Pardon me my reverie, the sun will shrink tomorrow

Sal's Cologne

2012-02-18T17:37:00.000-08:00

Every day and night, an old, old man who lives on my street takes a walk. He is always dressed to the nine, with a sharp hat and coat to match, and a thick, white handlebar mustache groomed to perfection. He stops to talk to people on his way up and down the street, and occasionally I run into him and stop for a chat. His name is Sal and he moved to Pittsburgh from Italy as a young man, evidenced by his thick Italian accent. He always remembers small details I tell him about my life and asks me about them when we run into one another, even as we meet in passing. He tells me about his homemade wine, and always gives me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, his white grandpa whiskers tickling my skin. It's heartwarming to know that such kind and caring people exist, and that even as a very old man or woman, there is still so much life to be lived, if only one chooses to live it. I will always remember my first deep breathe after each time we part ways, strong with the smell of Sal's cologne.

Lost.

2012-02-13T09:55:00.000-08:00

You
are
sparkling...
gleaming
collecting
dirt, in the farthest corner
near the dustiest edges
of the most
forgotten
place.
I knew I'd find you
so I let you go, to
where?
Ah, yes, I know--that pocket
in that bag;
the space between the stove and the counter;
the tiny zipper part
of my purse, the spot
that exists solely for that moment
when you find it, that it you thought
you'd never
find
again...
the nightstand, beneath the nightstand, behind
the couch,
hovering inside
the bubble in the carpet--
you're there,
but as soon as I look,
try to measure you with my gaze
the uncertainty of your place, shifts space and
you're gone...
to my sock drawer, the dryer lint catcher, that box
inside the box,
inside the box in my head,
under the bed! In the covers...
hidden inside/under
just above/just below
beside
myself, I search and find
a line
of shimmering
dust.

I feel like joy.

2012-01-10T05:25:00.001-08:00

"Life is short, but it is wide."

A Listy-List

2011-12-19T13:33:00.000-08:00

I seem to have a new-found "thing" with making ongoing lists on my blog so, what the hay, here's another.

I shall deem thee, henceforth, my list of all-time favorite songs of...well...all...time.

I don't just mean songs I enjoy. Or songs I really, really like. No, not necessarily even songs that I love. This list is dedicated to only those songs that I find totally irreplaceable and which always have held and always will hold a warm, cushy spot in my heart, just for them.

MMmmm yummy. Let's begin. And in no particular order they are...

1.) Always Be My Baby--Mariah Carey

There is nothing I could be doing that I will not immediately drop to start belting this song at the top of my lungs. Like...forever. It will always be my baby (sorry, I had to).

2.) 100 Years--Five For Fighting

I can think of very few songs as touching and all-encompassing as this one. If a song was a tangible thing, some glowing, warm little trinket that could be held in the palm of one's hand and cherished or given as a gift to someone oh-so special, I'd give this song to all of the kids in my family to grow up listening to and holding in their little hands until they gracefully reach 100 years and know what it's all about.

3.) Remember When--Alan Jackson

This song is along the same lines as 100 Years, though still very unique and special to me. What 100 Years is to the individual, I'd say this song is to the couple. It so beautifully attempts to capture a life and a love in the lyrics and melody of a song, and I would offer that it does a pretty damn good job. Makes me long to live it out in my own way.

4.) Man in the Mirror-Michael Jackson

First of all. If you have a problem with Michael Jackson...I'm going to go ahead and say I have a problem with you. He was an amazing man with about as kind, conscientious, and empathetic a heart as ever there was on this Earth. I feel he was terribly misrepresented and misunderstood. But back to the song. This song is just one of his many calls to action for each of us to, essentially, be better people--to love more and give more and care more. Music is a powerful, universal and far-reaching tool, and to use it in such a noble way, not to mention with such a rockin' beat (makes me wanna dance EVERY time), well that gains my respect and a place on my top songs of all time list :)

5.) The Way You Make Me Feel-Michael Jackson

I physically cannot NOT dance when this song is playing.

6.) In My Head--Jason Derulo

For years I have wondered when i would finally get sick of this song, and I finally know the answer to my question: NEVER. Dancey dance dance WOOO!

I feel like poo.

2011-12-19T10:11:00.000-08:00

I feel like poo today.

First of all, my contacts are not the correct prescription and are annoying the ever-loving crap out of me like nothing has annoyed me before. Well...that is a lie. I'm sure things have annoyed me worse, or at least just as bad.

In keeping with the spirit of being agitated, peeved and/or experiencing a ruffling of one's tail feathers, I am going to make a rare exception on my blog.

I am going to write a post that is inherently negative. Not in an artsy, brooding sense. Just negative. Just full of poop.

Typically i don't like to do this because I don't want to encourage negativity in myself or others, and quite frankly, who really wants to read something with "poo" in the title? I mean, it's a small miracle you've made it this far.

Since Christmas is right around the corner and we all know that Christmas requires cheer at any expense, let us take this opportunity to really give misery one last hoorah before we officially become jolly.

So here it is, my

LIST OF SHIT THAT BUGS THE CRAP OUT OF ME AND MAKES ME FEEL LIKE POO:

-contacts that do not work, and cause one to appear lazy when one avoids doing work at all costs because it gives one an awful headache, causing one's day to feel ruinous.

-the smell of broccoli.

-people who don't know how to drive. Particularly Pittsburgh drivers. Way too timid--be a little more aggressive. When the speed limit says 65, it does not actually mean 40...it obviously means 80. And you people who slow down instead of speed up when you reach an on-ramp, I'm definitely talkin' to YOU TOO.

-doing dishes. looking at dishes in the sink. smelling dishes in the sink. knowing dishes exist in the sink as I hide from said dishes in my bedroom wishing they would just disappear.

-being forced to wake up early.

-people past the age of six who cannot spell and/or use proper and correct grammar.

-southerners. the war is over. you LOST. we WON. now get over it, ya'll.

-people who regularly watch sports of any kind that they do not themselves actually play, or have not actually played in the past.

-ethnocentrism

-CIGARETTES, drugs. sorry if you look down on me for disliking these items. but my vice is food and I prefer to keep it that way.

-chauvinism

-people who live in the USA but constantly talk about how awful it is to live in the USA. no one is forcing you to stay here, bucco. in fact, you should probably go try to live somewhere where you have no freedoms and where your children can't walk outside your own front door without fear of being shot at from a tank. please, feel free to leave, I'll get a good chuckle out of it, and I looove me a good chuckle.

-whorebags
-whorebags
-whorebags

-when anyone, including myself, does not live up to their full potential in life

But, after all of this is said and done, let me just tell you all one thing that I absolutely, positively, love love love and ADORE:

...YOU!

Merry Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanza/Whatever the Hell Tom Cruise celebrates

Much love. Ya'll come back now, ya hear?

More Happiness

2011-12-08T10:02:00.000-08:00

Almost two years ago, I started what I hoped to make into a continuous post on my blog, and that post was about what, essentially, happiness is made of. I asked a bunch of people who I thought might have interesting answers their take on the path to happiness--what traits, activities, or mindsets make a person more predisposed to living a life of true bliss, at least for the most part!

I posted my own personal response on my blog, followed by the responses of a few great friends, and I feel all of our answers were marvelous suggestions to the eternal puzzle of true happiness and what makes up its foundation. Here is the LINK:

Happiness

I was so appreciative of the folks who provided (incredibly wonderful) answers to my question, but, disappointingly, there were only a small few.

I am going to try to jump-start this conversation once again, because the topic is important and moving and life-changing and hey--maybe it will reveal a piece of your puzzle that's been hiding right beneath your nose all along. We can all help each other with our own suggestions, and each of us can learn from another, as well. Even if you don't see fit to adopt any suggestions into your own life, some little nugget may just open up another corner of your mind, because being open to new ideas and perspectives is a virtue in itself.

Be mindful of one of my very FAVORITE quotes of all time, by Aristotle: "It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it."

So who wants to be a guest star on the ol' blog? I will specifically ask some people, but anyone and everyone is welcome to send me a response. Just send whatever you'd like to add to this discussion to my email (or in a Facebook message if you so choose)!

Jstreussnig@zoho.com

And again, here is the link to my original post for background and inspiration:

Happiness

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
AND HERE ARE THE FABULOUS RESPONSES! THANK YOU TO ALL PARTICIPANTS--I HOPE TO INCORPORATE YOUR WISDOM INTO MY LIFE.

