virgin pages

Mouthwash ‘Kate Nash’

So I’m watching this television show, a difference from my normal SATC addiction, but it still comes back around to slap me in the face. Should I take the easy way out, or should I do what I really want to? Can I do both?

Can I raise an eventual family and hold a full time job, and write?

Should I ditch everything for my passion?

I know these rambling pieces are mediocre and juvenile, flawed in every way and possibly quite boring, but I remember a time when I didn’t want to give up and my reader was in tears, or gave me a standing ovation at the end of the chapter. I miss it, and I wonder what judgement everyone else will cast. Will it still be total shit like it is to me, or noteworthy?

I’m back in Kensington and Chelsea and I’m reading the last paragraph and I see someone shoulder through the crowd. He looks like a familiar face, perhaps one I have seen in the mirror or in my own brother’s face. In fact, he is my Father. His eyes well up, and he starts the crowd off with his own applause. I know immediately who he is and nothing else matters, though I did gain more material from the time I knew him. It’s been almost ten years.

a weighted question?

Evans Blue ‘Q (The Best One Of Our Lives)

‘Would you ever come back?’ It was the hardest question I could come up with, but it held true. I could never ask it now, even when a wanton thought of life alone and content passes through, fleeting and foolish.

I wake up this morning and look at time. Suddenly, I flash back and it is the exact day, the exact time two years ago. I wake, but not in my own bed, and sneak out to a sofa that isn’t mine, enjoy the early morning sun rays splitting through a window in someone else’s house. I start to cry. How many times I’ve wanted the upper hand and end up on the bottom of the shit pile. I could never ask such a weighted question, no one would ever agree to it. If I left it would be difficult to beat them to it. And look where I am now I think…I pick up the cd he bought me and I spin it around on my finger. Everything on it pertains to me somehow, in a heavy sort of way. I don’t want to leave, but I can’t stay.

If I had left then I could have come out triumphant. It’s not about winning or losing we’re told as children, but we’ve all watched our parents, our friends, our neighbours pushing and shoving their way to the top. I stayed down, but I stayed humble.

I reminisce now listening to the same album and I honestly don’t feel anything at all. I don’t feel like a winner or a loser. I am slowly letting go to the feeling of failure, and getting back to the place I should have been in the beginning, and all along since: indifference. There is always going to be another obstacle, I only struggled to climb over this particular one a bit longer.

The feeling hardly lingers now, but listening to the lyrics, I wonder if I might make the same mistake again, but in a modified capacity. We always say always and forever, but how often does that turn out? How many people, like my own parents, love each other, but something just separates them from a life of unity and endless happiness. Do we hold people we love too highly? The danger of putting someone on a pedestal and raising them up is not the realization they are not what they seem. Perhaps they are so, but what do you do when your arms get tired?

‘You can sew your lips shut with your heartstrings cause god knows you don’t need them to hold yourself together. But don’t look down because I don’t know if falling is fatal from this height I know I should have never held you up this high’

It has nothing to do with love, with devotion, it’s only another fleeting thought. What if your perfect world comes crashing down? Will you make it out alive or will you wallow and dramatize your predicament? Love is powerful, but do we give it too much credit, or not enough? How much are we responsible for events due to our own actions, or is it really from the power of love? And if so, where is that power when you think you need it most to harness and win someone over? Love is omnipotent then, like a deity and we can do nothing to stop it.

I roll over in real-time and smile. Power or not, I feel something right when I need it. I do not retreat to my own sofa and cry for what I will never have. I sigh and wrap my arm around him instead.

the rock and the hard place

Dave Matthews Band ‘Under The Table And Dreaming’

My heart hurts. My sister, where is she? I remember how sick I always was and how she cared for me, brought me back to life and sheltered me when I needed it most. Now stuck herself, how can I pull her free with no leverage? I know she doesn’t need advice, she already knows what is best for her, but I see her unhappiness and frustration mount and the only words that form are run.

?

Again, I find myself woozy and out of sorts. The pill bottles are lining up again and they’re to calm me down, but I panic. I need support and I have it, but somehow my psyche doesn’t allow me to use it. I open all the lids, take everything down, and I don’t have any pride left. I’m staring at my fat bank account and map out it’s dwindling demise. I breathe in and gasp. I want another pill and another pillow. Instead, I’m off to work. I’m breathing, and I’m figuring it all out.

Thank God I have someone to pick me up if I’m too disheartened or too drugged to do it myself.

last call

Sara Barielles ‘Between the Lines’

My friend D saw Auto at our favourite apple martini bar. He was with someone I’d imagine, but D withheld the information, I suppose assuming if he told me Auto was with a girl I’d go fall-apart-crazy. I wouldn’t. I never did the whole time we were semi-sort-of-together. I waited. So I waited for D to finish telling me.

