I've been running on a parallel track, with the ingrained thoughts that by doing so, by keeping my head focused and doing what I'm supposed to, I'd wind up finding a place where the tracks come together close enough for me to hop onto another one, the one that will branch off and lead me closer to what I want and what I've been striving for.
Funny, how it feels that's been working out. Or not, I should say.
I'm frustrated. Tired. In need of inspiration or communication. Whatever at this point. It doesn't feel as if a supply of either is at all available.
But how do you know when you've reached a breaking point with something that, from all outward appearances, doesn't seem to be broken at all?
10.13.2005
A study in contrasts
Exhibit A. Lead Guitar.
The gum is being snapped and chomped at the same time; a physical feat I can't quite wrap my brain around. My eyes are riveted, watching the jaw that doesn't quite move up and down or side to side. I realize with shock and a little disgust that this must be what watching a cow chew cud must look like.
His left arm flies up and down the neck of a gleaming, candy apple red electric guitar. In truth, it doesn't take much to navigate the series of frets. It's too small. Miniature, almost. It rests against his broad-shouldered, muscular chest and stomach, looking a bit like what the instrument his preteen self must have hunched over for hours at a time in a closed-door bedroom of rockstar fantasies.
The fantasy carries over to the end of songs. Or solos, even. He raises a closed fist and bobs his head as the audience members on his side of the stage howl their approval. It was acceptable the first time. But not the second, third, fourth, fifth...
His shredded, angular hairstyle rests in spikey layers around his face, hinting at long nights rocking and rolling without the benefit of showering. The gray t-shirt and well-worn jeans complete the messy chic attempt. But the highlights and the hair gel gives him away.
A dagger of styled hair begins to bob up and down as he bends back over the guitar for another solo, the gum chomping all the while...
Exhibit B. Bassist.
Flannel shirt. Untucked. Spikey hair and scruffy beard, positioned below striking eyes focusing almost non-stop on the beautiful, six-string electric bass he plays. His fingers fly over the strings during a fierce solo that leaves even my tired, achey head bobbing back and forth. His focus and intensity builds to such a point that it seems he NEEDS to jump up and down a couple of times in order to let some of it out. He's quiet. He smiles occasionally at the crowd, but otherwise lets his instrument, his sound do the talking. And, when you're not trying to analyze the gum chewing on the other side of the stage, he's the one your eyes are drawn to. 'Cause you can tell that he's the closest thing to badass this band has got.
*****
At 24 and nearly 49/52 years old, I realized that I felt old. Fucking old. What-the-hell-happened kind of old.
I wasn't a fan.
I stood in Higher Ground, waiting for Blues Traveler or the opening band to take the stage. Doors at 7, show to start at 8 and we got there at about 8:15. It was 9:02 and the house lights had yet to dim for anything.
If there's one thing that irks me about live performance, it's starting late. Or, I should say, excessively late. We've been standing around. We're excited, but we want to save our energy for the dancing, Dear Band. A few minutes is one thing. An hour is absurd.
But it turns out there is no opener - Popper and the rest of the guys take the stage, smile and make reference back to the early 90s - which is, I believe, the last time they were in our part of the world. They launch into the sound and I try to dance and get excited about it...
...and I realize that I'm not digging it. The college kids behind me, the ones who made me burst into laughter as they discussed "The Last Dispatch" being the greatest musical event they'd ever attended, are flailing around. The older people in front of me keep backing into me. A man with a beard and backwards black felt newsboy cap has pushed up through our part of the crowd and appears to be having a seizure. Which would fit, considering that the harmonica notes are so high that they feel as if they're piercing my eardrums and every one of Popper's solos sounds exactly like the solo from "Runaround." Out of place compared to the rest of the loud (loud LOUD) sounds coming from the rest of the band.
It's too much, and I'm having a hard time finding any thread of consistency. I want to be able to find a rhythm, a melody to follow. It's not happening.
I wind up leaving early - about halfway through the set. I'm glad that I saw the band, that I can cross it off my "List of Bands I Should Have Seen Before But For Whatever Reason Didn't." And I think that maybe, given different circumstances, I'd check them out again (read: outdoor performance). But I'm not feeling enough of a pull toward the stage to keep me here.
I tell Beth that I'm going to get some air and that, if she doesn't find me after the show, I'll just meet her and Chuck (who had driven in and met us) at home.
After a few gulps of air, I give it about another twenty minutes.
Then I head home.
*****
Speaking of less than ideal shows...I'm amazed by the number of glowing reviews I've seen in regards to the Mraz show at the Orpheum.
It wasn't that it was a BAD show. By any means. A "Mr. A-Z" heavy show does not necessarily a bad show make - after all, I did enjoy myself in Montreal on Thursday (I had a blast in Montreal, actually).
On Sunday, he and Toca teamed up for "After An Afternoon" (read: sigh. Love that song). "I'm Yours" was featured with the trio-turned-quartet. "Mr. Curiosity" and "Plane" remain the two songs on the new album I really enjoy.
But here's the catch. I don't enjoy phoned-in performances. By anyone. Let alone someone whose past shows have grabbed my attention and left me riveted throughout the sets. Not to mention someone I described the night before, explaining that seeing him live was what really proved how dynamic he is.
The band? I enjoy 'em. Seems like a collection of good and great guys.
But they've been positioned on stage around and behind the title musician. And if the spotlight's on the guy in the center, who's so big on conveying that he's a Real Kind of Guy, he's got to be up for the challenge.
The gum is being snapped and chomped at the same time; a physical feat I can't quite wrap my brain around. My eyes are riveted, watching the jaw that doesn't quite move up and down or side to side. I realize with shock and a little disgust that this must be what watching a cow chew cud must look like.
His left arm flies up and down the neck of a gleaming, candy apple red electric guitar. In truth, it doesn't take much to navigate the series of frets. It's too small. Miniature, almost. It rests against his broad-shouldered, muscular chest and stomach, looking a bit like what the instrument his preteen self must have hunched over for hours at a time in a closed-door bedroom of rockstar fantasies.
The fantasy carries over to the end of songs. Or solos, even. He raises a closed fist and bobs his head as the audience members on his side of the stage howl their approval. It was acceptable the first time. But not the second, third, fourth, fifth...
His shredded, angular hairstyle rests in spikey layers around his face, hinting at long nights rocking and rolling without the benefit of showering. The gray t-shirt and well-worn jeans complete the messy chic attempt. But the highlights and the hair gel gives him away.
A dagger of styled hair begins to bob up and down as he bends back over the guitar for another solo, the gum chomping all the while...
Exhibit B. Bassist.
Flannel shirt. Untucked. Spikey hair and scruffy beard, positioned below striking eyes focusing almost non-stop on the beautiful, six-string electric bass he plays. His fingers fly over the strings during a fierce solo that leaves even my tired, achey head bobbing back and forth. His focus and intensity builds to such a point that it seems he NEEDS to jump up and down a couple of times in order to let some of it out. He's quiet. He smiles occasionally at the crowd, but otherwise lets his instrument, his sound do the talking. And, when you're not trying to analyze the gum chewing on the other side of the stage, he's the one your eyes are drawn to. 'Cause you can tell that he's the closest thing to badass this band has got.
*****
At 24 and nearly 49/52 years old, I realized that I felt old. Fucking old. What-the-hell-happened kind of old.
I wasn't a fan.
I stood in Higher Ground, waiting for Blues Traveler or the opening band to take the stage. Doors at 7, show to start at 8 and we got there at about 8:15. It was 9:02 and the house lights had yet to dim for anything.
If there's one thing that irks me about live performance, it's starting late. Or, I should say, excessively late. We've been standing around. We're excited, but we want to save our energy for the dancing, Dear Band. A few minutes is one thing. An hour is absurd.
But it turns out there is no opener - Popper and the rest of the guys take the stage, smile and make reference back to the early 90s - which is, I believe, the last time they were in our part of the world. They launch into the sound and I try to dance and get excited about it...
...and I realize that I'm not digging it. The college kids behind me, the ones who made me burst into laughter as they discussed "The Last Dispatch" being the greatest musical event they'd ever attended, are flailing around. The older people in front of me keep backing into me. A man with a beard and backwards black felt newsboy cap has pushed up through our part of the crowd and appears to be having a seizure. Which would fit, considering that the harmonica notes are so high that they feel as if they're piercing my eardrums and every one of Popper's solos sounds exactly like the solo from "Runaround." Out of place compared to the rest of the loud (loud LOUD) sounds coming from the rest of the band.
It's too much, and I'm having a hard time finding any thread of consistency. I want to be able to find a rhythm, a melody to follow. It's not happening.
I wind up leaving early - about halfway through the set. I'm glad that I saw the band, that I can cross it off my "List of Bands I Should Have Seen Before But For Whatever Reason Didn't." And I think that maybe, given different circumstances, I'd check them out again (read: outdoor performance). But I'm not feeling enough of a pull toward the stage to keep me here.
I tell Beth that I'm going to get some air and that, if she doesn't find me after the show, I'll just meet her and Chuck (who had driven in and met us) at home.
After a few gulps of air, I give it about another twenty minutes.
Then I head home.
*****
Speaking of less than ideal shows...I'm amazed by the number of glowing reviews I've seen in regards to the Mraz show at the Orpheum.
It wasn't that it was a BAD show. By any means. A "Mr. A-Z" heavy show does not necessarily a bad show make - after all, I did enjoy myself in Montreal on Thursday (I had a blast in Montreal, actually).
On Sunday, he and Toca teamed up for "After An Afternoon" (read: sigh. Love that song). "I'm Yours" was featured with the trio-turned-quartet. "Mr. Curiosity" and "Plane" remain the two songs on the new album I really enjoy.
But here's the catch. I don't enjoy phoned-in performances. By anyone. Let alone someone whose past shows have grabbed my attention and left me riveted throughout the sets. Not to mention someone I described the night before, explaining that seeing him live was what really proved how dynamic he is.
The band? I enjoy 'em. Seems like a collection of good and great guys.
But they've been positioned on stage around and behind the title musician. And if the spotlight's on the guy in the center, who's so big on conveying that he's a Real Kind of Guy, he's got to be up for the challenge.