"'The greatest degree of inner tranquility comes from the development of love and compassion. The more we care for the happiness of others, the greater is our own sense of well-being.”

- Tenzin Gyatso, 14th Dalai Lama

It sounds oh-so-cliché, but the first thing that comes to my mind when I think about happiness is love. For me, you cannot have true love or true happiness without the other. Now, having a significant other is not the only way to experience this. Just having someone who cares is enough. The feeling that you matter to someone. Love unconditionally and, in turn, unconditional happiness will follow. This provokes the on-going question of what love means, but I digress.

I have been searching for happiness my entire life, but I consciously put effort to the cause about 4 years ago after my father died. I feel like I am finally starting to make progress in my life-long quest to finding the answer.

I feel the most full and satisfied (or happy) when I have all of my shit together, for lack of better words. Now, of course no one can ever have everything all together entirely, but you know, for the most part. A balance is required. Focus on every aspect of your life instead of fully devoting yourself to one little part. When you focus on one thing and neglect the rest, the rest starts to deteriorate until nothing is left. My life parts consist of my family, friends, relationship, dog, work, and school. More often than not, people our age will put all of their energy into their relationship with their significant other, and that’s not horrible or anything, but there needs to be a sort of balance. Same goes for focusing on some other aspect like school or work. All of these things are of equal importance (to me at least). I believe that when there is a balance, there is happiness.

I have experienced times in my life where I think “This is it. This is how it’s supposed to be.” That’s when I know I am truly happy, if only for a moment. For example, the last time I can consciously remember was over the summer. It was late in July, and my friends and I were gathered in Hannah’s back yard for a bonfire. The night sky was beautiful, the weather was perfect, and I yearned for nothing. I was surrounded by people I love, and there was such a positive aura surrounding us. I wasn’t worried about anything; I was only happy. I know that’s a really simple example, but happiness can genuinely be as simple as that.

As Andy Warhol once said, “You have to be willing to get happy about nothing'."

--Alaina Elias, Civil Engineering student at the University of Pittsburgh and Civil Engineering Co-op at Westinghouse Electric Company

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Eventually, there is a breakdown. It's usually over something little, like a criticism, or forgetting to pay my bills on time, or maybe it's something bigger... a death in the family, rejection, or fear. Sometimes it takes something truly vile and dark to open your eyes to what beauty you may have been missing, and for me, that came in a college course, through the words of Viktor Frankl:

'Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response.'

I'll admit it, I am one of those people who believe quotes can change lives. Frankl wrote this in his memoir Man's Search for Meaning, his personal philosophy and psychology, after being held prisoner in a concentration camp for many years. With his philosophy, he was able to overcome so much pain, reiterating how the only way out is 'through.'

Once I began to understand that I was only a prisoner of my mind, my self-destructive behavior, medications, and therapy all stopped. There are millions of things in this world that we are unable to control, but sometimes we forget about the one thing we have absolute control over: our reactions. Maybe it's not as easy as waking up everyday and telling yourself it's going to be a great day, but then again -- maybe, it is.

For me, happiness is a choice, and it starts with each moment."

--Cassandra Pierce, Psychology student at the University of Pittsburgh

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"As for my reply the short answer would have to be a sense of purpose and love, in which ever order suites you. To feel as if you've accomplished something and to have a sense of purpose for the moment and for the moments to come puts life into perspective, I feel. It makes it easier to wake up the next day and try try try again and thus increases one's level of happiness. And to have love makes it all worth while. It doesn't have to be the romantic love we fantisize on the silver screen or in our own imaginiations, but even as simple as loving oneself can make or break the experience that is life. To love what you do and how you do it makes the accomplishment taste all the more sweet and the sweat you put into achieving that purose worth the effort. To quote the beautiful musical Moulin Rouge, 'love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is love'."

-Tisha Farris, University of Pittsburgh graduate with Bachelors degree in Environmental Studies and Yogini at Santa Fe Community Yoga Center

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"The first thing that came to my mind, was Self-Worth. Having low self-esteem most of my life created a spiral of unhappiness. Realizing my self-worth (which came from finding success in life) changed my entire outlook on life.

Secondly... acceptance. I suppose for me, acceptance strongly correlates with satisfaction. I mean this in an absolutely positive way. I learned to accept that certain things weren't going to go my way, or certain people weren't going change, or certain memories would always be painful--- this led me to remove myself from the hurtful people, situations and problems that I could. I accepted defeats and failures-- and because I knew that I had tried everything in my power, I was satisfied with the outcome. Maybe not happy ... or sad... but satisfied.

Kind of like the serenity prayer, 'God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and Wisdom to know the difference'."

-Melanie Steuernagel

Special Education Teacher at Derry Area Senior High School and mommy of one Aubrey Rose Steuernagel

My Bucket List--Past, Present, and Future

2011-12-06T15:04:00.000-08:00

I had a bucket list growing up, and I have since lost it. However, I remember a lot of what was on it, and I have plenty of new things to add, so here is the new one. I will add to this as I think of things and accomplish things! Also, afterward I will list what I have accomplished so far.

My Bucket List

Spend New Year's Eve in Times Square
Ride a hot air balloon
Get a book published
Get some of my poetry published
Get a photograph published
Get something published in a respected magazine (The New Yorker, etc.)
Try surfing
Learn to speak Spanish (or whatever language other than English) fluently
Take a cooking class
Take ballroom dancing class
Live with Amish people for at least three consecutive days
Drive on the Odoban
Go inside the Tower of London
Go white-water rafting
Go inside the Statue of Liberty
Go to Ellis Island
Join the Mile High club ;)
See the Mona Lisa in person
Go to the Sistine Chapel
See the Great Wall of China
Take a ghost tour in Gettysburg
Go to California--San Francisco and Golden Gate Bridge
Take a singing class
Model in an ad
Be on T.V.
See the Vatican
Go to a psychic
Be in a movie with a speaking part
Get hypnotized
Live in a brownstone in New York City
Make my family tree
Kiss a complete stranger and walk away, never saying a word
Smoke peyote in the desert
Make a documentary and enter it in a competition
See London, Paris, Africa, Tokyo, Italy (Calabria and Venice), Germany
See concentration camps in Germany
Set foot in all fifty states
Go to Disneyland
Volunteer somewhere regularly
Volunteer in a foreign country
Get a word in the dictionary
Sell my artwork, to a stranger
Invent something and get a patent for it
Read poetry at the Bowery
Succeed at spoken word
Go to a cafe in Amsterdam
Paint a mural
Go to a fashion show
Ice skate at Rockefeller Center
See the Rockettes
Go to a murder mystery dinner
Have an art exhibit in New York City
Go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. Take ghost tour while there.
Buy stocks
Watch "The Way We Were," It's a Wonderful Life," and Gone With the Wind."
Sing "Oh Holy Night" at church on Christmas Eve while my family is there
Hang out with really famous people--NOT politicians or athletes.
Live in a foreign country for more than a month
Give a lecture
Teach a class
Try food from as many countries as I possibly can
Run a 1/2 marathon
Ride a jet ski
Be in a commercial
Dance in the Nutcracker
Buy everyone in my family something expensive they want
Talk to a prostitute about her life
Karaoke alone
Learn to bartend
Go to some sort of Michael Jackson event
See the Pyramids in Egypt
Graduate college
Go to all continents

Some of what I have accomplished (in a rush--will add more later)

Work at Victoria's Secret
Go to the top of the Empire State Building
Go to the top of the Sear's Tower
Have an art exhibit of my own
Get my artwork published
Have my very own dog
Read my poetry at an open mic
Work at Westinghouse
Learn to Waitress
Volunteer at a soup kitchen
Watch One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
Learn to drive a stick
Try wakeboarding
Learn to snowboard
Compete in gymnastics
Write for my college newspaper
Go to the south (Tennessee!)
See Chicago
See New York City

TO BE CONTINUED :D

It's not something I really want to face. But there was dirt on my face, and I put it there. My knees gave out, I couldn't stand. I couldn't stand anything at all.

2011-12-05T07:24:00.000-08:00

I had a nightmare

and it lasted for days.

It came to a head this weekend, and I thought I'd never escape. I grabbed my hair and screamed; I pinched myself and punched myself and smacked my head against white-washed concrete, but I couldn't wake up. I still had dirt under my fingernails just yesterday from clawing the ground (they're painted red, now), digging for what I'm not sure. Maybe I was digging for Hell because even that would have been better than the macabre reality I was stuck in the middle of like a poor, helpless fly in a spider's web. But I felt smaller than a fly. I felt smaller than the smallest thing, yet I held enough terror inside me to drown a city.

