single father and I think that speaks to the difference between men and women. Women are so ready, at every point, to let themselves be victims.

Snapshot of Grandpa Bruce upon reading A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings

The very old man with enormous wings reminds me of him. He too was very old and had a certain light of which only a glimmer remained. He would never allow us to watch television at night and instead read to us while we sat comfortably on his bony, fragile lap. His lips were purple and the skin looked so thin I thought it might break if I poked it with my finger. He drank warm beer and fed his dog, Ben, bland oatmeal on saltine crackers.

Once, my dog, Cinder got hold of a squirrel after it had eaten bait. Cinder went mad. I could hear him howling, a sound worse than coyotes fighting, worse than a woman screaming as her baby crowns and worse than anything I have heard since. I lay, hysterical in Grandpa Bruce’s lap while he stroked my hair and sang me songs from his youth with messages that did not make sense to my generation but had a soothing tone to them.

sigh

I went to bed last night feeling content. At first, I lay there, thinking about the happenings in my life, on becoming a Madrina, on Chad standing me up, on the possibility of my mom staying with me for a while.
Life is so confusing to me sometimes. Nonetheless, I can a content feeling as I lie there, contemplating the confusion. There is something satisfactory to me about all the chaos. I knew Chad would stand me up, which is why I wouldn't go out with him for so long; I know my mom needs help and feel that I can help her, and being a goddmother is (at least in my mind) a very special experience.

HOT

The Rules of Perception

If I told you that I wanted to die you would take it all wrong. Your ears would hear something different from what I really mean. The words would sound pathetic to you, like I'm a dark soul who's given up on the world and can't hack it.
What I really mean is that I want to shed the skin of who I am, not live this life anymore. I want to shake off the shackles of my reality and awaken to a new one in which I have more energy and a social life, intelligence and will.
You see, it seems to me that it's easy for you to be who you are. For me it's a curse. My body is separate from my mind and soul. I hover above myself, watching, screaming at the top of my ghost lungs to get up, do something different, live in the moment.
Sometimes I get so fed up with myself that I end up leaving myself for awhile; who knows where I go when this happens. But when it does happen, my body acts independent of a soul; just an empty compilation of atoms in motion.
I don't know how often it happens. Perhaps it's happened since the dawn of time. Maybe I'm never really me, maybe me is something else every time (a tree, a pilot, a baker, art in a museum) and this me, right now, is just the me of right now.
And I'm not going to kill myself. The truth is, death terrifies me. The thought of the unknown darkness makes me nervous. And I couldn't cut myself, or pull the trigger on a gun. I don't even have the desire to take large quantities of pills because I'd probably just end up making myself sick and have to succumb to an inch wide tube being shoved down my throat and swallowing charcoal that would make my stool black for days.
And I don't want my parents, friends or family to be sad. I don't want them to visit me in the hospital while my hair is still stringy from the vomit that was too much for the inch wide tube to handle. I don't want them to pray over me and ask me what's wrong, what they did or can do now to show me they love me. I don't want them to see my pale face that I would secretly hope to be clear for weeks because of my cleansed system.

The Greatest Navy in a Whirl

More than almost anything, I loathe going on board ships. The smell of burned grease from the Hardy's rejected food cooked in the galley permeates everything and leaves its residue on all surfaces. That smell, the overpowering smokey smell, combined with wet metal leaves its mark in one's nostrils. The ladder wells, the mattresses, the decks and bulkheads and a person's skin are slick with a combination of oil and sea water. The glazed look in the eye of each blue jumpsuited Sailor is telling of the poor nutrition, lack of excercise and sunshine and the loneliness they endure. In dark corners men and women can be found lurking, planning port rendezvous, or flirting heavily with one another before they sit down to write emails to their children and spouses waiting for them at home.