He didn’t, so I had to phone him.

Here’s the story he says

‘Auto comes up to me and he’s actuallly not drunk at all. He says hi and asks if I’m going to punch him in the face cause if so, he’ll need a shot of Jack first. I tell him no and he says nice. He asks how you are and I tell him you’re great, no, even better than great, so in love and going back to school, buying that car, just enjoying her own time, and of course, being in love. He frowned and I added that it was a nice change of pace to see her so happy.

He asks if I think you’d want that piano, his mom is getting a new grand. Now is my turn to frown. He tells me how your hands flew across the keys unaware of your surroundings before you looked up to see him staring at you, and nothing else. He tells me how you’d make up stuff off the top of your head and how it was haunting and now how he tries to pluck away clumsily to imitate your sound. I tell him I didn’t know any of that, didn’t know you could play, and that I understand.

He offers me a drink, and I take it. We sit down. I tell him how much you loved those caramel apple martinis and how it is a very good thing you can’t drink away my problems. Problems? he asks thinking I am perfectly fine. I say no, remember, she is perfect. Just pretend she is dead I say, because she is long gone. He shakes his head, tells me all about his girl and her problems and I tell him I don’t care. He nods, takes it well and moves back to you. She’s really not ever coming back he says, half question and half declaration. I say if anything, you’ll end up alone, but not back where you were. I remember how much you loved being alone when it was your choice, but how much you love being loved. He says he wants you to be happy. I don’t know if that’s true, or if he wants you to be happy with him. Like settling or something. I tell him you are still the same person but you are very different. You are not exposed anymore and you like it better that way. I tell him if he keeps fucking with your head, and calling you, I’m going to bust him up. He sizes me up and agrees. I shake his hand and toss the bartender my tab.

Right before I’m out the door he says ‘you know I loved her.’ I said he shouldn’t have been such a coward. I said he could love who you are all he wants but he can’t push himself out of the way to really love you. I told him to add it to his list of mistakes. He raised his glass to me. I left.’

Well. There’s nothing like being vindicated, annoyed, and hurt all at once. It’s true if I hadn’t met my Italian boy I would go back to him. Why? D said so himself…I love being alone. It’s no reflection of my status or anyone elses’ it is just the way I am. I’m a fool, and if you agree, I’ll take it on the chin like everything else.

All this whole thing really made me want was an apple martini and some different keys besides these at my fingertips. What would I say to him without D as my spokesman? Stare at me while I play all you want, but that is all. I was never yours.

foggy thought-ed but relevant

Keane ‘Hamburg Song’

There is not enough Zoloft and Xanex in the world. My cure when it wears off is simple, and there’s only one in the entire world, but unlimited doses. He is beautiful in the most masculine and quirky way, and were I to die tomorrow I believe his world would stop turning. Through all the bullshit a woman endures trying to find love I realize it is nowhere and everywhere. You can’t give it without giving it back, and when you finally can, it is all the comfort and security a daddy-less girl will ever need. There is no replacement for my love, no generic, no one else.

I love you. Three words that may be very hard to say but will always mean the utmost.

out of stock

I am drowsy, but not ready for bed. You called me and you made me cry. I’m not sad. Well, that’s a lie. I am angry mostly and a little sad that I still feel like a failure no matter how much of an asshole everyone concurs on. Regardless, you asked me what I wanted. An ultimatum. Italian was right, you’d pop up eventually and now? Really? It’s late Friday night and you’ve just got to know if I’m ever rushing back to your drunken arms and detached emotions but deceiving smile.

It’s just not enough. I had C, and I will live the rest of my life remembering and feeling that sadness that I lost the only one who’d really loved and sheltered me that far in my life. The rest were a blur, and then you. You held onto me at arms length, and I am not the person to do that to. I crave an absent affection and security, stability that a strong man can provide. I am a typical woman, but without ill intent unlike most. Heh. What am I supposed to say? If I were single of course I would be up for more abuse. And for you to say you want me to admit it, and I do, and for you to reciprocate…………..to what point and purpose? To build that enmity I feel? No, to get to me. Just stop. I know you can’t see this but fuck…really? REALLY??!!! I was content being a polite acquittance, an eventual distant friend, the kind real adults have later in life that still pine for the wife of some guy at the office but remember how much they hurt her…..some storybook bullshit that would allow me to not be mean and allow you to control yourself. Yes, I loved you. Past. I have someone with stronger arms who won’t let go. If I fall asleep against him I won’t wake alone unless he’s making me coffee and when I put my heart in my hand he takes it, but I will return with his.