10.12.2005
Unapologetic
I'm not sorry that I embrace things. That I'm idealistic. That I have a fanciful imagination and I'm prone to daydreams. That I wrap a subject, the idea of a person, or a hope around me and let it affect my day to day life. That I burst into laughter. That I bristle up when you interrupt me. That I play music on my computer. That I have to Tivo a lot of television and catch up with it when I have time. That I cringe when I hear you whispering without consideration that I'm in the room. That I can curse like a sailor or burst into song at a moment's notice. That I twitter about full of stories after I've been away, and that I'm always talking about the next big show I can't wait to go to.
I'm young. I'm only 24. I have no desire to act as if I'm going on 45. I have neither the benefits nor constraints of a relationship with a signficant other. I flirt. I have crushes. I overanalyze flirtation with crushes. And yes, sometimes I giggle. Other times I seem pathetic. Sometimes bold. I know you've heard names a thousand times. I know you've heard snippets of stories on countless occasions. I know you roll your eyes.
But I'm not going to feel the giddiness drain out of me as I'm trying to share my excitement. I'm not curling up in the far corner to just write into my notebook. I'm tired of feeling as if I'm the reckless, exasperating one.
I write a monthly check too.
So deal with it.
I'm young. I'm only 24. I have no desire to act as if I'm going on 45. I have neither the benefits nor constraints of a relationship with a signficant other. I flirt. I have crushes. I overanalyze flirtation with crushes. And yes, sometimes I giggle. Other times I seem pathetic. Sometimes bold. I know you've heard names a thousand times. I know you've heard snippets of stories on countless occasions. I know you roll your eyes.
But I'm not going to feel the giddiness drain out of me as I'm trying to share my excitement. I'm not curling up in the far corner to just write into my notebook. I'm tired of feeling as if I'm the reckless, exasperating one.
I write a monthly check too.
So deal with it.
10.11.2005
I honestly think I could come up with some quality writing, were I to have an opportunity to wake up, sip some orange juice and settle down for a good, multi-hour chunk of Writing Time.
Which is why I'm already looking forward to the weekend.
I'm not going anywhere (at least, nowhere requiring a turn onto 93) this weekend. Next week? Well, yes. The "Matt Nathanson and the Sexiness" food drive extravaganza. Otherwise known as Would The Paradise Mistake Me For a Paid Employee extravaganza.
But this weekend? If anything random is going to happen, by God, it's coming TO ME. Otherwise, you'll catch me writing, taking foliage photographs and maybe, if I'm feeling truly badass, treking over to Waterbury for some Cold Hollow action.
My favorite place in the autumn, although I haven't been there in a couple of years. You step out of your car and immediately smell the apples and cinammon. Purr-worthy.
I've had a number of various little bits of stories - a random line here, a general thought there - running through my head the last couple of days, but I'm still trying to get back to a normal sleep schedule, let alone come up with something coherent. I dozed for a couple of hours early Monday morning before climbing back into the car for the trip home. I curled up under covers at quarter to ten last night and didn't wake up until nine.
I've about a week before any extra road trips, and only one concert between now and then (Blues Traveler tomorrow).
And I realized, just now, that this post makes absolutely no sense. So I'll just end it now.
Which is why I'm already looking forward to the weekend.
I'm not going anywhere (at least, nowhere requiring a turn onto 93) this weekend. Next week? Well, yes. The "Matt Nathanson and the Sexiness" food drive extravaganza. Otherwise known as Would The Paradise Mistake Me For a Paid Employee extravaganza.
But this weekend? If anything random is going to happen, by God, it's coming TO ME. Otherwise, you'll catch me writing, taking foliage photographs and maybe, if I'm feeling truly badass, treking over to Waterbury for some Cold Hollow action.
My favorite place in the autumn, although I haven't been there in a couple of years. You step out of your car and immediately smell the apples and cinammon. Purr-worthy.
I've had a number of various little bits of stories - a random line here, a general thought there - running through my head the last couple of days, but I'm still trying to get back to a normal sleep schedule, let alone come up with something coherent. I dozed for a couple of hours early Monday morning before climbing back into the car for the trip home. I curled up under covers at quarter to ten last night and didn't wake up until nine.
I've about a week before any extra road trips, and only one concert between now and then (Blues Traveler tomorrow).
And I realized, just now, that this post makes absolutely no sense. So I'll just end it now.
10.10.2005
Windows. Soul. Yeah. Yeah.
Hi.
Happy Monday.
How are you?
I'm working on a piece about music. I know, big surprise.
But I want to know what you think.
So here goes.
What is your favorite song?
Why is that your favorite and how does it make you feel when you listen to it?
I'll be collecting responses today, with the piece likely to come tomorrow.
So help a girl out.
Get your comments on.
Merci.
------
It's a sign of the friendship we've formed: I pride myself on keeping something under wraps, Michelle calls me on it.
There were four of us sipping cocktails out of martini glasses in a restaurant across the street from the Common. We'd finished our shared appetizer and were awaiting our meals, having already decided to bypass the first opening act and take time with our dinners.
The conversation had briefly broken into two sets - K and L, M and I. She smiled as she looked at me from across the table.
"You have a hard time with that, maintaining eye contact."
Of course, I quickly looked away. Go me. I own.
"I don't know why," I began, forcing myself to look directly into her eyes. "I suppose it's partly because I'm always looking down at a notebook or something when I talk -"
"You've ALWAYS had a hard time with it."
Damn you, woman.
As the topic of eye contact connections spread to the rest of the table, I goodnaturedly cursed myself. It is one of my weaknesses, this is very true. And, just as she said, it's been that way for a long time.
I tend to keep pretty guarded, particularly when in the company of someone whose opinion matters to me. I keep quiet, I keep things in. I'm getting better at it - or, at least, I'm trying to be. I realize it's a sort of warped reverse psychology - I don't share as much with the people with whom I want to share something, but have no problem communicating with people who at that point don't matter.
But my eyes don't lie. I have no poker face. If someone looks me in the eye and I maintain that gaze, I worry that they will see everything, right there within the blue.
And what if I don't want to give that much away? Or, more accurately, what if I'm worried that I'll wind up revealing something during the stare and I don't see anything in the eyes looking back?
Happy Monday.
How are you?
I'm working on a piece about music. I know, big surprise.
But I want to know what you think.
So here goes.
What is your favorite song?
Why is that your favorite and how does it make you feel when you listen to it?
I'll be collecting responses today, with the piece likely to come tomorrow.
So help a girl out.
Get your comments on.
Merci.
------
It's a sign of the friendship we've formed: I pride myself on keeping something under wraps, Michelle calls me on it.
There were four of us sipping cocktails out of martini glasses in a restaurant across the street from the Common. We'd finished our shared appetizer and were awaiting our meals, having already decided to bypass the first opening act and take time with our dinners.
The conversation had briefly broken into two sets - K and L, M and I. She smiled as she looked at me from across the table.
"You have a hard time with that, maintaining eye contact."
Of course, I quickly looked away. Go me. I own.
"I don't know why," I began, forcing myself to look directly into her eyes. "I suppose it's partly because I'm always looking down at a notebook or something when I talk -"
"You've ALWAYS had a hard time with it."
Damn you, woman.
As the topic of eye contact connections spread to the rest of the table, I goodnaturedly cursed myself. It is one of my weaknesses, this is very true. And, just as she said, it's been that way for a long time.
I tend to keep pretty guarded, particularly when in the company of someone whose opinion matters to me. I keep quiet, I keep things in. I'm getting better at it - or, at least, I'm trying to be. I realize it's a sort of warped reverse psychology - I don't share as much with the people with whom I want to share something, but have no problem communicating with people who at that point don't matter.
But my eyes don't lie. I have no poker face. If someone looks me in the eye and I maintain that gaze, I worry that they will see everything, right there within the blue.
And what if I don't want to give that much away? Or, more accurately, what if I'm worried that I'll wind up revealing something during the stare and I don't see anything in the eyes looking back?
10.07.2005
Just sayin'
This might be one to go down as one of the worst pickup lines in history.
"So the two men over there? They are, how do you say it? They are gay. I needed someone to talk to. So how are you?"
Oh, Montreal. Crazy, quirky Montreal. You and your shows and your characters and your U-turns and your blocked off roads. You try to outwit me each time, fair Montreal. And you almost got me this time.
And thus one of the most bizarre days shifted into one wacky kind of evening.
Montreal. Oh you.
"So the two men over there? They are, how do you say it? They are gay. I needed someone to talk to. So how are you?"
Oh, Montreal. Crazy, quirky Montreal. You and your shows and your characters and your U-turns and your blocked off roads. You try to outwit me each time, fair Montreal. And you almost got me this time.
And thus one of the most bizarre days shifted into one wacky kind of evening.
Montreal. Oh you.
10.06.2005
Mr. Alphabet
I'm stepping between cracks on the sidewalk, not giving black cats opportunity to cross my path and fully intend to cross the street entirely should I see a ladder propped against a wall ahead of me.
I'm supposed to see Jason Mraz and his band of merry musical troubadors this evening, and I'm not taking any chances. The Streak will not be reinstanted. Nosiree.
Having seen Jason or Jason/Band three times - well, more like two and a quarter* - I feel pretty confident that I won't stumble into some form of obstacle that will stop me from attending the show in Montreal. But relaxing too much, it feels, would serve as a preventative measure.
I went through what could have been 10-12 shows during early, mid and late 2003 without actually hearing Jason perform live. There was illness. There were a couple of ticket snafus. There was the annoying realization that I was in one place, and Jason was performing precisely where I had just been. And, later, vice versa.
The night before I finally caught my first show (Calvin Theatre, Northampton, 10.9.03, for those curious or otherwise remember dates to silly things like I do), I fell on a wet floor and was scared to try standing up, for fear that I had hurt myself.
Was I worried about the possibility of a cast or crutch? No. I was pissed off because I could be missing a show. Again.
This time, I lack the giddiness about going. I'm not sure if it's that I haven't fully realized I'll be attending a show or the fear that he'll just continue playing tracks off "Mr. A-Z." I know I'll have a good time once I get there...I'm just not quite at the excited stage yet.