Ships are never really clean, despite "sweepers" or "cleaning stations" or "field days" which sounds like fun, but never is. These jobs end up being delegated to the lowest ranks, to those who are disgruntled, and it shows. Time spent waxing decks or polishing brass is, within hours, ruined by careless fire hose teams dragging damp, mud smearing hoses through passageways while some Ensign (no doubt a graduate of the Naval Academy), younger, and with less time in service than they have, screams at them to go faster, be safer, hydrate, don protective gear and doff protective gear. The hose team prays for the order to doff and hydrate as they stand in a passageway in which the air has been secured in the middle of an afternoon with 100 degree, 90% humidity weather wearing 20 lbs of protective clothing.

On a ship, a Sailor's solace is his rack. It is behind those thin, blue curtains, 4x7 foot coffins, stacked three high, that Sailors find the only privacy to be found in the six, eight or ten months they are cutting through the ocean toward a hot war that doesn't mean anything to them. They float along at night, half of them in their coffins, while the red lights overhead create a womb-like calm for the coming day in which they will carry out the orders of their Chief, who's carrying out the orders of his Lieutenant, who's carrying out the orders of the Captain, who's carrying out the orders of the TYCOM, who's carrying out the orders of the CNO, who's carrying out the orders of the Secretary of Defense, who's carrying out the orders of the President, who is carrying out the orders of God and the Rich.

Sea Duty

The newest chapter in my dramatic life involves negotiating my next set of orders. I have major pressure from my detailer to take a ship. Some people want me to go to Iraq. I want to go home.
So I thought I would compromise. I put in a request for a billet at Commander Naval Forces Europe staff. Sounds good to me, plus it's sea duty. It's in Italy and the thought of going back both excites me and makes me sad.
I will miss my brother's daughter, Madlynn's first years. I long to be Aunt Trish. I long to be Wife or Mom.
But Italia! I miss it. I love it. I want it!

cobwebs on dead mint

I've been depressed for the last month. I've watched endless hours of DVR'd episodes of Will and Grace, The Simpsons, What not to Wear, and Friends. I've also layed on my couch for hours looking at VH1s I love the 70s and 80s. I love that Mexican guy who was on Boogie Nights and Mo Roca.
I'm on the Zoloft now. It's supposed to help me have more energy but it doesn't. Have I told you that I think cocaine should be legalized? If only for my benefit. I need it. Coffee isn't working anymore. It just gives me headaches. I take migraine medicine now. It makes me spacey. Not tired, just retarded enough to sit through hours of VH1 programming.
My house is filthy. I don't walk barefoot because my feet end up with shedded hair and crumbs on them. My sink is full of stinking dishes. I can't open my refrigerator door anymore because something is rotten in there and I don't even want to think about cleaning it up.
I only wash clothes that I need. I don't put them away, I just take them out of the dryer when I need them and throw them on the ground when I'm done wearing them. It helps keep the crumbs off my feet when I walk to and from the bathroom barefoot in the middle of the night.
my front tooth is broken. I broke it on a pistachio. Ed told me not to do it, that I would break my tooth, but I pishawed him. My tooth broke that instant. I can't bite anything with my front teeth now. It's more difficult than it sounds. I bought a sandwich for lunch, not realizing it would require biting and my tooth fell out. I pushed it back in and sucked my teeth like old people do to hold their dentures in.

marc'd

lately, i've been thinking of who my ideal man would be. and i've decided he would be rugged, muscle-y, have a strong jawline, kiss me like i need to be kissed and love and protect me.

i think back to my boyfriends of the past to see who fits that bill. i keep coming back to marc. we dated in italy, and for a bit when i moved to san diego. the second time we dated was better than the first. i felt like a woman and he told me i made him feel like a man. but i got afraid. of moving too fast, of him not being the one, of settling, and i broke his heart.

i tried to contact marc a few months ago, and more recently, but like a good man who knows what he wants, he ignored me. i deserve that, but it would be great to go back to that time i spent with him in washington. i think we would be good together.

he probably has a girl by now. some little blonde vixen that he can throw around in bed. maybe he's married and they're pregnant. either way, he probably never thinks about me anymore.

marc, if you're reading this, i'm sorry.