He screamed at me and slammed the car door, and the glass didn't shatter but my insides did. Tears unleashed but they did no good this time--didn't soften his angry heart, and I shouted at him through the night to please get back in so we could go home. Our home was a twisted and gnarled mirror, a contorted funhouse reflection (though not so fun) of what it used to be or what it could have been or what it should have been, or a little bit of each.

My happiness laughed at me, an evil, scornful laugh as it hung in the air above his head, just out of my reach, black and choking me where once it had slid down easily as honey in warm tea. It mocked me now, my happiness, and I chased it, wild and frantic, with the car but could never catch up, not even close. He got back in and took the wheel, and the car jerked and swayed and my stomach wretched--he was drunk.

And I screamed like I was inside a glass bubble and he ignored me like he was outside the bubble and I tried to jump out of the speeding car, but he caught me. I told him that I wanted to die and he coolly told me "no," that I didn't want to die, but for the first time in awhile, I felt it was my only true escape.

He talked to my ex over text as the car ripped and roared and winded, too fast and not always in our lane, down back roads I'd probably known before but in my haze could not recognize. I couldn't look in the mirror--I wouldn't recognize her either. I could feel my skin turning read, the chaffing tears were digging ravines in my pretty little cheeks, and the nightmare went on.

They talked and I didn't know what it was about. "What are you talking about?" I asked him, my stomach clenched in utter regret and turmoil for living the last five years of my life at all. "Why?" he asked with a caustic attitude, "you scared I'm gonna find something out?"

The acid inside me boiled; we were out of the car and we were back in it. My phone was thrown on the pavement, hard, twice, by some girl who had once been me, and I hoped I'd never have to look at it again, the thing that seemed to ruin my world, flip it upside down and shake it until I couldn't recognize a single detail. I wanted to throw up. I was going to throw up. My stomach heaved, again and again, but I couldn't exorcise the upset inside. I'd have to keep it wrapped in viscera, waiting there, wet and warm and throbbing, anxious to seize upon and strangle whatever future joy I might think I've found between nightmares.

Hell is probably a place on earth, and it's not just for bad people. Seated at the right hand of the devil, stabbed and burnt, is all of us, waiting and hoping and praying that we might wake up.

Hankyyy, the Christmas Pooo

2011-11-28T07:45:00.000-08:00

At work today, a random Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo was discovered on the white board of a conference room. Fast forward fifteen minutes. I'm being pulled aside by my administrator, being asked about the suspicious poo. I act clueless. She knows better. I am instructed to go and erase the naughty poo. I comply, yet can't help but ask, "How did you know that I drew the poo?" Her reply? "I just figured." I wouldn't change my reputation for anything.

breaking up with God...words to keep.

2011-11-23T09:49:00.000-08:00

I have just finished reading Breaking up with God, a love story, by Sarah Sentilles, and now, I must write down my most favorite sentences, paragraphs, passages, words--words to keep, before the book goes into the return bin at the Carnegie in Oakland :) Consider this my book review, and my treasure trove.

Sentilles, who graduated from Yale with a bachelor's degree in literature and a master's of divinity, and from Harvard with a doctorate in theology, relays her professor of theology at Harvard, Gordon Kaufman's, perspective on God, through a quote taken from his book, In Face of Mystery. The quote is by a Jewish philosopher named Martin Buber:

"God is the most heavy-laden of all human words. None has become so soiled, so mutilated. Just for this reason, I may not abandon it. Generations...have laid the burden of their anxious lives upon this word and weighed it to the ground; it lies in the dust and bears their whole burden. [Humans] with their religious factions have torn the word to pieces; they have killed for it and died for it, and it bears their fingermarks and their blood...But we may not give it up...We cannot cleanse the word 'God' and we cannot make it whole; but, defiled and mutilated as it is, we can raise it from the ground and set it over an hour of great care" (p116).

I feel this is a very eloquent and expansive view of God that speaks to human nature's imperfections and failures, its stubbornness and its ability to hate and to love so deeply, so resiliently, as to hope for greater good to preside over and heal even the evil humans have caused with their own hands.

.................................

And then:

"I imagined God in my studio, in the butterfly chair in the corner of my space reading passages chosen from the lost and buried holy texts to remind me I was participating in the ongoing work of creation. Listen to this, God said. 'If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is in you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you' (p132).

"The ongoing work of creation," or, taking more responsibility onto our own shoulders for continuing the work of God, whatever he or she may be or not be, wherever in the cosmos this entity may reside, is noble work, indeed. It is up to us to create, to pour forth what is inside us and let the light shine on it. This is doing the work of God. But even after this, our job is not done. The work of God is ongoing.

.....................................

Next, Sentilles mentions the theologian Ludwig Feuerbach and his perspective, as gleaned from his book, The Essence of Christianity.

(The following, in quotations, are Sentille's words.)

Feuerbach argues that "Christianity has taken everything that is good about humanity and projected it onto God. All of the good things that belong to us as a species--love, generosity, strength, beauty, justice--we've given to God. God and humans have been mistakenly construed as opposites: God infinite, humans finite; God perfect, humans imperfect; God eternal, humans temporal; God almighty, humans weak; God holy, humans sinful. The good news, however, at least according to Feuerbach, is that the situation can be easily remedied. All we need to recognize is that the qualities we have ascribed to God actually belong to humanity.

In other words, Christianity has turned God into a kind of superhero capable of doing everything human beings can't do, a move that renders humans helpless, small, in need of rescue. We enrich God, Feuerbach argues, but we impoverish the world."

Each time I read this, a slow smile creeps onto my face, so many words and feeling pulsing through me. Yet when I open my mouth, all I can whisper is, Wow. That is truly a novel concept, one that I have never really pondered, nor have I ever really heard anywhere, from anyone. Have human beings as a whole ever, ever, collectively decided, come together and realized, allowed themselves to do something resembling admitting, that the world is in our own hands? This isn't necessarily to say there is no God, but that we can, and just maybe, we must, be the ones to change the world. Saying a prayer should not be thought of as action so much as reaching into the pot and getting your own hands dirty instead of waiting for God's all-encompassing hands to reach down from the heavens. If there is a God or if there isn't, maybe it is our job not to pray that he will save us, not to pray that he will save our neighbors, but to be each other's heroes...to save each other. What an incredible, empowering idea. What a new way of looking at God. Christians go so far as to say that we are all created in God's image, yet never so far as to consider that maybe that means the saving is up to you and me.

"We are the ones we have been waiting for" (p220-221).

............................

"Love one another."

"I walked away from Christianity and left behind the story I had been telling about my life, the story in which I needed God to feel right, seen, loved, safe, chosen. Without that version of God, I had to write something new.

Words are world-making--they get inside our heads and shape the stories we tell about what is possible--for ourselves, for the earth, for all the beings we share the earth with. God says, Let there be light, and there is light. To make something beautiful--a painting, a novel, a sculpture, a meal, a play--is world-changing. Look! I imagine these creations saying. The whole world is a sanctuary. Look! We can make the world a place where everyone and everything can thrive."

Breaking up with God, a love story, by Sarah Sentilles,
New York: HarperOne, c2011.
.............................................

Maroon Five-Never Gonna Leave This Bed lyrics

2011-11-17T07:29:00.000-08:00

Why is the following relevant? It's how I feel about my hunny.

You push me, I don't have the strength to
Resist or control you
So take me down, take me down

You hurt me but do I deserve this?
You make me so nervous
Calm me down, calm me down

Wake you up in the middle of the night to say
I will never walk away again
I'm never gonna leave this bed

So come here and never leave this place
Perfection of your face
Slows me down, slows me down

So fall down, I need you to trust me
Go easy, don't rush me
Help me out, why don't you help me out?

Wake you up in the middle of the night to say
I will never walk away again
I'm never gonna leave this bed

So you say go, it isn't worth it
And I say no, it isn't perfect
So I stay and still
I'm never gonna leave this bed

Take it, take it all, take all that I have
I'd give it all away just to get you back
And fake it, fake it, I'll take what I can get

Knocking so loud
Can you hear me yet?
Try to stay awake
But you can't forget

Wake you up in the middle of the night to say
I will never walk away again
I'm never gonna leave this bed

You say go, it isn't worth it
And I say no, it isn't perfect
So I stay and still
I'm never gonna leave this bed

Take it, take it all
Take all that I have
Take it, take it all
Take all that I have

Take it, take it all
Take all that I have
Take it, take it all
Take all that I have

Take it, take it all
Take all that I have
Take it, take it all
Take all that I have

Take it, take it all
Take all that I have

Sad Truth

2011-11-15T13:31:00.001-08:00

Why does it seem like the more you do for someone, the less they appreciate you, but the less you do, the more they kiss your ass?

