Some disjointed thoughts on settling versus settling down or how a vegetarian ate bacon for breakfast.

"Maybe we're all in glass houses, and shouldn't throw stones. Because you can never really know. Some people are settling down, some are settling and some people refuse to settle for anything less..."


I'm getting this finally through my head that things don't always turn out the way you're expecting. Exchanging that concept for visions of perfection I've entertained, I feel a good deal closer to finding a sort of happiness I can dig my fingers into.

I had bacon for breakfast this morning. Sitting cross-legged and barefoot, the new morning sun warmed my eyelids and the remains of last night's ponytail. I slid my tongue across my teeth, tasting a midnight cigarette. I had four pieces of bacon, dripping with grease that soaked right through the toast and ran into a little pool that hardened on the edge of the plate. Delicious. Totally not tofu. Goosebumps appeared on my forearms to touch the poignant paradox that sat thick and heavy in the air all around my plate of pork fat.

Life is so full of irony. Most of the time it makes me laugh. The rest of the time it makes me all glassy-eyed and lost in thought and is really responsible for nearly all of the wrinkles on my forehead. It's okay. I don't mind them. I don't mind the gray hairs either, as an unrelated side note that I enjoy celebrating as often and as loudly as possible.

And of coffee..

Two primates can lock lips. Any prick can drag his tongue across another's. It means less than nothing with a lack of sincerity. Fuck what it looks like from the outside; a cup of military brew, black as Iowa mud, delivered far more authenticity than a good-morning kiss.

I want to help

One of my dearest friends just lost her boyfriend of nearly 4 years. My heart aches so much, knowing what she's going through. How can you transfer your understanding and commiserating to somone? How to comfort? Especially the independent souls that run far, far away to bleed... I should know the answer to this one so well. Why do I feel like a bobble-head and a broken record, nodding up a storm and mmm-hmmm-ing and awww-ing. Isn't this what experience is all about? Helping? Let me help...

A connection

We had a book signing at the restaurant last night. I got to have a long talk with the author. An author from Portland, nonetheless. The irony was not lost on me by any means, I assure you.

Why is it I am scared to admit I am a writer when I know, deep down, it's what I really am? I told him how excited I am about moving to Portland, I told about my hopes for art school, my thoughts on leaving journalism...but there was some..block..that kept me from saying I am an aspiring writer. It kept me from saying how much I would like to write a memoir-style book.

It was interesting for me to realize this...and rather unexpected. My heart aches, aches when I think about writing. Does it ache a little more because I don't feel like I am pursuing what I need to be? Because I feel like a failure? Am I embarrassed at my nearly non-existent repertoire of work? I'm not sure.

All self-help meanderings aside, though, it was, wonderful to meet him. Wonderful to meet someone who has a hard copy of their work and experiences that you can hold in your hands and smell and flip through and put on a shelf. It was just nice to meet a real live person with a book.

Also, he turned out to be a fabulous Portland connection. He gave me a layout of the city; what to look for in the different districts, a huge list of phone numbers of personal friends of his in the art and media scene and also owners of bars and restaurants in the area for perspective jobs.

"Peoria is a good place to get stuck in," he said, recounting his time spent here.
"A good place to get stuck?"
"Well, it's a good place. But it's really easy to get stuck. It happens."
"I've noticed. I don't want to be a townie.."
"Then you won't."

So, yes. Portland seems to becoming something of a reality as I simply sit and stare. It's an odd feeling. Like watching a bridge be built and figuring that you'd better hurry up and get your shoes tied if you want to walk across.

And, world, I am a writer at heart, whether I have been hiding these talents under various bushels or not. Just thought I'd throw that out there.

Plastic Surgery

I drop by the tanning salon for sun-kissed skin. I attend yoga on Wednesday nights to establish flexible, sexible joints and an elongated spine. I streak bleach through my hair, apply charcoal to my eyelids and sandpaper my heels to achieve outward loveliness. If I had the means and the want to I could reshape my nose or my breasts or my tush. New fingernails? Sure. Pesky cellulite or stretch marks. Apply a little cream and wa-la. Want blue eyes, or purple? No problem a little piece of plastic can't fix.

But when it comes to character, a trip to Sally's or Regis can't add more sparkle to my conversational skills or remove stray negativity. I want a toner that adds honesty or some pills to pop that incite genuine compassion.