the window

On any given day, if you happen to be flying into San Diego and are sitting on the right side of the plane, looking at the right apartment building and know which window to look into, you may see me. I could be doing anything, but chances are, I'm either at my bathroom mirror, watching television or sleeping. If there wasn't an armoire blocking your view to my couch, you would see me watching television.
If you did happen to be in the right seat, looking at the right apartment building through the right window at me, you might feel sorry for me. You might wonder why a girl like me, seemingly witty, attractive, outgoing, would be sleeping alone or blow drying my hair for no other purpose other than necessity, or (if your view weren't obstructed) why I'm sitting on my couch, alone, drinking stale champagne and smoking cigarettes at 3 PM on a Saturday afternoon.
I have no excuse. I could say I am tired and don't feel like socializing, which is somewhat true, but the fact is, I have no friends. I have no romantic prospects.
men often ask me why I don't have a boyfriend. I smile and make some excuse, but the fact is that no men ever, EVER ask me out. Let me clarify that I mean single men who have no children never ask me out.
Can you picture me as a stepmother? I would make Cinderella's look like a saint! I know it's getting old, but all I can say is cats and cardigans.

abuse

my therapist told me that she believes i abuse alcohol. after a few days of contemplation i wonder why she chose to tell me that i abuse alcohol as opposed to food, or sleeping pills. i am addicted to salt and vinegar potato chips and could eat a bag per day, i take sleeping pills at six pm because i don't feel like watching tv, doing homework or cleaning and there can't be anything else worth staying up for. But i only drink every so often. I don't drink to cover up pain, i drink because i love it. i don't drink every day or every week. sometimes i go a month without a sip. i reject her theory of abuse.

bling

Tonight, as I was looking out my bathroom window, I caught a casual glimpse of my neighbor - probably waiting for the girl he lives with - sitting in his truck outside my window. The moonlight reflected a ring on his left hand.

Conversation with Brad that may never take place

No, Brad. I do not want to get you in trouble. I do want you to sit down on the bar stool next to me and sit with your legs spread around mine, my knees in between yours and lean forward so that I can whisper this into your ear:
What I want is to get to know you on an emotional and physical level. To make love to you in the slow way that will make you understand that there is good left in the world. I want to make love to you in a way that will make you forget the heat and death of the dessert, that will make you forget you are an officer and I'm not, that will make you forget about your girlfriend in Equador.

fractured

I had another breakdown today. It's embarrassing to admit, but this happens on a regular basis. I try to express a feeling and suddenly the floodgates open. I can't stop them, it just makes it worse.

Perhaps even more embarrassing is the fact that my boss, due to being the only human being I interact with on a personal level on most days, has to endure these. This time she told me that all of my communication as of late has expressed a message of fractured relationships that end up leaving me feeling insecure. It's true.

Nick talks a lot about looking at myself through my third eye. That's not my problem. My problem seems to be that I am acting independent of myself and my desired actions. When I started to cry today everything in my was screaming STOP! but I couldn't stop.

i am gonna cry

it's 532 pm. i'm supposed to be in class. i can't go.
i got my new washer and dryer delivered today. i have to rearrange my furniture.
i sold my bed. now my mattress is just laying on the floor. i can't tell my apartment apart from a crack house.
i have too much stuff. i don't have anyplace to put it. i can't seem to sell it all. i'm too scared to throw it away. i'm too greedy to give it away.
i need help.

Fear plus loathing plus self effacing behavior

This chapter of my life, the chapter I would title, "This is bullshit," has to be the most enlightened of all chapters of my life. This portion of my life is where all of my dreams have come true.
My desire to be independent is fulfilled. Not only am I independent, I am alone. The friends I do have are far away or flakey (read: selfishly unavailable).
My desire to let a man control my finances has been fulfilled: I am broke constantly - all of my money controlled by the Man.

I'm not sure I want any of the things I thought I wanted out of life. Marriage will inevitable lead to divorce. Bearing children will make them hate you. Any money I make will be lost.

Fear of abandonment.
Fear of failure.
Fear of intimacy.