I know. Uncharacteristic of me. C'est la vie.
So. Late this afternoon, I pick up my concert-going cronies (including B, who has never before seen The Jason live) and head to the border.
If I get stopped at customs, I blame him.
*The Today Show can't fully count as a performance. Hence the quarter.
I'm supposed to see Jason Mraz and his band of merry musical troubadors this evening, and I'm not taking any chances. The Streak will not be reinstanted. Nosiree.
Having seen Jason or Jason/Band three times - well, more like two and a quarter* - I feel pretty confident that I won't stumble into some form of obstacle that will stop me from attending the show in Montreal. But relaxing too much, it feels, would serve as a preventative measure.
I went through what could have been 10-12 shows during early, mid and late 2003 without actually hearing Jason perform live. There was illness. There were a couple of ticket snafus. There was the annoying realization that I was in one place, and Jason was performing precisely where I had just been. And, later, vice versa.
The night before I finally caught my first show (Calvin Theatre, Northampton, 10.9.03, for those curious or otherwise remember dates to silly things like I do), I fell on a wet floor and was scared to try standing up, for fear that I had hurt myself.
Was I worried about the possibility of a cast or crutch? No. I was pissed off because I could be missing a show. Again.
This time, I lack the giddiness about going. I'm not sure if it's that I haven't fully realized I'll be attending a show or the fear that he'll just continue playing tracks off "Mr. A-Z." I know I'll have a good time once I get there...I'm just not quite at the excited stage yet.
I know. Uncharacteristic of me. C'est la vie.
So. Late this afternoon, I pick up my concert-going cronies (including B, who has never before seen The Jason live) and head to the border.
If I get stopped at customs, I blame him.
*The Today Show can't fully count as a performance. Hence the quarter.
10.05.2005
mi casa in el medio de la calle
Houses flanked the road. Giant, architect portfolio kinds of houses - composed of large picture windows, brick facades and carefully designed gables.
I couldn't help but take my eyes off the road as I drove past. They were impressive, I'd give them that. I imagined picture perfect living rooms painted a dark forest green with cherry wood accents. Kitchens with the marble islands in place, white-framed windows that provided views of the mountainscape as Mrs. Joe Public squeezed fresh orange juice into a pitcher ordered from Williams-Sonoma.
I realized that these are houses that friends of mine, people my age, are aspiring to. And then I realized that I wasn't a house kind of girl. At least, not like this.
Frankly, these houses intimidate me. I'm sure that they are much-loved, that they radiate warmth and comfort to the guests who step across the welcome mat. But they just seem so final, so set. So This Is Your Life.
I'd rather have a little nook to fill than an ought-to-be mansion.
I couldn't help but take my eyes off the road as I drove past. They were impressive, I'd give them that. I imagined picture perfect living rooms painted a dark forest green with cherry wood accents. Kitchens with the marble islands in place, white-framed windows that provided views of the mountainscape as Mrs. Joe Public squeezed fresh orange juice into a pitcher ordered from Williams-Sonoma.
I realized that these are houses that friends of mine, people my age, are aspiring to. And then I realized that I wasn't a house kind of girl. At least, not like this.
Frankly, these houses intimidate me. I'm sure that they are much-loved, that they radiate warmth and comfort to the guests who step across the welcome mat. But they just seem so final, so set. So This Is Your Life.
I'd rather have a little nook to fill than an ought-to-be mansion.
The sun is dazzling, and you can clearly see people gravitating toward windows and open doors. There are a number of "quick, five-minute breaks" being taken in offices around the downtown. Stepping-out suits mix with skipping-class jeans to form a throng of people on the pedestrian streets.
How do I know? I, um, just needed to step out for a moment or two.
We all know that this is the last gasp of an Indian summer. The leaves are getting too ripe, the sunsets are coming too early for this to last.
We love the autumn. It's one of the main reasons we haven't upped and gone to California. We adore the apple cider, the haunted forests, the sound of feet SWOOSHing through the piles of leaves and the way the sky looks that much bluer.
It's a setup. A brilliant, gasp-inducing setup. And much as we fall in love with autumn each year, we know what follows close on the season's heels.
And we know that we don't like it one bit.
How do I know? I, um, just needed to step out for a moment or two.
We all know that this is the last gasp of an Indian summer. The leaves are getting too ripe, the sunsets are coming too early for this to last.
We love the autumn. It's one of the main reasons we haven't upped and gone to California. We adore the apple cider, the haunted forests, the sound of feet SWOOSHing through the piles of leaves and the way the sky looks that much bluer.
It's a setup. A brilliant, gasp-inducing setup. And much as we fall in love with autumn each year, we know what follows close on the season's heels.
And we know that we don't like it one bit.
10.04.2005
Confessions of an unsuccessful mindreader
It's a given.
It's a Tuesday afternoon. Somewhere there are people who like me. There are people who are angry with me. Intrigued, disappointed, amused, frustrated and, if things are seriously wacky, who knows? Maybe there's a someone or two who is a little bit enchanted by me.
It's the same on any given day, due to any number of varying circumstances. The way things work.
Normally, I have at least an inkling as to which categories people fall under. Yet it feels today as if all bets are off.
I've no clue.
I'm of course sure that this works both ways, and that there are people who scratch their heads on different days, trying to figure me out, what goes on inside my mind when their names come up in my everyday thoughts.
Why do we insist on making this so difficult?
Various thoughts came to mind this weekend, few of which actually came out of my mouth. You're disappointing me...I like you...This is what I want to do...You make me smile...I'm tired...I think I'll just wait outside instead...I want to know what you're thinking.
I kept the thoughts to myself. In some cases, it was because of cowardice; in others, I didn't want to cause a scene or tarnish any of the experiences my friends were having. In almost every instance, I kept my mouth shut to make things better.
But sometimes that inadvertently makes things worse. Unnecessary complication instigated by an attempt to keep it simple.
And, likewise, I realized how much others were doing the same. What their reasons were remains unknown.
So have I learned a lesson? Will I endeavor to be upfront and clear? Will I tell people what I'm thinking of them when I'm thinking it?
If you give it a shot, I'll do the same.
Let's rework the way things work.
-----
In other news. Flickr. Photos. Fenway. Funny faces.
The alliteration slays me. Feel free to check out the adventures. Click on the photo below to go to the rest of the set.
It's a Tuesday afternoon. Somewhere there are people who like me. There are people who are angry with me. Intrigued, disappointed, amused, frustrated and, if things are seriously wacky, who knows? Maybe there's a someone or two who is a little bit enchanted by me.
It's the same on any given day, due to any number of varying circumstances. The way things work.
Normally, I have at least an inkling as to which categories people fall under. Yet it feels today as if all bets are off.
I've no clue.
I'm of course sure that this works both ways, and that there are people who scratch their heads on different days, trying to figure me out, what goes on inside my mind when their names come up in my everyday thoughts.
Why do we insist on making this so difficult?
Various thoughts came to mind this weekend, few of which actually came out of my mouth. You're disappointing me...I like you...This is what I want to do...You make me smile...I'm tired...I think I'll just wait outside instead...I want to know what you're thinking.
I kept the thoughts to myself. In some cases, it was because of cowardice; in others, I didn't want to cause a scene or tarnish any of the experiences my friends were having. In almost every instance, I kept my mouth shut to make things better.
But sometimes that inadvertently makes things worse. Unnecessary complication instigated by an attempt to keep it simple.
And, likewise, I realized how much others were doing the same. What their reasons were remains unknown.
So have I learned a lesson? Will I endeavor to be upfront and clear? Will I tell people what I'm thinking of them when I'm thinking it?
If you give it a shot, I'll do the same.
Let's rework the way things work.
-----
In other news. Flickr. Photos. Fenway. Funny faces.
The alliteration slays me. Feel free to check out the adventures. Click on the photo below to go to the rest of the set.
The hardest words for me to say
You're standing to my right. Our arms - your left, my right - periodically brush each other as we carry on conversations with others. We're standing closer to each other than we really need to.
Yes, it's crowded, but either of could create a bit of breathing room if we wanted.
We each hold a bottle of Red Stripe. We've had them since I asked if you'd like a drink and you said yes with a smile. What did you want? Whatever I was having. Yes, Red Stripe sounded great.
You missed the huge grin I had to repress before placing the order at the bar.
Two, please.
I'm sipping, staring at the band performing ahead while taking quick glances at you from the corner of my eye. You have a focused smile on your face, and you're ever-so-slightly nodding your head in time to the percussion beat. We've been alternating between the performance on stage before us and the baseball game broadcast on the television behind.
When I switch from one to the other, you've followed shortly thereafter. And vice versa. And so it is this time.
You place your hand on my back to get my attention and keep it there as you lean over to speak into my ear. I tuck a strand of hair behind the other ear and smile as you mention your goodnatured frustration with the home team. We enjoy a shared commiseration that has been established long before, but it leads into laughter and witty exchange. And then we switch back to watch the stage.
Where is the pause button when I need it?
I want to stay here like this. I want to keep you to my right, wearing the green and orange track jacket that compliments the brown in your eyes. I want to continute to feel your elbow brush against my arm, and I want to maintain the playful banter that brings with it the pokes and the hands on backs and the titled head looks.
But I want to fill the gaps in the story with our subtexts. I want to tell you how happy I am to be standing by your side, drinking Jamacian beer and leaning over to speak to you in a loud room. I want to tell you that I like you.
I like you. Simple enough expression. Three of the hardest words for me to say.
Instead, I'm focusing on the moment. The arm brushes. The fact that you're standing here, with me, and not with whoever else you know in this room.
I raise my arm to take another sip. You do the same. We jostle elbows and we both smile.
Yes, it's crowded, but either of could create a bit of breathing room if we wanted.
We each hold a bottle of Red Stripe. We've had them since I asked if you'd like a drink and you said yes with a smile. What did you want? Whatever I was having. Yes, Red Stripe sounded great.
You missed the huge grin I had to repress before placing the order at the bar.
Two, please.