In this age of instant beauty-on-demand, have we as women lost our patience with cultivating a lovely soul?

Maybe the past is like an anchor holding us back. Maybe, you have to let go of who you were to become who you will be. -Carrie Bradshaw

"Allllllllllllll-righty then, lady. Call me sometime."

He buttoned his jacket. It made a comforting crinkle-squeak. She could almost see the leather smell curling up in little waves into the humid night air.

"Maybe. Or maybe I'll wait for you to call me..."

The giant gray sweater exposed one of the girl's shoulders. He followed a tangled curl of hair past her collarbone and noticed the black strap of her bra was too tight. It cut into her shoulder.

"Okay. But it seems like it's always me, girl. Calling you."

He rested his hand lightly on the seat of the bike. She slid her foot out of her shoe, then back in. Out and in, out and in..

"C'mon, it's my way. I'm old-fashioned, or something like that."

Leftover bits of rain drip-dripped off the edges of everything, pretending to be a real, grown-up rainstorm.

"We're way beyond that, baby."

She pulled the sleeves of her sweater down over her hands and raised her eyebrows.

"I'll call, " she said to his exhaust pipe as he rode off.

peace

"Some love stories aren't epic novels - some are short stories. But that doesn't make them any less filled with love." ~Carrie Bradshaw







Regrets are real. And sometimes they're loud and pushy. They won't be avoided or denied. But sometimes you just have to chalk things up for what they were. And then take that next breath, put on that next pair of socks, spread mayo on that next sandwich, smile at the next stranger and take the next breath and flush the next toilet and pick the next flower and buy the next tank of gas and do the next sit-up and take the next breath...and in time, the next next might be finding peace. Looking respectably at regret and acknowledging its existence. And breathing anyway. And carrying on.

For me this means accepting that, just because something didn't last, that doesn't mean it wasn't real. It was. It was real and it was good. And now it's over.

And it's okay, and I'm okay. Not right as rain, but okay. And for whatever odd reason, in that knowledge, I can take heart and move along.

On feeling small and getting mugged.

I am so small. I am insignificant. I am so small. What I have is so small. What I have is nothing. What I have to offer to God..what I have to offer to the world..what I have to offer is nothing. It is my everything, but it is nothing at all. Nothing.

I feel so delicate. I feel like a knick-knack in the bottom corner of a breaking cardboard box on on moving day. I know I will break. Everyone else knows I will break. God knows I will break. This is inevitable. This goes without saying.

I walked to the sketchy gas station on the corner to buy some oil for my car. It lies on the corner of one of the worst blocks of Peoria. I was carrying a twenty dollar bill in one hand and my ipod, phone and keys in the other. A boy with shifty eyes looked me up and down and peered at the contents of my hands. I wondered off-handedly if he had a gun and even more casually, I wondered what the front page would read in tomorrow's Journal Star. Little white girl gets mugged for ipod?

Other than wishing I had worn something other than the ratty batman T-shirt if this was going to be my last day on earth, I found that I had few thoughts on the matter and even less emotion. I wondered, as he passed what had happened to my lack of fear. I've always been a bit reckless, but this was more of a genuine disinterest.

Is this development positive or negative?

On the walk home the character of Sydney Carton from the Tale of Two Cities came to mind.

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known."

I used to be able to make myself cry on cue at this part of the book. Sydney Carton gives a little speech as he takes the place of a man condemned to death.

The most striking thing to me about the whole situation is the calmness Carton has. He is able to preform an ultimate act of bravery without flinching. I don't think it's because he was particularly brave or noble. I think it is because he had no one and nothing holding him back from death.

Hard things in life, simply put, it breaks you down. Into smaller and smaller pieces. And the knick-knack tumbles and tumbles and tumbles and tumbles and becomes sand. It's broken.

I decided something. If I had been shot, I would have bled all over the sidewalk and caused a nasty stain that would have stayed for a while. And then, in a few days people would have been enjoying various types of lunch meat at a memorial service. And then, everyone would be sad for a bit and then move along. And the globe would still turn. I just wouldn't be on it.

That's not so bad. A little lonely, but not so bad.

Maybe the lack-of-fear-of-death isn't bad. It could be pretty damn useful. I want to do far, far better things than I have ever done...