My New York City Adventure

2011-11-15T09:54:00.000-08:00

New York City, the place of my dreams. The place I felt at home. The place that I always knew I belonged…

It was a rainy Thursday night and I had fallen asleep on the shoulder of my fiancé as we watched Horrible Bosses in our bedroom amidst the clutter of my last-minute packing. It was going to be a fabulous, but long, weekend, and I knew it would be in my best interest to catch some Z’s, though I also knew I’d probably sleep for most of the nine hour bus ride ahead of me. Yes, I would board the bus, fall into a comfortable but excited sleep, and in no time, wake to find myself in my most favorite place in the world—New York City.

“Get up…get up!” Scott shook me from my deep and contented sleep. The alarm had gone off. It was midnight—time to go to the bus station. I rolled over and mumbled “I know, I know” with a tone just evil enough, I thought, to get him to leave me alone for just a few more minutes. The trip I had been so looking forward to had arrived, but couldn’t I just nap a little longer?

Scott carried my excessively heavy bag to the bus terminal. The night was still and quiet but the Greyhound station was bopping. People coming and going and waiting in line; my adventure was beginning and I got a rush of excitement where I had expected a rush of sadness and nostalgia to be. Sure, I was sad to watch Scott walk back out the door past the guy who was taking his own little nap just inside the entryway of the bus station, but I would see him in a few days. Everything would be fine. I was on my way to New York!

Fast forward a few minutes, and I was a little later to board the bus than I had wanted to be. Not that it mattered much; “We will be filling every seat, so please move your bags and personal items to make room” bellowed the bus driver. Timing aside, I would not be so lucky as to have my own seat for the journey. I’d have to share.

Sleeping on the bus was more difficult than I recalled, especially sitting next to a “buddy.” I had taken a few long bus trips in my day, but had it always hurt my neck this much…? Three hours down as we arrived at the first stop somewhere outside Philly, and only six more to go. I decided to grab some food at the rest station. After all, I wasn’t getting much rest.

Around five A.M., it is most undesirable to be parked at a truck and bus rest station. The bathrooms are dirty. The food is greasy. And the creepers are out in full force.

“Is that a wig?” He was about 5’-6”, forty years old, partially cross-eyed and wearing clothes that had definitely been washed…a few weeks ago. Travelling with a younger girl, most assuredly no older than twenty-five, he assured me that he was no “creep,” with a chuckle that was oh-so-creepy. “So you’ve just got that beautiful red hair,” he continued. I was obvious in making a pained expression, an eye-ball-avoiding expression that begged ‘please, stop speaking to me.’ It was to no avail. Creepers tend to be particularly clueless when it comes to social cues of any sort.

Just before I got out of line due to my high level of discomfort and decided I’d have to wait until the next stop to get some food, he asked what I was doing up so late, and informed me that he was on a Greyhound bus travelling. As I re-boarded the bus, I prayed he wouldn’t realize I was riding the same damn one as him.

Finally, the bus arrived at the Port Authority station in New York City. The cramped bus ride and the creeper confrontation behind me, I was excited as shit. I hurriedly grabbed my bags and headed for the restroom. Not only did I have to pee, but I absolutely had to change into my “New Yorker” clothes, muuuuch more stylish and sophisticated than my “Greyhound bus-rider” clothes.

I looked hot. I looked New York. I looked like an idiot wobbling down the sidewalk in my heels trying to carry my overly-stuffed bags as I aimlessly walked, hoping to run into someone who would take my bags, take my hand, and kindly guide me to my Secaucus, New Jersey hotel room, for free.

When that didn’t happen, I stopped at McDonald’s to sit down. The cashier complemented my lovely red hair decision and I drank a huge cup of iced Hazelnut coffee, both of which upped my energy and confidence levels enough to continue on my journey.

Somehow I found out that the New Jersey transit station was about ten blocks from where I stood (I honestly cannot remember how I learned that information to this day), so I hopped into a cab. The driver was awesome and we chatted about traveling and why each of us had come to the city, two little fish in a ginormous pond. It was nice to feel that sort of camaraderie, and I gave myself a mental pat on the back. This was why I was here, I thought. To be young and chase my dreams and take chances. It was heartwarming, but then I got out of the cab. And I was alone again. With all my bags. And little did I know, about to take a train to the armpit of America.

At this point, I met one of the first in a series of guardian angels. God sent them there, just for me, I know it. Or maybe he just nudged me to run into them. At the worst, they were serendipitous finds, and I hold that I may not have survived without them. But I digress.

Guardian angel number one was on his way to New Jersey, but a different part of New Jersey than me. We navigated the train station together until we found where we were going, the same train. He carried my bag on and talked with me until we arrived at my destination. With a wave and a smile he was gone, and I was left to face…nothing. Where was I? It seemed like the middle of nowhere, dotted with a few trees and shady-looking cab drivers. Well, the hotel clerk had assured me that the hotel was only a short trip from Manhattan, 8 miles outside the city to be exact. After my ten minute train ride, how much further could it be?

I hopped into one of the shady cabs. “Red Roof Inn,” I said as I noticed that there was no time meter. Apparently this guy had been doing this for awhile and could keep track of the distance and cost all by himself with absolute precision. When he started the car, Spanish music began to play loudly, and the driver quickly turned it down and put on a different (more white?) station. I laughed and told him to change it back. “You like that?” he asked. “Yes!”

Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at the hotel. It seemed nice enough. My journey was $20. Horrible, no. Unexpected…yes. I entered the lobby, which incidentally was a single room, removed from the hotel itself, the hotel which turned out to be more of what I’d call a motel in its architecture (open middle, doors directly from outside to each room). I went to the front desk, trying to keep hope alive. “That will be $129.99” said the guy at the desk. Oh, but no, there must be a mistake, I say. I paid online, I say. I thought I had already taken care of it.

Well. Apparently I had not. My card information had been taken merely to reserve the room. I had to pay now.

When I reached my room, I held my breath, hoping that I had chosen somewhere clean. Stepping inside, I let out a sigh of relief. It was actually really nice. Maybe things would look up a bit. I could finally relax. But then…

I started to add. Four dollars to ride the train. Twenty for the taxi. If I was going to go back to the city, back to the hotel, back to the city…that was really going to add up. I thought I was snagging a deal getting a hotel in Jersey for at least a hundred dollars cheaper than I would’ve paid by staying in Manhattan, but it turned out, I’d forgotten the cost of transit. I was going to spend double what I had planned…I had to get out of it.

Tyree and I met in a literature class at Pitt a few years back. He was an acting student, gregarious and friendly, with a personality that swelled to fill a room. I knew he had been living in Brooklyn and though we didn’t know each other very well, figured maybe he’d be willing to help a girl out. I had asked him prior to my trip about staying at his place, and he’d welcomed me with open arms. I wondered if the offer was still good.

“Hey Ty! So…is the offer still open to stay at your place? I’m having a bit of a disaster…”

McKibben Avenue, said the text. Somewhere in Brooklyn. I’d have to find it…somehow. Fortunately, the hotel clerk had kindly refunded my money, a small miracle, I figured, especially since I’d already taken a crap in the room...”Did you use anything in the room?” “Nope…hehe.”

I had thrown him a twenty dollar tip in gratitude, telling him he’d saved me so much hassle. I’d very quickly regret that, as my NYC trip price tag was only going to go up.

Naively thinking that staying at Ty’s meant my money woes had ended, I decided to skip the train altogether and take a taxi from the hotel straight back into Manhattan. How much more could it be? Probably only a few bucks, I decided, as I loaded my bag in the trunk.

The driver and I were having a nice chat, even as we drove through the toll where I watched him hand $12 to the toll booth operator, silently wondering ‘Am I going to have to pay that?’

We talked some more and I asked him where he was from. “Jordan,” he replied. “No way!” I said, “That’s my name!”