I'm sipping, staring at the band performing ahead while taking quick glances at you from the corner of my eye. You have a focused smile on your face, and you're ever-so-slightly nodding your head in time to the percussion beat. We've been alternating between the performance on stage before us and the baseball game broadcast on the television behind.
When I switch from one to the other, you've followed shortly thereafter. And vice versa. And so it is this time.
You place your hand on my back to get my attention and keep it there as you lean over to speak into my ear. I tuck a strand of hair behind the other ear and smile as you mention your goodnatured frustration with the home team. We enjoy a shared commiseration that has been established long before, but it leads into laughter and witty exchange. And then we switch back to watch the stage.
Where is the pause button when I need it?
I want to stay here like this. I want to keep you to my right, wearing the green and orange track jacket that compliments the brown in your eyes. I want to continute to feel your elbow brush against my arm, and I want to maintain the playful banter that brings with it the pokes and the hands on backs and the titled head looks.
But I want to fill the gaps in the story with our subtexts. I want to tell you how happy I am to be standing by your side, drinking Jamacian beer and leaning over to speak to you in a loud room. I want to tell you that I like you.
I like you. Simple enough expression. Three of the hardest words for me to say.
Instead, I'm focusing on the moment. The arm brushes. The fact that you're standing here, with me, and not with whoever else you know in this room.
I raise my arm to take another sip. You do the same. We jostle elbows and we both smile.
10.03.2005
Dispatches from various shores
Oh, come on. It's a matter of maintaining a promise made months ago. And I for one am not keen on being known as a promise-breaker.
Which is why I've unexpectedly extended my latest foray to Massachusetts. The Red Sox rally is being held at Fenway in the morning, and I am fulfilling the vow I made after Boston won last year's World Series.
I was there for the first rally and they won. If there was cause for a second rally come fall 2005, I would be back in the ballpark, among the crazies willing to sit in a park with no players, no game to be played.
Just at Fenway because you have a chance to sit in seats you'd never normally be able to occupy, celebrating the completion of one part of a championship quest.
We're a superstitious bunch, Sox fans (for an example see: my mother's refusal to attend Friday night's Sox-Yankees game - which turned out to be incredible - because she can't even watch the matchup for fear of jinxing it). And if I didn't go to the rally and the Sox lost?
I'd expect to see a couple of fingers pointing in my direction.
----
You almost want to hug the people who are making the space so loud that you need to lean in to hear the other half of the conversation you're trying to carry on.
A casually turned head, ear waiting to take in the sound of the voice and the amusing banter you're exchanging. It looks completely normal, nothing out of the ordinary. You do this all the time.
But inside? You're listening, you're communicating, but you're also trilling at the close proximity.
If I just turned, I could...no, stop thinking that! You're talking here! Oh, sound witty. Don't make an ass of yourself. Be cool...So close...I wonder what's going through that mind...good God I'm a dork...But I wonder...oh, this is fun. I hate this. Oh, no I don't.
---
October air is supposed to be cool. Crisp. Ripe for sweaters or sweatshirts, or at least a long-sleeved shirt.
I leaned against the wall, painted the fabled faded green I'd learned to love. Activity bustled on the street just over the other side of the thick partition, and Johnny Damon stood directly ahead of me - save the 28 rows of seats between us. The view was incredible, the championship banner billowed in the breeze from its place to my right...
And I was broiling. A let's-get-that-soft-serve-now-and-pick-up-a-bottled-water-for-later kind of heat that seemed more fitting for the July game against Toronto than this regular season finale against New York.
Not that I was going to complain. The view was incredible, a group of Yankees and Red Sox fans were giving each other a hard time a few rows ahead of me, and Beth had recently recorded potentially incriminating video footage of me singing along to the recording of "Perfect Time of Day" as it was piped in through the speakers.
Howie Day at Fenway. Weird.
I'd never attended a Yankees-Sox game before, and I found myself oddly quiet for much of it - largely due to the fact that my usual cursing might be frowned upon, given the presence of Charles' little (read: young) brother. But the boos received by Jeter, A-Rod and Matsui were as loud as I'd (admittedly) hoped they would be and the bleachers ticketholders were as lively a crowd as I'd remembered them from games of my youth.
I could feel the sunburn developing and my water bottle's liquid level was lowering rapidly. I was taking calls with the update from the Pats game while relaying the Sox score, and the relief of hearing about Cleveland's defeat let us sit back and relax as the score climbed higher. Surreal? You bet.
---
Let's say you hear a band that intrigues you. Good sound, catchy lyrics, impressive production. It's a promising start, I might think to myself. But I always have to hold off judgment until I see the band live.
Sometimes it doesn't live up to what you'd hoped. You walk away realizing you'll just have to listen to the album and leave it at that.
But when it clicks? Standing in a club, listening to the sound and moving your head back and forth, a giddy little flutter starts in your stomach and moves out from there.
There's a reason why people say they fall in love with a band. In many cases, there's no rhyme or reason to it - and two people can walk away with two very different takes on the band they just saw. It moves one, it leaves the other cold.
But I've been playing Speechwriters LLC on repeat since Friday night's venture to the Paradise Lounge. And feeling that giddy flutter continue to spread. They'll be back at the Lounge in October, during the weekend of Matty and Ryan - which means I'll be ready to submit a timesheet to the club management. Matt on Wednesday and Thursday. SLLC on Friday. Ryan Saturday.
And me? I'll know whether there can be too much of a good thing.
---
Well, it's 4 a.m., the paper boy's at it again...
We're singing along to the familiar song, rounding the corner of 93 that reveals the Boston skyline. We know the little vocal flourishes, and we add them accordingly, reveling in the fact that this is the first time we've heard the song played on the radio.
There's always that doubletake that comes somewhere right before the chorus. Wait. I KNOW this. Sure, my friends know this, but other people do? Enough to play it on the radio? When did this happen?
Trizzy P on the radio. Well done. We clapped and cheered as the final "love, love, love" trailed off into the next song. So proud.
---
"I know where I am, I just don't know how to get to where I want to be!"
Tom's laughing into the phone. I just dropped a friend off at Northeastern, and I'm trying to make my way to Commonwealth. I know Mass Ave. is a couple of turns on a seemingly one-way road behind me. I know exactly where I am.
I just can't get there from here. And it's pissing me off.
I've pretty good navigational skills. For the most part - once I've been somewhere, once I've driven the route, I've got it down. But add a new location or an unexpected turn and I'm a lost cause.
My familiarity with Boston grows in leaps each time I visit, and I take pride in my ability to get around.
But somehow, that turn off 93 onto Storrow that should have gotten me to Mass Ave. landed me on Cambridge, driving past City Hall. And I had no clue of how the hell to get anywhere.
"OK. I'm just going to keep you on the line, if that's cool." I'd already called Tom three times. He was laughing at me. Bastard.
"No worries. Now you should be at -"
"No. I'm not. Red light. So, um, how are you?"
He led me on a route by parks and bridges, past buildings I remembered walking by during the April trip back from Fenway. Each new turn left me more frustrated.
"I know where I am!"
"Want me to let you get there?"
"NOOOOOO. Sorry. OK. Now what?"
As I turned onto Commonwealth, I cheered.
"I LOVE YOU!"
"Look familiar?"
"If this doesn't, I've got huge problems. I know exactly where I am. I'm buying you lunch or something."
"Sounds good."
As I pulled into the parking lot, my phone rang. Michelle. I laughed over the misadventures as she launched into the game play-by-play until I reached the projected screen visible through the windows at T's...
---
Weekend synopsis, as it stands: Random. Random. Random. But in a good way, for the most part. With visits to the North Shore, the South Shore and the city in between, it's been fun, alternately exhilerating and languid. There are photographs to be posted, stories to laugh over when I've the time and just a few wrinkles in the plans.
Here's to extending it all by one more day.
Which is why I've unexpectedly extended my latest foray to Massachusetts. The Red Sox rally is being held at Fenway in the morning, and I am fulfilling the vow I made after Boston won last year's World Series.
I was there for the first rally and they won. If there was cause for a second rally come fall 2005, I would be back in the ballpark, among the crazies willing to sit in a park with no players, no game to be played.
Just at Fenway because you have a chance to sit in seats you'd never normally be able to occupy, celebrating the completion of one part of a championship quest.
We're a superstitious bunch, Sox fans (for an example see: my mother's refusal to attend Friday night's Sox-Yankees game - which turned out to be incredible - because she can't even watch the matchup for fear of jinxing it). And if I didn't go to the rally and the Sox lost?
I'd expect to see a couple of fingers pointing in my direction.
----
You almost want to hug the people who are making the space so loud that you need to lean in to hear the other half of the conversation you're trying to carry on.
A casually turned head, ear waiting to take in the sound of the voice and the amusing banter you're exchanging. It looks completely normal, nothing out of the ordinary. You do this all the time.
But inside? You're listening, you're communicating, but you're also trilling at the close proximity.
If I just turned, I could...no, stop thinking that! You're talking here! Oh, sound witty. Don't make an ass of yourself. Be cool...So close...I wonder what's going through that mind...good God I'm a dork...But I wonder...oh, this is fun. I hate this. Oh, no I don't.
---
October air is supposed to be cool. Crisp. Ripe for sweaters or sweatshirts, or at least a long-sleeved shirt.
I leaned against the wall, painted the fabled faded green I'd learned to love. Activity bustled on the street just over the other side of the thick partition, and Johnny Damon stood directly ahead of me - save the 28 rows of seats between us. The view was incredible, the championship banner billowed in the breeze from its place to my right...
And I was broiling. A let's-get-that-soft-serve-now-and-pick-up-a-bottled-water-for-later kind of heat that seemed more fitting for the July game against Toronto than this regular season finale against New York.
Not that I was going to complain. The view was incredible, a group of Yankees and Red Sox fans were giving each other a hard time a few rows ahead of me, and Beth had recently recorded potentially incriminating video footage of me singing along to the recording of "Perfect Time of Day" as it was piped in through the speakers.
Howie Day at Fenway. Weird.
