|
groundflower
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: gina
Location: Lansdale, Pennsylvania, United States
Birthday: 9/1/1990
Interests: pasta & runs (not THE runs)
Expertise: cheese sauce
Occupation: school: more of a consumption
Message: message me
Member Since:
3/9/2006
|
|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| What struck me was the calm in her face, folds and creases gently curved, eyelids half-mast over glassy globes satiated and wise. A pleasant deviation from the dull of the frequently impersonal bakery transaction; with me behind the counter clad in khakis and an apron, I expect anything extraordinary or magical least of all. It was what she said next that makes me recall her likeness to the fabled witch, with slightly hooked nose, crystalline blue eyes and wiry black hair. “Dear, are you in heartbreak?” Are auras color-coded? Is the space above my head possessed by a levitating bubble, wherein all my fleeting thoughts appear in plain type? The question provoked me to remember his calloused hands and feet. I stood impressed. The past month had been spent trying not to think much of the last six years. I’d been upstairs in my own head, walking carefully on the balls of my socked feet so as not to disturb the sleeping memory below. I suppose handling feelings with oven mitts is not a standard practice. She said so matter-of-factly, “I can see it in your face.” Damn, I thought I’d get away with it. Fortunately it takes a third eye to see the silliness.
After accepting the immense strangeness of the strange interaction with this exceptionally strange customer, I confirmed her suspicion and indulged her with some detail. Strangers may love dirt, but do psychic strangers share the same delight? No matter, I could barely resist. The instantaneous familiarity of a medium gave me the impression that I was speaking with a friend. What was relieving was her immediate understanding. What was comforting, her wish of good luck. I handed her a #8 wax paper bag. She grasped my hand from across the counter, while she held it I struggled to express my gratitude: both for her remarkable confidence in my forward motion, and for her spontaneous gift of hope. | | |
| i blot you out
big daubs of paint
what better to coat you than
my warm yellow
my favorite color
and i daub you out
curl my toes
over carpeted stairs
in wait of the descent
i will stretch my smile
folding laughlines
in your absence
my palm perpetually
open to your cheek
| | |
| I've chipped paint for years, can't commit to throwing up a new coat but i feign contentedness just picking.
I finally amassed what courage it required and I started my morning. Despite the effort, my stratagem for avoiding all illness of heart, wet eyes and gasping for breath has left me in the (least) undesirable place. It's all I could've hoped for, to walk away confident that reinvention of self is more worthy a cause than hitting the snooze button and resorting to comfortable stagnancy, even though there in bed the face of love buries itself in my neck. He's cleverly woven himself into everything I see, and he illuminates the irony. That if I am upset, it is self-destructive. That I am the one who convinced him that everything would be alright.
| | |
| I got in my car this sunny morning and flipped through the radio to find a suitably sunny melody. I started really diggin' this song, and then the super distinctive baritone Michael McDonald went to work on the lyrics to "What a fool believes". I was a fool to believe that I was too cool to enjoy Michael McDonald.
| | |
| Getting back in touch! How's about an update.
I've been feeling a tad more aggressive than usual- not sexually, professionally or socially speaking- physically aggressive, and mostly toward acquaintances whom I (perhaps inaccurately) decide need a punch in the face. It helps that I've been exposed to some exceptionally strange folks in the past few weeks, as to be expected when living, socializing and eating exclusively with co-workers. One of these co-workers hails from Maine and consequently has some Maine-made friends to visit on a semi-regular basis. A couple of them (are 20 and have been married for over a year) made the trip not a month ago. They seemed like nice people, not incredibly sociable but kind and healthily nervous, as we (the staff) are ruthlessly judgmental assholes (yeah right). Conversation turned to Jackie Chan, who I have immense respect for and admittedly, a little crush on. I was simply stating what everyone in the room already knew- he's an exceptional martial artist, blah blah -before excusing myself to change before we all departed to all-you-can-eat pizza and bowling, when the male counterpart of the weird Mainer couple rested his hand on my shoulder from behind and said in a too-slick tone of voice "Don't you think you should just change your panties?" to which I very nearly GAGGED in response. I said, without turning or looking at him, "Well THAT was wildly inappropriate". He chuckled and said "Maybe I don't know you well enough to make that joke", and I bit my tongue so as to not retort "You don't know your own wife well enough to make that fucking joke." So maybe that guy deserved my abrasive backlash, but I postulate my aggression is springing from another source. I think I've arrived at a deadly coincidence: sedentary daily job and overload of action movies. Watching movies featuring die-hard heroes invokes some intriguing desires, the most salient of which is my longstanding need to deck a deserving person. To bring an offender to justice, maybe for abusing their pet, or looking interested in my food. In any case, it's probably a better idea all-around to sign up for a kickboxing class and release the steam before I set my sights on some unassuming "criminal".
And my favorite NY Times column, Modern Love:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/08/fashion/08love.html?pagewanted=1
| | |
|