He asked me where I’d like to be dropped off as we entered the city. I still hadn’t heard back from Ty after asking him which train to take to his place, so I awkwardly replied “Uhhh…here is fine I guess.” I got out all the cash I had, figuring this would be a big-ticket ride, probably around $30, $35 or so.

“That’ll be $65 dollars,” said the man from Jordan. My jaw fell open. How could this be? I could barely speak.

“Sixty…wait…what!?” I stuttered, hoping against all hope he had said $16. I would laugh in relief, he would laugh at the notion that such a short trip could ever cost $65, and we’d both go happily on our ways.

“Sixty five dollars,” he repeated, and reality finally set in. This trip was turning out to be a disaster, and it had barely just begun.

A few ATMs, tears, and phone conversations with my mother later, I was back on the streets of Manhattan, still lugging around a closet worth of clothes and shoes with no food in my stomach, little money in my wallet, and no real destination in mind. What was I going to do? I really didn’t know anymore.

I consider myself a pretty tough person, but even my resolve was wearing thin. New York and I had been so close, so in LOVE and now…now what? It was chewing me up and preparing to spit me out, an unassuming outsider new to the game. Was our relationship over? Could New York really do this to me, ME, who it had so kindly taken in during trips past, who it had beckoned to for a lifetime, called out to as the place of such hope and dreams?

I was as outraged as if I had just found a lover cheating on me. I was experiencing isolation of affection, being snubbed by the one I still loved so much, and, freshly jilted, I just couldn’t accept that things would turn out this way. I had to admit it: New York and I were officially fighting. And as I made my way to the subway entrance, my backbone hardening in defiance, I decided I was going to win.

I took a few different subways. I went up onto the street, and back down beneath. I asked for help and I looked at maps. And then, after finally calling the NYC Transit, I learned what two trains I need to take to make it to McKibben Street, Brooklyn. And make it is what I did.

My shoulder was killing me from lugging that damn bag, all those stupid outfits I likely wouldn’t even get to wear anyway. I sighed a small sigh of relief as I ascended the stairs to the street. I’d get hold of my friend, take my things into his place, and we’d probably drink coffee and laugh about my travels turned travails.

But a new scene was waiting for me as I heaved my bag onto the sidewalk. I’d never been to Brooklyn before, and what stood before me looked, in my eyes, like a veritable ghetto wasteland. There was graffiti painted on brick walls everywhere I looked, walls topped with curling ribbons of barbed wire. Trash lay in the street, on the sidewalk. There were no storefronts to be found, and I passed a white van that had black and red graffiti words covering the side, words that I couldn’t really make out but which had the letters “D-Y-E-I-N-G” and “T-E-E-N” distinctly legible…no joke. My phone chirped at me and my stomach began to sink as I realized it was about to die. And darkness was slowly beginning to fall. Not to mention that I couldn’t even find McKibben Street. I walked around for awhile searching, and even though I had a map, I couldn’t seem to make heads nor tails of it. I was starting to panic.

I found a gated park with a playground on the corner of a block, and decided to sit on a bench there to wait until I heard from Ty. It gave some semblance of safety in an otherwise rough-looking neighborhood, but as a group of tough-looking guys entered the park, my uneasiness continued to deepen.

“I am getting nervous,” I texted Ty. “My phone is about to die, I can’t find your house.”

I waited a few minutes, planning my escape if I didn’t hear back from him. If it got dark, I would head back to the subway. Maybe just ride it all night if I had to. Anything to get me off these streets.

“Chirp!” My phone went off and this time, it was Ty giving me directions to his house. “I’m coming home, just wait inside the door,” it said. With another heave-ho of effort I yanked my bag onto my shoulder and walked out of the park, trying again to find his house. I did. I got up to the door, thankful and ready for the indoors—I was really getting cold. I set down my bag and grabbed the door handle…locked. Well, of course it is locked, I thought, silently chastising myself for thinking that it wouldn’t be. I tried to think of another option as I hoped, not knowing how far he was, that Ty would hurry.

I started running through the directory of names next to the door. All I had to do was choose a safe-sounding name and ring the buzzer, I thought. I could tell them I locked myself out or something. Now who to choose…

Luckily, before I had to attempt that, a young guy came bursting out of the door. I must’ve looked a mess, because he looked at me and chuckled before handing off the door and walking away into the night.

I must’ve only sat at the bottom of the staircase inside for fifteen minutes or so before a hipster girl with mismatched pants (yes, she was wearing two pairs, and they didn’t match each other) came down the steps. She had a head full of curlers and a defiant sort of walk, like she knew where she was going and get the Hell out of her way. She brushed past me without so much as a smile and stuck her head out the door. When no one was outside, she looked at me. “Are you Ty’s friend?” she asked impatiently, and in a manner that seemed to say “I hope you aren’t.” To her apparent dismay, I was. She turned and went back up the stairs as quickly as she had descended them, leaving me to hurriedly try to finagle my bag and chase after her. I followed her up onto a high-ceilinged floor, creaky hardwood beneath my feet. We rushed down a hallway of doors until we came to the end, 406. She opened the door and ran in ahead of me, back to what she was doing before being interrupted with my undesirable presence.

I stood feeling awkward, waiting for the inevitable “Hello” or “How was your trip” or “Have a seat.” It never came. At this point, I wasn’t surprised, and I pulled up a seat on the floor next to an outlet where I plugged in my phone. “Are you still coming home now…?” I texted Ty. His response was a yes, but it would be a long time until he actually arrived. A long time of sitting on the floor. Alone beside some girl. Some girl who obviously, for whatever reason, wanted nothing to do with me.

The hippie hipsters came filing in the door. I had been waiting about an hour now, and had just about given up on seeing a friendly face. “Hello!” one of them offered with a smile as he approached me. “I’m Buck. Do you need anything? Are you comfortable? Is everything okay?” he fired off in succession. He looked at me, waiting, and I couldn’t help but smile; “Nope, I’m good,” I said, and followed him to the living room where the rest of them were headed.

“Are we gonna bring blankets? Handwarmers?” one of them said, to no one in particular. “I have handed out thousands of fliers already today,” said another. Each of the three seemed to be on a mission, some collective endeavor underway. I don’t know if it was the fact that Buck had been so kind to me, or that I just felt I had little more to lose, but I walked to the center of the room and started to talk.

“So are you guys having some kind of protest?” I asked, genuinely interested in what was charging the air with so much buzz. They told me it was a sit-in more than a protest. They said Wall Street and the government had bossed them around enough. The system was in a state of disarray, and today, on 11-11-11, at (what other time than) 11:11 P.M., they were staging a formal cry for justice. And they had invited most of New York City, it sounded like, to join them. It was a movement and a prayer and Buck had $600 to post their bail if and when they got arrested.

“You should come,” they said. “Would you like some hash?”

………………………..

“Are you okay??” asked Scott in a worried voice when I went into the other room to call him. “Yeah, things are actually turning around. Ty hasn’t gotten home yet, but I’ve met his roommates, and they’re wild!” I laughed. We are going to go to Central park for…some kind of protest or something. They’re hippies!” Scott laughed and told me that sounded awesome, and before we hung up he explained to me what hash was, jokingly asking me to bring some back for him. I sighed and told him absolutely no with a laugh just as Ty, my second angel, walked through the front door.

………………………..

He had made it, by my and I’m sure a lot of other peoples’ standards. He was on an HBO show. Just one or two episodes, he said. No big deal. And he smiled, showing off the signature gap between his two front teeth. “It’s so nice to see you,” he said, and I replied with the same. It really was so nice to see a friendly and familiar face. And with the time of the sit-in nearing, I thought maybe I’d get my real adventure after all.

…………………………………..

Not to disappoint anyone, but I never made it to the sit-in. I mean, I almost made it. I went with Ty and the guys to Central Park. We handed out fliers on the subway on our way there, and then staked out the park for the perfect spot. Supposedly, this was a bigger movement than just that night in New York City. It was a nationwide event, spanning the past few months, called Occupy, originally Occupy Wall Street, but the location had expanded. More people started showing up, and I was definitely excited. Afterall, this had the potential to be one of those sit-your-grandkids-down-and-brag-how-you-were-there kind of things.

But let’s face it. I had just endured more than I ever anticipated. I was hungry. It was cold. And I had managed to end up with the option of another, much cushier, place to stay.

…………………..