I'd never attended a Yankees-Sox game before, and I found myself oddly quiet for much of it - largely due to the fact that my usual cursing might be frowned upon, given the presence of Charles' little (read: young) brother. But the boos received by Jeter, A-Rod and Matsui were as loud as I'd (admittedly) hoped they would be and the bleachers ticketholders were as lively a crowd as I'd remembered them from games of my youth.
I could feel the sunburn developing and my water bottle's liquid level was lowering rapidly. I was taking calls with the update from the Pats game while relaying the Sox score, and the relief of hearing about Cleveland's defeat let us sit back and relax as the score climbed higher. Surreal? You bet.
---
Let's say you hear a band that intrigues you. Good sound, catchy lyrics, impressive production. It's a promising start, I might think to myself. But I always have to hold off judgment until I see the band live.
Sometimes it doesn't live up to what you'd hoped. You walk away realizing you'll just have to listen to the album and leave it at that.
But when it clicks? Standing in a club, listening to the sound and moving your head back and forth, a giddy little flutter starts in your stomach and moves out from there.
There's a reason why people say they fall in love with a band. In many cases, there's no rhyme or reason to it - and two people can walk away with two very different takes on the band they just saw. It moves one, it leaves the other cold.
But I've been playing Speechwriters LLC on repeat since Friday night's venture to the Paradise Lounge. And feeling that giddy flutter continue to spread. They'll be back at the Lounge in October, during the weekend of Matty and Ryan - which means I'll be ready to submit a timesheet to the club management. Matt on Wednesday and Thursday. SLLC on Friday. Ryan Saturday.
And me? I'll know whether there can be too much of a good thing.
---
Well, it's 4 a.m., the paper boy's at it again...
We're singing along to the familiar song, rounding the corner of 93 that reveals the Boston skyline. We know the little vocal flourishes, and we add them accordingly, reveling in the fact that this is the first time we've heard the song played on the radio.
There's always that doubletake that comes somewhere right before the chorus. Wait. I KNOW this. Sure, my friends know this, but other people do? Enough to play it on the radio? When did this happen?
Trizzy P on the radio. Well done. We clapped and cheered as the final "love, love, love" trailed off into the next song. So proud.
---
"I know where I am, I just don't know how to get to where I want to be!"
Tom's laughing into the phone. I just dropped a friend off at Northeastern, and I'm trying to make my way to Commonwealth. I know Mass Ave. is a couple of turns on a seemingly one-way road behind me. I know exactly where I am.
I just can't get there from here. And it's pissing me off.
I've pretty good navigational skills. For the most part - once I've been somewhere, once I've driven the route, I've got it down. But add a new location or an unexpected turn and I'm a lost cause.
My familiarity with Boston grows in leaps each time I visit, and I take pride in my ability to get around.
But somehow, that turn off 93 onto Storrow that should have gotten me to Mass Ave. landed me on Cambridge, driving past City Hall. And I had no clue of how the hell to get anywhere.
"OK. I'm just going to keep you on the line, if that's cool." I'd already called Tom three times. He was laughing at me. Bastard.
"No worries. Now you should be at -"
"No. I'm not. Red light. So, um, how are you?"
He led me on a route by parks and bridges, past buildings I remembered walking by during the April trip back from Fenway. Each new turn left me more frustrated.
"I know where I am!"
"Want me to let you get there?"
"NOOOOOO. Sorry. OK. Now what?"
As I turned onto Commonwealth, I cheered.
"I LOVE YOU!"
"Look familiar?"
"If this doesn't, I've got huge problems. I know exactly where I am. I'm buying you lunch or something."
"Sounds good."
As I pulled into the parking lot, my phone rang. Michelle. I laughed over the misadventures as she launched into the game play-by-play until I reached the projected screen visible through the windows at T's...
---
Weekend synopsis, as it stands: Random. Random. Random. But in a good way, for the most part. With visits to the North Shore, the South Shore and the city in between, it's been fun, alternately exhilerating and languid. There are photographs to be posted, stories to laugh over when I've the time and just a few wrinkles in the plans.
Here's to extending it all by one more day.
9.30.2005
Still in it.
Early mornings are usually pretty quiet in this downtown, and it makes those walking the cobblestones and bricks more inclined to converse with strangers as they walk by. It feels as if autumn proves all the more condusive to conversation. Everyone has the same things on their minds.
Coffee. Something warm. Pretty leaves. Bundle up. Rosy cheeks.
As I made my way up the street for my coffee and conversation, my eyes lit up upon seing Red Sox caps above bleary-eyed faces.
Fourth only to the ALCS comeback, the championship and the victory parade, baseball conversation on Church Street was my favorite part of fall ball last year.
From October 2004:
i immediately walked into a number of walk-bys greetings and smiles from my boston bretheren. it was a huge surprise to me, as i'd just walked the same street minutes before and seen only a smattering of red sox gear. on my post-purchase travels, i've graciously received compliments on the hat and remarks of "can't wait for tonight!" after buying my hot caffeinated bevarage, i had the door to the coffeeshop held open for me by a charming fellow wearing a boston hat of his own. he had held the door for the older woman leaving before me and remained at the doorman perch for longer than most would consider necessary, letting me pass through the doorway unencumbered. he smiled as i said thank you, replying that he wouldn't hold the door for a yankees fan.
I couldn't fall asleep last night, after the jumping, shouting and cheering at the televised game. When I woke, I felt exhausted. Yet jubilant.
We're not dead yet.
We're nearing the post-season, uncertain about whether our name will be inscribed on one of the few invitations to the party. It's back to the Boston-New York rivalry, a little early this year, but just as desperate. A playoff within the regular season, for all intensive purposes - as do or die as the ALCS last year, in many minds.
Boston fans roll their eyes upon seeing the NY cap bobbing down the streets, and we grin at those who wear the same blue and red as we do. "How about that game last night?" "Ortiz is the man!" "Hell of a weekend coming up, huh?" "Hey, good luck this weekend."
We wish each other luck. I've had three people wish me luck for Sunday. I'm sitting in the upper bleachers, near the back of the park. The luck is necessary, but in a spot far away from where I will be sitting. Yet I wish the luck right back. Good luck to you too, man.
As I stood in line, waiting to pay for my latte, I saw the straight brim of the barista's Boston hat. I decided to embrace the time of year.
"What did you think of the game last night?"
"Oh man," he said. "I was ready to give up, but loved the outcome. It was painful, most of it, wasn't it?"
We chatted about how we watched or listened as he rang me up and handed me my change. As I prepared to turn away, I looked back and smiled.
"Good luck this weekend."
He grinned and rolled his eyes up toward the brim. "I'll need it. You too."
Coffee. Something warm. Pretty leaves. Bundle up. Rosy cheeks.
As I made my way up the street for my coffee and conversation, my eyes lit up upon seing Red Sox caps above bleary-eyed faces.
Fourth only to the ALCS comeback, the championship and the victory parade, baseball conversation on Church Street was my favorite part of fall ball last year.
From October 2004:
i immediately walked into a number of walk-bys greetings and smiles from my boston bretheren. it was a huge surprise to me, as i'd just walked the same street minutes before and seen only a smattering of red sox gear. on my post-purchase travels, i've graciously received compliments on the hat and remarks of "can't wait for tonight!" after buying my hot caffeinated bevarage, i had the door to the coffeeshop held open for me by a charming fellow wearing a boston hat of his own. he had held the door for the older woman leaving before me and remained at the doorman perch for longer than most would consider necessary, letting me pass through the doorway unencumbered. he smiled as i said thank you, replying that he wouldn't hold the door for a yankees fan.
I couldn't fall asleep last night, after the jumping, shouting and cheering at the televised game. When I woke, I felt exhausted. Yet jubilant.
We're not dead yet.
We're nearing the post-season, uncertain about whether our name will be inscribed on one of the few invitations to the party. It's back to the Boston-New York rivalry, a little early this year, but just as desperate. A playoff within the regular season, for all intensive purposes - as do or die as the ALCS last year, in many minds.
Boston fans roll their eyes upon seeing the NY cap bobbing down the streets, and we grin at those who wear the same blue and red as we do. "How about that game last night?" "Ortiz is the man!" "Hell of a weekend coming up, huh?" "Hey, good luck this weekend."
We wish each other luck. I've had three people wish me luck for Sunday. I'm sitting in the upper bleachers, near the back of the park. The luck is necessary, but in a spot far away from where I will be sitting. Yet I wish the luck right back. Good luck to you too, man.
As I stood in line, waiting to pay for my latte, I saw the straight brim of the barista's Boston hat. I decided to embrace the time of year.
"What did you think of the game last night?"
"Oh man," he said. "I was ready to give up, but loved the outcome. It was painful, most of it, wasn't it?"
We chatted about how we watched or listened as he rang me up and handed me my change. As I prepared to turn away, I looked back and smiled.
"Good luck this weekend."
He grinned and rolled his eyes up toward the brim. "I'll need it. You too."
Where men are from
If my memory serves me correctly, Mars should be visible about this time of year. Which means I wasn't crazy for being startled at the sight of an incredibly bright, amber pinpoint of light in the sky as I stared up.
Or there's another satellite spying on me. Whatever works.
I decided to borrow and adapt the iPod meme I've seen on several other spaces as of late and see what my song selection has to say to me. Since I am iPod-less, I'm going with my collection of songs on my computer's Media Player - shuffled of course. Let's see what they have to say in response to my inquiries...
1. What do you think of me, Music Player?
The Honorary Title, Dilute
(Distance dilutes and rewrites and rewrites. Hmm. You might be onto something here, MP. That's kind of my cynical credo, isn't it?)
2. Will I have a happy life?
Megan Slankard, Lose Me
(I would certainly consider my pen leaking poetry to be a good thing...although the defective and insomniatic nature of the lyrics make me feel a little too close an inferred kinship to Ms. Plath...)
3. What do my friends really think of me?
Ben Folds, Still Fighting It
(Great. I've grown bitter as I've grown older. Thanks, friends. Love you too.)
4. What does my (V. edit - imaginary) S.O. think of me?
Amos Lee, Keep It Loose, Keep It Tight
(I'm in love with the world. I'm liking this...not to mention the easy, natural flow of the music. This is how love should sound. Warm, smooth, but saucy...)