I'm in love with my neighbor

Yeah, I've got it bad for him. He stands out on the catwalk and smokes cigarettes while drinking what looks to be Natural Ice beer out of a can. He has a chubby little black lab that he takes to the park to go to the bathroom. I sit on my stoop in hopes that I will catch him during either of the aforementioned activities and he'll strike up a conversation. Nevermind that he has a girlfriend and I think she lives with him.

the heat

My memories are set in virtual summer. No matter that it may have been Oregon when I couldn't afford heat and it wasn't fashionable to wear bulky clothing - it was honey colored. Not the blueish hue that winter casts, but the honey dripped sun dallops of summer.

The weather the past few days has been the epitomy of those remembered days.

nightmare

It's 3am. I was shaken awake by a dream in which my brother confessed to murdering his fiance and mother of his unborn child. It was so real.
This wouldn't be as upsetting to me if earlier this week, a friend of ours from back home myspaced me to tell me that he was arrested for domestic violence.
What is he doing?
In the dream I told him to turn himself in- that he could enter an insanity plea - but that he had to turn himself in immediately so that he could get out sooner.
How can I help him? What can I do for him if I'm so far away?
It's 3am and I'm sitting here sobbing as I type. How can this dream have upset me so much?

Prime Real Estate Available NOW!

I remember the last time I saw Adam like it was a minute ago. I remember it so well becuase I knew it would be the last time I saw him and I never wanted to let him go. I tried to memorize the color and patterns of his eyes, his smell, the exact way my body felt agianst his.

Adam was the first man to tell me that he loved me. I felt that he really did. He used to talk about the wedding ring he would buy me someday. I thought he really would buy me that ring.

Recently, Adam came back into my life virtually via the website Together We Served . It's confusing how the Universe can bring you so close to something, give you a taste, and then never let you have it. I know I'll never have Adam. I think he's married now with a little girl. I still love him though. That's the thing about real love is that it never goes away. There'll always be a place in my heart filled with love, just for him.

bug eyed

Yesterday I fulfilled one of my (many) dreams and had permanent eyeliner tattooed on. It didn't hurt because I was numbed to the gills, but it tickled like nobody's business! It felt like what it feels like when a bug flies into your eye and squirms around. That stressed me out because I wanted to scratch but had a keen awareness that there was a needle dangerously close to my eye. J'despise not being in control. Kelley told me my eyes looked fine yesterday although they felt like I had spent the last 24hours crying. This morning they look like I spent the last 24 hours crying. All puffy and heavy-lidded. I want to go somewhere and have an excuse to wear sunglasses inside, flaunting my first cosmetic semi-surgery.

I have been spending money lately. It works out for me because it's one of my favorite things to do. It all started when I heard about the Secret. This philosophy teaches me that if I think good things, good things will come to me and therefore, if I think I'm going to get a lot of money, I will. And I DO think I'm going to get a lot of money. The fact that I am over $30,000 in debt doesn't bother me. I just don't think it matters. I have a place to live, heat, water, a car and food. Everything I need! Good things are coming to me. Millions of dollars are coming to me. The Universe is shifting as I type to bring money and good things to me.

Speaking of good things and money, I have finally started to date after 27 years of existence. I can't say it's easy, but relationships aren't easy either. I've gone on 4 dates so far and not one has resulted in a second date. I'm not too sad about it though. None of the guys are who I would consider to be "Mr. Right." It just would be nice to have someone with whom to do fun things.

forward

what the fuck is my problem?

I have an attitude problem. I don't want to do anything. I want to drive around in circles all day contemplating things I should be doing and finding reasons (most of which involve spending money I don't have) to not do them. I'm becoming lethargic.

I have decided it's because I'm toxic. It's true. I took a quiz. I need to be cleansed. Master Cleansed. I'm excited. I like lemonade. Who doesn't? Terrorists, that's who.

Maybe in 10 days I'll be better. Maybe in 10 days my hips won't be as wide. Maybe in 10 days a hot guy will ask me on a date. Maybe in 10 days my life will change.