It was in Park Slope, still Brooklyn, but decidedly on the other side of the tracks from where I had been. I had wanted to take the subway there, leery of spending another dime on outrageously-priced cab fare, but my mom’s boyfriend’s sister, who had so kindly offered me a place to stay (IF and only IF I got there by ten P.M., however…so much for the sit-in) warned me that no, I needed to take a cab. Their subway station had a rapist a few months back attacking women at night. Apparently after being sought out by the police the man had downgraded to groping, but she still advised I take a cab, so I did.

We pulled up in front of the apartment. Thirty-four dollars this time. Eh, at least it wasn’t sixty, I thought. As I got out of the cab I thought to myself “Jordy, we aren’t in Kansas anymore!” And I meant that in a good way.

Lauren, Angel #3, invited me in to what I consider a pretty damn swanky-looking apartment. The floors were hardwood, the kitchen was brand new, in fact, it looked like just about everything in there was brand new. She gave me blankets and a fresh towel and told me to not “be frightened when Ronald gets home, he’s out with his friends.”

I called Scott and cried to him about how badly I wanted to come home after the lights went out. I just want to take an earlier bus tomorrow, I whined, dreading another entire day of battling the city that had so harshly thrown me out of its once-loving arms. “Come back earlier,” he said. “I’m going to,” I said. We hung up after our ‘I love yous,’ and the last thing I remember thinking before falling asleep was ‘Please God don’t let me leak any fluids out of my body onto this super nice and expensive white couch.’

………………………………

I woke up in the morning to the sound of someone on the phone speaking…Italian? I was pretty sure it was Italian, anyway, because I recognized two of the words, which I will translate for you now: “Mother Fucker” and “Shit.” ‘This dude is either really pissed that I am here, or he and I are going to get along splendidly,’ I thought. He ended up being Angel # 4.

He saw me stir and came over to the couch, leaning down close to my face in that invasion of personal space way that only Europeans seem to have truly mastered. “Why are you still sleeping?” he asked, genuinely perplexed. I looked at the time. Nine o’clock, still early in my book. “Uhhh…I’m tired,” I said slowly, not understanding his confusion. “My stomach kind of hurts too” I say. He remains very close to my face, his face contorting, “Are you pregnant??” come the words, thick with accent. “No!” I shout, sitting up and leaning away from him, sort of offended. Who the heck did this guy think he was? ‘Am I pregnant, pssshh, who was he kidding?’ I thought. ‘Now that would be an immaculate conception.’

“Would you like some coffee?” I shook my head no. “Tea?...Eggs? What do you want?” he asked as I continued to politely decline. I kept saying no, he kept prodding. He was kind of getting on my nerves. I finally told him I’d have some coffee “if it’ll make you happy,” and I walked over to the kitchen.

“Vabiya?” he asked as he reached into one of the boxes of Wolfgang Puck k-cups in the cupboard. “Huh?” “Vavilla?” “What?” “Babila?” “WHAT ARE YOU SAY—wait…vanilla??” I said. He nodded anxiously, smiling. I said yes and laughed. He laughed too. I decided this Ronald guy and I might actually get along after all.

I told him I loved New York, and he said, “It’s fucking expensive.” I told him I knew and then asked him how much his rent was, and he told me. He was just that kind of guy. And the rent was… a lot. I asked him how much money he made. I always ask people in New York those questions, however rude they may be, because I can’t understand how that many people can afford such an ungodly expensive place. If they can all do it, why can’t I? I wanted to find the loophole.

He wouldn’t tell me how much he made, just that it was “more than sixty-thousand.” He said “You have to make more than sixty-thousand to live here.”

He told me he was from Austria and I told him I was Austrian, too. He didn’t believe me, so I showed him my name on my license. He read it aloud, in the way it was supposed to be said, I would imagine, and then he asked me to say it again. “Streussnig,” I said, and he started to laugh. I was obviously very much an American, but at least it was entertaining.

“Jordan, Jordan,” he kept calling me. “Jordan, Jordan, what are you going to do all day?” “Walk around Manhattan…who knows,” I say, a teeny sliver of the excitement that is New York starting to creep back into my chest.

‘Who cares how yesterday went,’ I think to myself. ‘I have a brand new day in New York, and I’m going to try to have fun.’

…………………………….

I took the subway (which just so happened to be basked in daylight and groper/rapist-free) back into Manhattan. I was STARVING and I knew just where I wanted to eat—the Manhattan Bistro. Supposedly pretty affordable and not far from where I got off of the subway, the Bistro sits on the site of a notorious Eighteenth century murder, and was said to be haunted. In fact, it was on the Travel Channel’s Top Ten list for haunted places in America. I was totally game.

Sitting at my lonely little one-man table inside, I looked around as I awaited my French toast brunch. The place was really nice, but slightly disappointing in its unhaunted appeal. No ghosts. No unexplained happenings. Just a bunch of people drinking wine and chatting on a lazy Saturday afternoon, untroubled by the realm of the unknown.

I got bored with thinking about the dead, so I focused my attention now on the living. The wait staff was almost exclusively Italian, and they spoke freely together in the language of spaghetti and romance. It was charming. My French toast arrived and was really delicious, but slightly too rich. It didn’t really matter though; I felt famished. I started to gobble it down and as I did, one waiter in particular caught my eye. He was gorgeous. Flawless. My Italian stallion, er, waiter. I kept an eye on him through my meal, just for fun, sizing him up as anyone would such a lovely piece of artistic specimen, when suddenly, my stomach crapped out on me. I had been so busy admiring the scenery that I hadn’t realized I was pushing limits. I had to go. Now.

I grabbed my purse and hurriedly ran downstairs to the bathroom, praying to God I wouldn’t throw up. ‘Why can’t I get a damn break this weekend?’ I thought to myself, sitting in the bathroom, just waiting to feel O.K. enough to go up and pay my bill with some amount of confidence that I wouldn’t throw up all over the sexy waiter man.

I was down there for about fifteen minutes, and felt rather embarrassed upon going back to my table. “She must’ve been down there blowing out the plumbing,” they were all probably whispering. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not going down there any time soon,” I was sure they said.

To my surprise, it turned out they were talking, but about way better things than I thought. And the belissimo, gorgeoso man was the one who let me know.

He came over to me, suave, cool, collected, and asked my name. He held out his hand to introduce himself. “My name is Alberto,” he said with a roll of the tongue. “Alberto,” I repeated. “Alberto,” he said, and we locked eyes and smiled.

He asked me what I was doing in New York, and slowly his waiter cronies neared in to the conversation. He asked when I was leaving. I said “tonight.” He said “you should stay. We are having a party tonight…you should come.” I was going to say, no I have a wonderful fiancé waiting for me at home. Or, no, I have a bus that I have to catch. A job I must attend on Monday morning. Buuuut I figured I’d keep him going juuuust a little bit longer (sue me) so I asked “where?” “Twenty-ninth street and…” (blah blah blah my God was he puurrrdy). I asked what the party was for. He said “oh, you know, just a party. We’ve got a table, some bottles…” he trailed off, staring at me, waiting for me to say yes. “But I don’t have anywhere to stay,” I said (I swear I’m about to tell him no, it’s coming up, I’m telling you). He gasped. His buddies gasped. “YOU?” they asked, in their Italian accents. “A BEEEEautiful girl like YOOOOU has nowhere to stay??” they asked in exaggerated disbelief (ok fine, I was loving every moment of it and totally dragging it out for my own enjoyment). “You can stay with me,” each of them chimed in, one after the other. I laughed and waved them off in that “oh you shouldn’t have but please keep going” kind of way. The others trailed off to their various tables, but Alberto remained. “So, you won’t stay?” he asked.

………………………….

“OhmyGod OhmyGod OhmyGod!” I called my friend Alaina back home and told her about Alberto. We laughed and I told her it made me feel hot. Maybe in another lifetime, Alberto. Because right now, all I wanted do was go home to my Scotty and my puppy, my family that I missed now more than ever. Yet deep down I knew I still had a little ways to go.

…………………………..

I still had a few more hours to kill so I decided to try to fit in two of the things I had so hoped to do while in the city, one of which was go to a talent agency and try my luck.

No I do not think I am supremely gorgeous or exceptionally talented. I was in a few plays in high school and frankly I think I am plenty exaggerated, obnoxious, and insane enough of a person to be an actress, so what the Hell. So I whipped out my phone and typed “reputable new york talent agencies” into Google. I found a forum with people discussing that very topic. Someone said that they knew of a place called Carson-Adler Talent Agency on 57^th street that had discovered Britney Spears. Ca Ching! If they found Britney that was good enough for me, so off I went, with just a couple of my Facebook pictures and some hope in my pocket.