5. Do people secretly lust after me?
Heather Nova, We Can Work It Out
(Um...life is very short, and there's no time for fussing and fighting over me, my friends.)
6. How can I make myself happy?
Averi, Flutter (live)
(HAHAHA. I need to walk across Storrow to the water and watch Cambridge wipe the sleep from its eyes. This implies living in Boston...Also applicable: I can make myself happy by remembering the words to the things that I write. Or: I need not call phone numbers that I possess.)
7. What should I do with my life?
Tristan Prettyman, Anything At All
(Always be true to myself seems to be the easiest theme to draw from this...although the process of letting go also comes to mind.)
8. Why must life be so full of pain?
Matt Nathanson, What You Need
(BECAUSE THE PURSUIT OF LOVE SUCKS AND RUINS EVERYTHING.)
9. How can I maximize my pleasure during sex?
John Butler Trio, Treat Yo Mama
(It's all in the attitude, baby. Or: do what you can to better mankind and you'll be rewarded? Um...)
10. Can you give me some advice?
Averi, For Better or Worse
(I officially dislike this meme. Heh. OK, here goes. Don't dwell on the past. Remember the difference a few years can make.)
11. What do you think happiness is?
Jason Mraz, Land Down Under
(I knew I needed to go to Australia one of these days.)
12. Do you have any advice to give over the next few hours/days?
Ben Taylor Band, A Good Day to Be Alive
(This must mean the Sox are going to the postseason after this weekend! Thanks, Music Player!)
13. Will I die happy?
Ryan Montbleau Band feat. Julian Velard, Use Me
(Awwwwwww yeah. Well I'm gonna spread the news, that if it feels this good getting used by you, oh you just keep on usin' me until you use me up. And I die. Happy.)
Or there's another satellite spying on me. Whatever works.
I decided to borrow and adapt the iPod meme I've seen on several other spaces as of late and see what my song selection has to say to me. Since I am iPod-less, I'm going with my collection of songs on my computer's Media Player - shuffled of course. Let's see what they have to say in response to my inquiries...
1. What do you think of me, Music Player?
The Honorary Title, Dilute
(Distance dilutes and rewrites and rewrites. Hmm. You might be onto something here, MP. That's kind of my cynical credo, isn't it?)
2. Will I have a happy life?
Megan Slankard, Lose Me
(I would certainly consider my pen leaking poetry to be a good thing...although the defective and insomniatic nature of the lyrics make me feel a little too close an inferred kinship to Ms. Plath...)
3. What do my friends really think of me?
Ben Folds, Still Fighting It
(Great. I've grown bitter as I've grown older. Thanks, friends. Love you too.)
4. What does my (V. edit - imaginary) S.O. think of me?
Amos Lee, Keep It Loose, Keep It Tight
(I'm in love with the world. I'm liking this...not to mention the easy, natural flow of the music. This is how love should sound. Warm, smooth, but saucy...)
5. Do people secretly lust after me?
Heather Nova, We Can Work It Out
(Um...life is very short, and there's no time for fussing and fighting over me, my friends.)
6. How can I make myself happy?
Averi, Flutter (live)
(HAHAHA. I need to walk across Storrow to the water and watch Cambridge wipe the sleep from its eyes. This implies living in Boston...Also applicable: I can make myself happy by remembering the words to the things that I write. Or: I need not call phone numbers that I possess.)
7. What should I do with my life?
Tristan Prettyman, Anything At All
(Always be true to myself seems to be the easiest theme to draw from this...although the process of letting go also comes to mind.)
8. Why must life be so full of pain?
Matt Nathanson, What You Need
(BECAUSE THE PURSUIT OF LOVE SUCKS AND RUINS EVERYTHING.)
9. How can I maximize my pleasure during sex?
John Butler Trio, Treat Yo Mama
(It's all in the attitude, baby. Or: do what you can to better mankind and you'll be rewarded? Um...)
10. Can you give me some advice?
Averi, For Better or Worse
(I officially dislike this meme. Heh. OK, here goes. Don't dwell on the past. Remember the difference a few years can make.)
11. What do you think happiness is?
Jason Mraz, Land Down Under
(I knew I needed to go to Australia one of these days.)
12. Do you have any advice to give over the next few hours/days?
Ben Taylor Band, A Good Day to Be Alive
(This must mean the Sox are going to the postseason after this weekend! Thanks, Music Player!)
13. Will I die happy?
Ryan Montbleau Band feat. Julian Velard, Use Me
(Awwwwwww yeah. Well I'm gonna spread the news, that if it feels this good getting used by you, oh you just keep on usin' me until you use me up. And I die. Happy.)
9.29.2005
You knew I wouldn't stay away.
About a week ago, I sat at the corner of a long bar in New Hampshire, sipping a pint of beer I'd been led to believe was known as The Fisher Cat. After an attempt at confirming the name from a friend - and the ensuing cat-like gesturing that followed - I was told by the bartender that I had to move my hand like a cat's paw cutting through the air each time I ordered the drink.
Of course I obliged. Several times. It added to the surreal nature of ordering beer at a bar. It was all pretty new to my vodka cran-loving self.
So as I sipped the brew, marveling in my determination to develop a taste for malt and whatever else goes into the mix, a gentleman approached and introduced himself to me.
I spared a scene - and an unpleasent Fisher Cat incident - by not spitting out my beer. I was floored - and delighted - to discover that this was P Squared.
We chatted about the Red Sox, about Vermont and Massachusetts and numerous other things that came to mind, when he remarked on his disappointment about the cessation of this little space. It had become part of his routine, he said, and he'd enjoyed being able to read my little rambles.
I also felt disappointment - in that I had to remark about my move to another space. I suddenly wished I hadn't made the move.
The writer's block, the self-editing, the label I had affixed to the blog - that being "I Can't Write What I Want Here" - it made it feel as if I needed a new space in order to actually write my mind.
Well, screw that.
I should be able to write anywhere, and Revelry is my turf. I'm not giving that up. I like my readers - pretty quiet as you are, I know you're there - I like the URL, and I like having my history here.
So I'm tweaking things a bit, giving myself a new redesign, and then Revelry will be up and back. A little different than before, but in a good way.
But here's the deal. There are some ground rules.
I don't write about work. I don't write about what I do, where I do it and how I do it.
I write about what's on my mind. When it comes to talking about other people, I'll make reference without specificially identifying. First names might be used, or perhaps initials if I deem it appropriate. But if it's a performance I'm referencing, that's a different story.
If you don't like like what I'm writing, it's simple. Don't read it. I'm not going to feel guilty or embarrassed about what I have to say.
If you do like what I'm reading, COMMENT. Leave a note. Let me know who you are. I'd like to be able to start a dialogue at times, and I figure that I'm sharing a great deal with you guys, so I'm not being too out of line by asking for a "Hi" every once in awhile in return. Even better would be an anecodte or observation.
That said, observations and advice are two completely different things. Observations? Good. Advice? Uh-uh.
And, finally, enjoy it. I like writing, and I wound up being able to enjoy Fisher Cat (meow) and conversation with someone who felt like a friend because of it. A completely unexpected twist to a Friday night made my evening and helped me out. I'd like to see more of the same.
And, by the way, it turned out that the beer wasn't called the Fisher Cat afterall. But I'll just prefer to think of it that way.
Of course I obliged. Several times. It added to the surreal nature of ordering beer at a bar. It was all pretty new to my vodka cran-loving self.
So as I sipped the brew, marveling in my determination to develop a taste for malt and whatever else goes into the mix, a gentleman approached and introduced himself to me.
I spared a scene - and an unpleasent Fisher Cat incident - by not spitting out my beer. I was floored - and delighted - to discover that this was P Squared.
We chatted about the Red Sox, about Vermont and Massachusetts and numerous other things that came to mind, when he remarked on his disappointment about the cessation of this little space. It had become part of his routine, he said, and he'd enjoyed being able to read my little rambles.
I also felt disappointment - in that I had to remark about my move to another space. I suddenly wished I hadn't made the move.
The writer's block, the self-editing, the label I had affixed to the blog - that being "I Can't Write What I Want Here" - it made it feel as if I needed a new space in order to actually write my mind.
Well, screw that.
I should be able to write anywhere, and Revelry is my turf. I'm not giving that up. I like my readers - pretty quiet as you are, I know you're there - I like the URL, and I like having my history here.
So I'm tweaking things a bit, giving myself a new redesign, and then Revelry will be up and back. A little different than before, but in a good way.
But here's the deal. There are some ground rules.
I don't write about work. I don't write about what I do, where I do it and how I do it.
I write about what's on my mind. When it comes to talking about other people, I'll make reference without specificially identifying. First names might be used, or perhaps initials if I deem it appropriate. But if it's a performance I'm referencing, that's a different story.
If you don't like like what I'm writing, it's simple. Don't read it. I'm not going to feel guilty or embarrassed about what I have to say.
If you do like what I'm reading, COMMENT. Leave a note. Let me know who you are. I'd like to be able to start a dialogue at times, and I figure that I'm sharing a great deal with you guys, so I'm not being too out of line by asking for a "Hi" every once in awhile in return. Even better would be an anecodte or observation.
That said, observations and advice are two completely different things. Observations? Good. Advice? Uh-uh.
And, finally, enjoy it. I like writing, and I wound up being able to enjoy Fisher Cat (meow) and conversation with someone who felt like a friend because of it. A completely unexpected twist to a Friday night made my evening and helped me out. I'd like to see more of the same.
And, by the way, it turned out that the beer wasn't called the Fisher Cat afterall. But I'll just prefer to think of it that way.
9.21.2005
An Open Letter to the U.S. Senate
Dear Sirs and Madams,
I cannot cook.
Seriously. Despite efforts by friends, family and a flatmate who should be thoroughly exasperated by now, I have not demonstrated an ability to prepare on my own anything other than a small assortment of meals. I cannot even make rice. It turns out soupy.