Don’t you dare ask me again. I did tell you this. I am happy and I love. It may be ordinary to you. It may not be messy and complicated and filled with my own unrequited romantic notions and your silence, but it is far, far from it, and far better.

You broke my heart, don’t you get that? Enough is enough, everyone understands that at some point. Come around, but not back at my door so to speak. I couldn’t even replace it, I found someone to give me a new heart and a new will. Mine was scarred, so forgive me. Forgive me for not wanting to be held by empty arms, words that mean nothing. Likewise, they mean nothing to me either, now.

holding out, holding on

Jimmy Eat World ‘Always Be’

So I was watching a talk show on mute the other day at the doctors office. It made me think of Incubus (’Talk Show On Mute’) and that transitioned into other songs like ‘Wish You Were Here’ and goddammit I just want to sit on the beach. Who doesn’t? How immature of me.

My Father excitedly offered an olive branch and simultaneous silent apology in suggesting I move to North Carolina with him. The streets roll up on Sundays and it’s three hours from at least that many beaches. It’s beautiful and it’s a chance to slow down in a way, and catch up with a man I hardly know. Would I leave Italian Boy asks, and leave him behind? No. I would stay. It is what I do. I could have left and taken a job in New York, written to the side and dreamed of being published in some format while I let my soul be devoured by my ulcer-inducing surroundings. I would love it and hate it, but I would be somewhere I wanted to be. Heading South is somewhere I want to be, but I’ll turn it down. I’m not ready, and I’m not free. When I am ready, I will stay, and wait and wait. I don’t see me going anywhere even after I push through my circumstance and jump clear to the fresh air.

My sister told me once I am glue. It could explain my attachment to what’s worst for me, and it definitely explains my high demand and high pressure to keep the rest of the family from eating each other alive.

Here I am. I don’t want to talk about things that can’t be solved. I’ll start school again in the Fall, and I’ll eventually waste gasoline driving around to clear my head since walking isn’t safe that late. I smile and nod, and that is my charm. Stick me on your dash and don’t ask me any questions.

I’m so tired of the never ending questions. The ‘are you okay?’s and the ‘please tell me the truth’s and the ‘why won’t you stay?’s. Sometimes I want to be quiet and still be my own person without full disclosure. Perhaps I am more like my father than I’ve always thought. He enjoys sitting alone in a quiet room, and when spoken to, is one of few words. He has an occasional lapse where you see his happiness or hope–as almost everything he loves is so far away.

I am lucky in that sense, and could appreciate everyone who loves me and most importantly needs me more if all the love and needs weren’t forced down my throat. Pause for reaction…and yes, of course I’ll gag. Don’t be insulted, it’s who I am and I’ve never lied about it. It’s a natural reflex, I’d love to say. Oh, and while I can imagine the faux confusion and scornful look, might I add it is also a double standard.

standing on my own two feet (tip toes on a ledge)

Breaking Benjamin ‘You Fight Me’

I’m like Carrie huh? No, I only wish I was. Who wants to be lonely and frustrated and fucked up? No one.

Then again I don’t want to fold jeans and tee shirts anymore, I don’t want to read verbatim disclaimers and push people through a CT machine and tell them to hold still. I don’t want to help people. I want money, I want security, and I want to wear scrubs. Hell, they look comfortable, and moreso because I always use two dryer sheets instead of one.

This must be why men say women just don’t want to be happy. Maybe it’s true, maybe I don’t want to be happy or even content. Maybe I want to feel confused and fucked up, lonely, unable to channel my energy into productive, useful material. It’s why New York has it’s draw. No one knows your name.

Furiously writing plans, trashing them, redoing them over and over, I regret this move. I look around at everything that’s mine, and realize how scary and wonderful it is all at the same time. On one hand, there’s no one to catch me if I fall and all these bills just keep coming back in a vicious cycle, of course. On the other hand, there’s something to be said for buying things for yourself. It’s my life, and in this empty apartment the quiet never bothers me. The echoes follow me and it’s comforting knowing whenever I need it, I’m right here for me. Even if I hate it, at least I feel something and I don’t forget how.

salt in the wound

Why is it we hold back? It’s human nature and mother’s wisdom to look before you leap now, but I wonder.

If someone loved you and you loved them in return, why wouldn’t you say anything? To avoid being hurt? I have been battered and bruised in that sense like an aging boxer. The sweat drips and the blood runs, but heart thumping I remember why it is there, and I struggle back to my feet again.

It’s loved not love. And that doesn’t hurt any less. Forgive me. It’s more disturbing than painful.

Taylor Swift ‘White Horse’