…………………………….

“What floor is the Carson-Adler Agency?” I asked the man at the front desk. He told me the twentieth but that he thought no one was there. It was a Saturday. Oh well, I’ll give it a shot, I told him, and I hit the elevators.

Five minutes later I was back, and there was a new man at the desk. I asked him if there were any other agencies in the building that might be open on a Saturday, and he shook his head. He told me to come back Monday morning, and I said I was only around for the weekend. Just when I was turning to go, thinking I’d just have to come back another time, he stopped me. “Would you like to leave anything? I can make sure someone gets it.” “Uhh, sure!” I fumbled around in my purse, retrieving a few wrinkled and folded up pictures I had printed off of my Facebook before leaving work the day before. I went to hand them over, but stopped. “Um, what do people, you know…usually…leave?” I asked, not wanting to seem clueless. “Pictures and a resume,” he said. The pictures would have to do. He picked up a folder with a bunch of papers in it and dumped out its contents, handing it to me to put my pictures in. “Aw thank you,” I said as I reached for a pen, hoping to come up with something genius and irresistible to write on the back. As I was writing my name and number and a little message to the tune of “Please call me, please,” the front desk man asked me if I knew the bald guy from the T.V. show Scrubs. I thought for a minute, caught a little off-guard. “Oh, yeah, I know him,” I said, still writing. “Well, his mom works here,” he went on, “so I’ll make sure she gets it.” I thanked him profusely and went on my way, wondering what else I could’ve written better on the back to somehow make myself stand out from the masses.

…………………………….

I parked myself in the nearest Starbucks, eager for a little rest. I had really, really wanted to spend my trip volunteering, but that idea had fallen flat when the soup kitchen I offered to volunteer at had told me they were booked for the weekend. I sipped on my Gingerbread Latte and tried to rummage up my last bit of resolve to search for another soup kitchen. It was four o’clock and my bus was leaving at nine. I figured that left me with just enough time to volunteer, run back to Ty’s house in Brooklyn to grab my bag, and make my bus. A little too ambitious, you say? Not nearly J

As luck would have it, the internet on my phone wouldn’t work, an all-too common experience. I was visibly frustrated as I tried to maneuver the thing this way and that, right-side up and up-side down, pleading with it to just work already, just for a minute.

“Do you need me to take your picture?” came a voice from the next table over. “Huh?” I asked confused before realizing that all my moving around with the phone did kind of make it look like I was trying to get a perfect self-shot, and I laughed. “No no,” I said, and then I explained that I was visiting NYC and trying desperately to volunteer somewhere because I had this strong urge to help someone.

His name, Guardian Angel #5, was Gino, and he offered me his computer to look up a soup kitchen. He told me he liked to volunteer too. He was a college student who had moved to New York all by himself for school, a feat that I truly respected and envied. We talked about how much we loved New York, and about volunteering and such. I left Starbucks on my way to the soup kitchen which happened to be only a few blocks away, but not before thanking Gino and giving him my name. He promised to look me up on Facebook and tell me about more volunteer opportunities. We said it was nice to meet each other, but then I had to go. Dinner was about to be served.

…………………………….

It was an Episcopal church on 60th street. There was a sign saying dinner was every Saturday, starting at 4:45 P.M. It was 4:30, and a line had begun that disappeared behind the church. I was nervous. Scared they’d reject me like the other place had. Afraid maybe I looked kind of silly showing up out of nowhere at a soup kitchen where nobody knew me, asking if I could help. Maybe they’d think I had some kind of ulterior motive. Maybe they’d think I was poor and there to eat, which I don’t want to admit made me feel…uncomfortable. Or maybe, they’d do what they did, and welcome me and love me as any angels could be expected to do.

……………………………..

“Can I help?” I asked bluntly as I reached the entrance to the basement room of the church. Decorated in vibrant colors, alphabet letters and children’s artwork, it was evident that a daycare was held there through the week. “Sure,” the man at the door replied, “go see the lady in the red hat.”

Her name was Robin and she was Angel #6, a tall and lanky woman who looked to be in her mid to late sixties. I put on a pair of latex gloves and a hairnet. Robin helped me start handing out plates of food to the crowd of people who had come in and seated themselves on the long tables as if they were coming home for a family dinner over the holidays. The salad dressing was being passed around the table and the coffee was being poured. A man in the kitchen was spooning out helpings of baked pasta onto plates, and me and the other volunteers, members of the church, handed the plates out one by one to the eager and extremely grateful people. I watched, saddened, thinking that for many if not most of these people, this may be their only hot meal all week. While the diners talked like old friends, Robin and I got to know one another. She told me she was from California and had come to New York “when I was young and gorgeous” after winning a contest. She was an artist, and “starved for awhile,” but had decided to stay for what was now going on fifty years. I told her about school and that I am artist too, and we talked about medium, subject matter, that sort of thing. I told her that I had come to New York on a whim and that things hadn’t worked out as neatly as I had expected them to. I also told her that I was nervous to go back to Ty’s house all alone in the dark to get my bag and make it to the bus station.

We continued to hand out plates. One lady told me she felt a little woozy and she was worried. I told her to drink her orange juice, it was probably just low blood sugar. “I get nervous when I feel like this,” she said. “Everything will be alright,” I assured her, hoping I was right, as she held her orange juice tight with a shaking hand.

“Are you an actress?” another man asked me as I passed him a plate, causing me to smile. “Nope,” I said, and looked at him with a smile of gratitude. “You look you could be,” he replied as he dug in to his pasta, warming and breaking my heart in the same breath.

As the hour drew to a close, I met more and more of the soup kitchen’s volunteers. Each was so friendly and so appreciative to me. I don’t even know what I did that was so wonderful, but they acted like whatever I did was worth the world, and it made me feel so good.

As I was getting ready to leave, Robin approached me. “Maurice said he’ll take you to get your bag,” she said, gesturing over to the tall and leggy man who had cooked and served up the food that night. I walked over to him timidly, not wanting to take him out of his way but secretly hoping he wouldn’t let me go alone. “Sure, I’ll take you,” he said. I told him how much I appreciated it, and off we went, amidst sad byes and hope to see you soons from the angels of the kitchen and the dining room alike.

……………..

It took a few different trains to make it back to Ty’s neighborhood, and it took some time to re-locate his apartment, too. But Maurice never complained. He talked to me like an old friend, not like I was someone who was taking him out of his way. I got my bag from Ty’s. “That looks heavy,” said Maurice. “Do you need me to carry that?”

We got lost on the way back to the subway, but he never seemed bothered or hurried. He didn’t even mind when I asked if we could stop and take some pictures near some incredible graffiti. I told him I’d tag him on Facebook.

Finally we made it to the train. Then the next train. Then all the way back to the Port Authority terminal. Maurice didn’t leave my side until we had found exactly where I needed to be. He set down my bag, and I got a ping of sadness in my heart as he stood to go. “Let’s get a picture together!” I said to delay him and to keep a memory of the angel who perhaps helped me the most. “Ok,” he laughed, “let’s ask those girls to take it.”

Doesn’t that sound like a touching place to end the story? The heroin (er, me) defeating her obstacles and even managing to do some good along the way? The final hero (Maurice) completing his good deeds with a smile and then heading out safely into the night? Not so fast. Remember, this trip is Murphy’s Law in action, so don’t go getting all fuzzy one me yet.

After Maurice left, you’d think only a true dolt could screw up from there. I mean I was safely at my bus terminal, the line was starting to form, and I had my belongings and ticket safely in hand. But I had passed an Auntie Anne’s pretzel place on my way to the bus station. And I was starving again. And boyyyy did those pretzels smell good.

The night air was brisk as I ran out into the bright-as-day center of Time Square. I found the Auntie Anne’s and ordered two pretzels. “That’ll be $7.50.” I grabbed a fistful of ones and handed them to the cashier. I stopped at another place along the way to get some fries. They were cheesy, a real mess, but oh-so-delicious as I ran across the busy street back to the terminal. I wondered if the girls had asked to watch my bag were still there. I hoped no one had stolen all my favorite clothes and shoes. Into the doors and down two escalators and my bag was in view. The girls were still there, phew! I neared my seat and sat down next to my bag, exactly as I had left it. I heaved a sigh of relief. I had made it, AND I even got some delicious food for the ride back. The ride back…wait a second. Where was my ticket…?