Therefore, I am left questioning my role in society, particularly as the nominee for Chief Justice of the Supreme Court has stated that woman's primary function in America should be that of the housemaker. The purported "gender gap" has left me, I fear, somewhere in between that which I should be - capable of culinary excellence and an immaculate home for my husband - and that which I have been aspiring - a successful professional with a long-term, out-of-home career.
Adding insult to injury, I don't even have a husband. I am sure John Roberts would be appalled, aghast at the fact that I am an abnormality. I hang my head in shame as I write this.
You are preparing to vote on whether to appoint Judge Roberts to the highest seat in the highest court in the United States. Media reports predict a relatively easy appointment for the nominee.
I wonder what will come of myself - and others in a similar state - after Roberts assumes his position on the Court. Will we be scrutinized, held to a standard separate from our male counterparts, simply because we possess ovaries and, thus, lack the ability and intellect to hold the positions we now hold? Will we be denied our right to decide whether to procreate - despite the possibility that we could bring a lifeform into the world without the proper economic support or, I daresay, emotional capability to raise that child?
Will those who fail to find a compatible mate in college - which will therefore become known as Mating School for the "fairer" gender - be left to languish in apartments? Will our futures dim upon Graduation Day?
Or will Mrs. Supreme Court Justice-To-Be Roberts personally visit my home and teach me to cook so I can land a husband and fulfill my half of the American Dream?
As always, I am looking to you for answers,
Victoria
I cannot cook.
Seriously. Despite efforts by friends, family and a flatmate who should be thoroughly exasperated by now, I have not demonstrated an ability to prepare on my own anything other than a small assortment of meals. I cannot even make rice. It turns out soupy.
Therefore, I am left questioning my role in society, particularly as the nominee for Chief Justice of the Supreme Court has stated that woman's primary function in America should be that of the housemaker. The purported "gender gap" has left me, I fear, somewhere in between that which I should be - capable of culinary excellence and an immaculate home for my husband - and that which I have been aspiring - a successful professional with a long-term, out-of-home career.
Adding insult to injury, I don't even have a husband. I am sure John Roberts would be appalled, aghast at the fact that I am an abnormality. I hang my head in shame as I write this.
You are preparing to vote on whether to appoint Judge Roberts to the highest seat in the highest court in the United States. Media reports predict a relatively easy appointment for the nominee.
I wonder what will come of myself - and others in a similar state - after Roberts assumes his position on the Court. Will we be scrutinized, held to a standard separate from our male counterparts, simply because we possess ovaries and, thus, lack the ability and intellect to hold the positions we now hold? Will we be denied our right to decide whether to procreate - despite the possibility that we could bring a lifeform into the world without the proper economic support or, I daresay, emotional capability to raise that child?
Will those who fail to find a compatible mate in college - which will therefore become known as Mating School for the "fairer" gender - be left to languish in apartments? Will our futures dim upon Graduation Day?
Or will Mrs. Supreme Court Justice-To-Be Roberts personally visit my home and teach me to cook so I can land a husband and fulfill my half of the American Dream?
As always, I am looking to you for answers,
Victoria
9.18.2005
A bottle of red
Song: Love, Love, Love - Tristan Prettyman
Diner coffee. Quixotically strong and bland at the same time, it's the only kind to prompt me to stir in creamer and sugar. The squat white mug looks just like the one from last week, served to me in another diner, another place, a couple of states away. It's contents serve the same purpose - wake me up, get me moving.
I blow on the steaming surface and grin across the booth's table. "No, no, no. It's Sunday brunch. This is dish time. Spill it."
Michelle nods from her place next to me, eating some of the whipped cream atop her hot chocolate. She also looks expectantly at John, who beams his best Cheshire cat grin. "You're holding out on us."
We're catching up on our weekends before delving into our various adventures over the last several months. I can't recall the last time the three of us have been in the same place, but we've relayed snippets in the duration, whenever two of the three are around, we chat about or ask about the third.
Each of us drank more than we probably should have the evening before; John at a club eager to serve cocktails, Michelle and I as two-thirds of a trifecta that polished off a bottle of red, a bottle of white and a blush. We take turns confessing to being ridiculous, not knowing why we don't have headaches. We're keeping our fingers crossed that the pain stays away - our various selections of eggs, toast or pancakes will hopefully help our causes.
***
I began sipping the wine around 6:30 Saturday evening, as I realized that the wine-ing was as key to the cooking as it was to the dining. I wasn't nearly as worried about screwing up a meal with a glass of wine on a counter across the kitchen.
The blush was sweet and pleasant as pots of water boiled, sauces simmered and bread baked in the oven. I pulled a floret of broccoli from the wok and popped it into my mouth. Hot but still crisp, more lemon than garlic. Perfect. Done.
The pasta would be finished in a moment or two, and the bread was warm and crusty. I poured olive oil onto a plate and added garlic. The spinach and artichoke dip Michelle had made before leaving to pick up KJ was perfect, and the salad only needed my bright pink plastic tongs.
Table set, a vase of bright flowers in the center. Michelle had brought them home from the last-minute grocery run, along with the extra-virgin olive oil and the lemon I decided I needed. For garnish. If I was cooking, I was going all out - and if the meal didn't taste right, at least it would look lovely.
A little more wine. Two of my close friends, women who impress and astound me, were coming over for my house, and I was giving my first dinner party. I was set to photograph the event so we could send images to the fourth, currently missing member of our group.
It appeared that blind confidence had prevented me from screwing up the meal, and I took care of the last minute accents and tasks that needed my attention. I was focusing on the colors, the smells, the texture of the pasta and the giddiness that comes with taking an assortment of items and pulling them together into a single result.
I heard a car pull into the driveway, then footsteps and voices coming up the stairs to the back porch. As the girls walked in, I grinned and walked toward them. "Velcome! Velcome! Vee hope you are prepared for zee dinner, come eeeen, come eeen! Some vine, yezzz?"
***
We laugh as John recounts the end of his night. "And did you have a good night?" he asks.
Indeed, dear friend. A good night was had by all.
Diner coffee. Quixotically strong and bland at the same time, it's the only kind to prompt me to stir in creamer and sugar. The squat white mug looks just like the one from last week, served to me in another diner, another place, a couple of states away. It's contents serve the same purpose - wake me up, get me moving.
I blow on the steaming surface and grin across the booth's table. "No, no, no. It's Sunday brunch. This is dish time. Spill it."
Michelle nods from her place next to me, eating some of the whipped cream atop her hot chocolate. She also looks expectantly at John, who beams his best Cheshire cat grin. "You're holding out on us."
We're catching up on our weekends before delving into our various adventures over the last several months. I can't recall the last time the three of us have been in the same place, but we've relayed snippets in the duration, whenever two of the three are around, we chat about or ask about the third.
Each of us drank more than we probably should have the evening before; John at a club eager to serve cocktails, Michelle and I as two-thirds of a trifecta that polished off a bottle of red, a bottle of white and a blush. We take turns confessing to being ridiculous, not knowing why we don't have headaches. We're keeping our fingers crossed that the pain stays away - our various selections of eggs, toast or pancakes will hopefully help our causes.
***
I began sipping the wine around 6:30 Saturday evening, as I realized that the wine-ing was as key to the cooking as it was to the dining. I wasn't nearly as worried about screwing up a meal with a glass of wine on a counter across the kitchen.
The blush was sweet and pleasant as pots of water boiled, sauces simmered and bread baked in the oven. I pulled a floret of broccoli from the wok and popped it into my mouth. Hot but still crisp, more lemon than garlic. Perfect. Done.
The pasta would be finished in a moment or two, and the bread was warm and crusty. I poured olive oil onto a plate and added garlic. The spinach and artichoke dip Michelle had made before leaving to pick up KJ was perfect, and the salad only needed my bright pink plastic tongs.
Table set, a vase of bright flowers in the center. Michelle had brought them home from the last-minute grocery run, along with the extra-virgin olive oil and the lemon I decided I needed. For garnish. If I was cooking, I was going all out - and if the meal didn't taste right, at least it would look lovely.
A little more wine. Two of my close friends, women who impress and astound me, were coming over for my house, and I was giving my first dinner party. I was set to photograph the event so we could send images to the fourth, currently missing member of our group.
It appeared that blind confidence had prevented me from screwing up the meal, and I took care of the last minute accents and tasks that needed my attention. I was focusing on the colors, the smells, the texture of the pasta and the giddiness that comes with taking an assortment of items and pulling them together into a single result.
I heard a car pull into the driveway, then footsteps and voices coming up the stairs to the back porch. As the girls walked in, I grinned and walked toward them. "Velcome! Velcome! Vee hope you are prepared for zee dinner, come eeeen, come eeen! Some vine, yezzz?"
***
We laugh as John recounts the end of his night. "And did you have a good night?" he asks.
Indeed, dear friend. A good night was had by all.
9.17.2005
As You Are
I'm sitting in a chair at a table among tables, sipping a too-strong vodka and cranberry. It's bringing a grimace to my face each time I take a sip, but I'm not going to waste the alcohol and take a chance with something that will be equally ill-prepared.
A friend sits to my left, taking log drags off a Camel Light as she tries to nurse her own equally toxic vodka cocktail. An acquaintance joined a table behind me a few songs ago, and I've made a mental note to say hello at the next pause in the show.
The rest of the assembly appears divided between those who adore you and others who have never before heard your name. One of the latter came to realize I'm not there for the drinks, as well as the fact that I'm not keen on tuning out the music long enough to hear him discuss the failure of his third, latest and, he says, final marriage.
The former group has also cast glances at my table since we arrived. I'm a stranger among them, not a regular and not recognizable, yet I know the words. I note that they wonder what I say when I lean across the table to talk to my friend, laughing over some perceived private joke as I cast my eyes quickly at the stage. The looks sent our way are laced with curiosity and suspicion; I am rather enjoying the intrigue.
You stand in your place beneath the spotlight, seemingly oblivious to this display of stares, sloshing drinks and cigarette smoke. You have retreated to some place in the recesses of your mind, eyes closed as you strum out serenades to mystery women you've loved and lost. Despite the inherent melancholy in each song, you remain hopeful, with bits of melody that hint at optimism and your endearingly cynicism-tinged earnestness.
We've all been at the places you travel to in the music. You get it. You know. You care. You've been scarred, you know you're flawed, but you're ready to work on them. But you're appropriately frightened at the prospect.
Armed with a microphone and a songbook of revised and polished reflections on life, you and your contemporaries deliver the words we all hope and dream to hear men say. You tell us that you cried when you turned your backs to us and walked away, you explain that you thought things would work out better, too. You confide that your personal demons were responsible for your decision to not call, and you tell us that you love more than you let us know.
We sit at these tables, waiting to hear the particular lines that sums up how we feel about the promise of love. We mouth along bitter cries and laugh when you let down the wall just enough to show that you also possess the sense of humor that only adds to your appeal.
I know you - all of you - worry that people will forget that you're human.
But as you stand before this crowd, of which I happen to be a member on this particular night, I sip my drink, scowl at the straw and realize that I worry that you forget.
Get real.
I like to think you know I'm aware of your human condition. I know only a fraction of your weaknesses, and I, whether fair of me or not, can't help but demand that you work on them as much as anyone else does. You're supposed to learn from the mistakes, not harvest them.
You're a guy. Who happens to perform. I don't believe that everything should be relegated to material for the next broken song.
I take another sip and draw up air and water. I'm out of cocktail. You're not finished with your set.
The waitress comes over to see if I want another. Why not?
It'll be too strong. But, then again, sometimes I think that so am I.
A friend sits to my left, taking log drags off a Camel Light as she tries to nurse her own equally toxic vodka cocktail. An acquaintance joined a table behind me a few songs ago, and I've made a mental note to say hello at the next pause in the show.
The rest of the assembly appears divided between those who adore you and others who have never before heard your name. One of the latter came to realize I'm not there for the drinks, as well as the fact that I'm not keen on tuning out the music long enough to hear him discuss the failure of his third, latest and, he says, final marriage.
The former group has also cast glances at my table since we arrived. I'm a stranger among them, not a regular and not recognizable, yet I know the words. I note that they wonder what I say when I lean across the table to talk to my friend, laughing over some perceived private joke as I cast my eyes quickly at the stage. The looks sent our way are laced with curiosity and suspicion; I am rather enjoying the intrigue.
You stand in your place beneath the spotlight, seemingly oblivious to this display of stares, sloshing drinks and cigarette smoke. You have retreated to some place in the recesses of your mind, eyes closed as you strum out serenades to mystery women you've loved and lost. Despite the inherent melancholy in each song, you remain hopeful, with bits of melody that hint at optimism and your endearingly cynicism-tinged earnestness.
We've all been at the places you travel to in the music. You get it. You know. You care. You've been scarred, you know you're flawed, but you're ready to work on them. But you're appropriately frightened at the prospect.
Armed with a microphone and a songbook of revised and polished reflections on life, you and your contemporaries deliver the words we all hope and dream to hear men say. You tell us that you cried when you turned your backs to us and walked away, you explain that you thought things would work out better, too. You confide that your personal demons were responsible for your decision to not call, and you tell us that you love more than you let us know.
We sit at these tables, waiting to hear the particular lines that sums up how we feel about the promise of love. We mouth along bitter cries and laugh when you let down the wall just enough to show that you also possess the sense of humor that only adds to your appeal.
I know you - all of you - worry that people will forget that you're human.
But as you stand before this crowd, of which I happen to be a member on this particular night, I sip my drink, scowl at the straw and realize that I worry that you forget.
Get real.
I like to think you know I'm aware of your human condition. I know only a fraction of your weaknesses, and I, whether fair of me or not, can't help but demand that you work on them as much as anyone else does. You're supposed to learn from the mistakes, not harvest them.
You're a guy. Who happens to perform. I don't believe that everything should be relegated to material for the next broken song.
I take another sip and draw up air and water. I'm out of cocktail. You're not finished with your set.
The waitress comes over to see if I want another. Why not?
It'll be too strong. But, then again, sometimes I think that so am I.
9.13.2005
So Long, Skipper
Women talk about just about anything under the sky.
Men. Lack of men. Their bodies. Politics. Dreams. Fears. Food. Whatever can fit into The Three Categories - Past, Present, Future.
But we never talk about playing with dolls as little girls.
So I have no idea of knowing if this is a Me Thing or an Everywoman Thing, but my attempts at creating stories for my Barbies, Skippers and Whitneys always wound up turning into stories about me. Skipper might have walked into the pizza parlor to meet up with Joe McIntyre, but Vickie took over just as Joe Doll started singing "Please Don't Go Girl." And it was always Vickie who wound up in a rigid plastic embrace.
It might have looked like Skipper, but oh no. I knew what was really going on.
I think it's continued over the years. I live my life with what seems to be a completely different take on me than everyone else.
I don't look like the me in my head.
B let me raid her digital camera files today, so I could update the photos on my myspace account. I wanted to do it because I easily fall prey to the narcissistic nature of myspace; but also because The Boy now has a profile. I wanted him to see how dazzling I can be. Wait. Scratch that. How dazzling I am, dammit.
(Hey, I'm going with complete honesty on here. Go with it. This is my logic.)
I hated every image of myself that I found. B's good with a camera, don't get me wrong, but I just didn't look right. Big nose here. Weird smile there. I looked puffy in that one, like a ghost in the next. Strange. Bizarre - UGH! What? That's not me!
"Are you adding them?" B asked as I stared at my computer screen.
"Um, I'll add them later," I replied.
I've got to settle this difference in perceptions - my take and life's take on me. After that is accomplished, I'll turn to being happy with what reality shows me. Flaws and all.
I spend so much time worrying about what others think of me, how they view me, partly becasue I don't want to have to take an actual, honest look in the mirror and take stock in what I am. Who I am. I've let myself cling to the idea of myself as, for all intensive albeit embarrassing purposes, Skipper as a Grown Up.
It's time I started to get to know Victoria.
Men. Lack of men. Their bodies. Politics. Dreams. Fears. Food. Whatever can fit into The Three Categories - Past, Present, Future.
But we never talk about playing with dolls as little girls.
So I have no idea of knowing if this is a Me Thing or an Everywoman Thing, but my attempts at creating stories for my Barbies, Skippers and Whitneys always wound up turning into stories about me. Skipper might have walked into the pizza parlor to meet up with Joe McIntyre, but Vickie took over just as Joe Doll started singing "Please Don't Go Girl." And it was always Vickie who wound up in a rigid plastic embrace.
It might have looked like Skipper, but oh no. I knew what was really going on.
I think it's continued over the years. I live my life with what seems to be a completely different take on me than everyone else.
I don't look like the me in my head.
B let me raid her digital camera files today, so I could update the photos on my myspace account. I wanted to do it because I easily fall prey to the narcissistic nature of myspace; but also because The Boy now has a profile. I wanted him to see how dazzling I can be. Wait. Scratch that. How dazzling I am, dammit.
(Hey, I'm going with complete honesty on here. Go with it. This is my logic.)
I hated every image of myself that I found. B's good with a camera, don't get me wrong, but I just didn't look right. Big nose here. Weird smile there. I looked puffy in that one, like a ghost in the next. Strange. Bizarre - UGH! What? That's not me!
"Are you adding them?" B asked as I stared at my computer screen.
"Um, I'll add them later," I replied.
I've got to settle this difference in perceptions - my take and life's take on me. After that is accomplished, I'll turn to being happy with what reality shows me. Flaws and all.
I spend so much time worrying about what others think of me, how they view me, partly becasue I don't want to have to take an actual, honest look in the mirror and take stock in what I am. Who I am. I've let myself cling to the idea of myself as, for all intensive albeit embarrassing purposes, Skipper as a Grown Up.
It's time I started to get to know Victoria.
9.12.2005
1991.
According to the blogspot counting gods, this is Post No. 1991.
It's also, at least for awhile, my last post on here. I've set up a new space, blank and waiting to be filled with my rambles and mishaps and whatever comes along.
It'll be nice to be able to really write what I'm thinking for a change. Call me a coward all you want, but I've realized that I've been self-editing and imagining readers looking for me to slip up and speak about things I probably shouldn't address. At least not here. When search engines yield interesting results and people wind up stumbling across things not originally intended.
I've been cryptic or flat out exclusionary in my writing for months now, and it's just gotten too frustrating to continue that way.
I'm a blogger. I write about my life fully aware of the fact that others can read it and infer what they will. It's become more comfortable to me than my notebooks, actually.
But I need a little vacation from it. Or, rather, a vacation from it here.
If you really want to know what goes on through this head of mine, drop me a comment and include an email address. Introduce yourself if you haven't already - and most of you haven't, might I add (haha, luuuuuuurkers). I've been wondering who you are. Introduce yourself and I'll keep you posted on what's up with me.
When I switched over from madder rain to Revelry - almost four and a half years ago, I was psyched to have a blank page awaiting me.
I'm feeling the same way now.
Thanks for reading, hope to chat with you soon.
X's and O's from a V.
It's also, at least for awhile, my last post on here. I've set up a new space, blank and waiting to be filled with my rambles and mishaps and whatever comes along.
It'll be nice to be able to really write what I'm thinking for a change. Call me a coward all you want, but I've realized that I've been self-editing and imagining readers looking for me to slip up and speak about things I probably shouldn't address. At least not here. When search engines yield interesting results and people wind up stumbling across things not originally intended.
I've been cryptic or flat out exclusionary in my writing for months now, and it's just gotten too frustrating to continue that way.
I'm a blogger. I write about my life fully aware of the fact that others can read it and infer what they will. It's become more comfortable to me than my notebooks, actually.
But I need a little vacation from it. Or, rather, a vacation from it here.
If you really want to know what goes on through this head of mine, drop me a comment and include an email address. Introduce yourself if you haven't already - and most of you haven't, might I add (haha, luuuuuuurkers). I've been wondering who you are. Introduce yourself and I'll keep you posted on what's up with me.
When I switched over from madder rain to Revelry - almost four and a half years ago, I was psyched to have a blank page awaiting me.
I'm feeling the same way now.
Thanks for reading, hope to chat with you soon.
X's and O's from a V.
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