I started a frantic search through my stuff as the sick realization set in that I had brought my ticket home along for the food run, but somehow I hadn’t brought it back. Did I drop it? Inadvertently throw it away? Drop it in the mess of cheese fries I was still clinging to? It was nowhere. As I searched, another creeper guy sat eerily close-by to me and watched my every move. had I actually left it behind on the table, and someone had taken it? Had this guy taken it?

“WHAT!?” I yelled at him, “Stop looking at me!” and he laughed, never taking his beady eyes away from me for a second. I bent over to look in my bag again and could feel his eyes searing through me. The ticket was gone.

…………………….

Seventy dollars later I was boarding the bus in frustration. The driver asked me how I was doing as he took my brand new ticket from my hand, twice the price I had paid for the other that I’d ordered online and printed off at home. “I’ve been better,” I told him. “I just had to re-buy my ticket.” “You should’ve told me!” he said with regret in his voice. “I would’ve let you on.”

………………………

The new ticket turned out to be non-refundable. Just my luck. At that point, however, I really didn’t care. I think I would’ve done anything, paid any amount of money, to know that I was safely on my way back home, on my way back into the arms of the man whose side I felt I could never leave again for anything. I just wanted to see Scott.

I settled into my seat, and in a brush of good fortune, I got my own two seats this time. I set down my stuff on the seat next to me and laid my head on my bag. I would just fall asleep, I thought, and at 6 A.M., I would wake up to Scott, there at the bus station to retrieve me. Everything was finally going to be alright.

But life had one more wrench to throw into my plans. The subway rides to Ty’s house and back had been rushed and dizzying and had made me more than a little nauseas. After getting to the bus station, however, I had felt a lot better, what with being still and feeling like everything was going to be downhill from there. But as the bus started to rumble along, a wave of strong nausea came over me, and I felt that I was definitely going to throw up. I get terrible motion sickness, and I cursed the decision to not bring along some Dramamine for the bus ride. I was out of luck. So I laid my head down and tried to take my mind off of the sickness that was worsening by the minute. Every bump was worse than the last, and with shaking hands I reached for my ipod, thinking some music might help calm me down. Dead.

The bus pulled into a stop in New Jersey literally just in time. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down as more passengers boarded the bus. I had to feel better before we started rolling again, because the next stop wouldn’t be for hours. As I lay there, I heard a man bustling around in the bag holding area above my head. Oh no, I thought. Please don’t let him sit by me. I feel so awful and if I get even more cramped, it’s going to just get worse.

“Excuse me,” he said impatiently. “Can I sit there??” I looked up and noticed there were two other available seats right behind him. I timidly stood my ground. “I’m not feeling well,” I murmured, and laid my head back down. “Let me sit down,” he argued. I ignored him, hoping he’d just turn around and sit somewhere else. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he went on, and I made the silent decision to puke on him if he did indeed force me to move. “I feel really sick,” I repeated. “No, you just want two seats!” he yelled at me. I refused to move and he finally sat somewhere else. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. The sickness wasn’t going away. I felt so embarrassed but I knew I had to tell the bus driver.

……………………….

He moved me up front and at the next rest stop, we went to a nearby convenience store to buy some Dramamine. They didn’t have any. I bought a pack of Mentos, hoping that would suffice.

………………………..

In the front of the bus and with my Mentos in hand, I managed to fall asleep. The intense nausea was gone when I woke up, and it was 5:30 A.M., time to call Scott. “Hey babe!” I said. “I will be there in a half hour.” “I’ve been here since five,” he said. I’ll be waiting.”

…………………………

It was like a movie. But not a disaster movie anymore. Not a horror film or a tragedy, not even a drama. More like a romance, in fact. I don’t think anything at that moment could have happened more perfectly. As the bus pulled into the Pittsburgh station at 6 A.M., I could already see Scott out of the window, standing there waiting for me right where the bus pulled in. No one else was standing there waiting for anybody. That’s right, I thought to myself. That’s my guy waiting for me!

The bus pulled in and slowed to a stop. As the doors began to open, I was already walking down the steps, Scott’s eyes and mine locked, big smiles on our faces. I knew in that moment I could never leave him again. Next time, he was coming with me!

I hurried down the steps, and here’s where it gets even more like a movie—but I SWEAR to GOD I’m not making this up. I set foot on the pavement and as we embraced, a few piano notes of a familiar song started to play from inside the bus station, and I laughed as I hugged my fiancé, never wanting to let him go.

Where is the moment we needed the most
You kick up the leaves and the magic is lost
They tell me your blue skies fade to grey
They tell me your passion's gone away
And I don't need no carryin' on

You stand in the line just to hit a new low
You're faking a smile with the coffee to go
You tell me your life's been way off line
You're falling to pieces everytime
And I don't need no carryin' on

Cause you had a bad day
You're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around
You say you don't know
You tell me don't lie
You work at a smile and you go for a ride
You had a bad day
The camera don't lie
You're coming back down and you really don't mind
You had a bad day
You had a bad day

Well you need a blue sky holiday
The point is they laugh at what you say
And I don't need no carryin' on

You had a bad day
You're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around
You say you don't know
You tell me don't lie
You work at a smile and you go for a ride
You had a bad day
The camera don't lie
You're coming back down and you really don't mind
You had a bad day

(Oh.. Holiday..)

Sometimes the system goes on the blink
And the whole thing turns out wrong
You might not make it back and you know
That you could be well oh that strong
And I'm not wrong

So where is the passion when you need it the most
Oh you and I
You kick up the leaves and the magic is lost

Cause you had a bad day
You're taking one down
You sing a sad song just to turn it around
You say you don't know
You tell me don't lie
You work at a smile and you go for a ride
You had a bad day
You've seen what you like
And how does it feel for one more time
You had a bad day
You had a bad day

Had a bad day

A Single Note-by Rumi

2011-10-24T10:11:00.000-07:00

With a single note the nightingale
makes me notice the rose,
falling into that place
where everything is music.

*swoon*

This Being Human, by Rumi

2011-10-24T09:45:00.000-07:00

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house empty
of its furniture, still,
treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.

I love it.

Time does not heal all wounds. It covers them up with scabs and scars but they still hurt all the time.

2011-10-20T09:11:00.000-07:00

All I have left of you is a fucking photograph, a picture I printed out at work when I should've been doing
work
And it's faded and the resolution is shit and I can see the pixels in your face, blur
and your eyes have light but it's gray
because the ink was running low that day
and your hair is smudges
and a little bit of glow
from the lamp that's just outside of the picture, but I know it's there, and I know you because
I still have the clump of your hair that I cut off
at your funeral,
I was the last to leave,
the last to ever see your body.

Ryan and I
stood and cried after everyone else had to leave,
I touched your wax hands and kissed your head
and wished I could rub the blush on your cheeks
in just a little, blend it just a little, just the way you would've liked
but you can't blend
what is already dead,
So I fixed your hair, after I cut it
so the mortician wouldn't see you
at anything less than your best
before he turned you to ash.

I put your hair in a plastic sock that used to hold my
mom's cigarettes
and I left.

And now when I tell people about my grandma,
ooh my grandma she was like my mom,
my best friend,
the bookends
that held my life
in place
I know that all you'll ever
be to them is
ashes
and this clump of hair
and this blur
of ink
on a page
and this poem.

But to me
you're incomplete
a constant breeze blowing through the leaves of my autumn
a swell in my heart when I look in the mirror and see
your face
and a warm touch on my cheek
when I'm asleep
and you're not watching over me,
you are me, now, because
I am what is left of you
and I guess that has to do
for now.

But it still makes me smile to look at this fucking picture
this tiny little square
not nearly big enough to hold all the memories-
painting your nails, going to the library on rainy days
you making me mac and cheese, my favorite,
and your coffee breath that I used to hate
but now I have it
every day
at work and while I do my
work I look at your picture, I'm hugging you in that
picture, and I
can really feel your tiny little frame, your shoulders pressed against mine and
your hair against my face, the place
that I still put it
every time
I cry.

A love poem...for my phone

2011-10-10T08:10:00.000-07:00

I don't want to check you, again
there's just nothing
very poetic
about
that.

What I want is
to feel the warmth of coffee melting
down the back of
my throat, oh

I don't know.
But I'll take the pain the
bittersweet
and the burn
of the very
first
sip on the tip
of my
tongue.

I want to
watch
fall colors, mingling, millions
in the leaves and
flitting on the breeze,
and not feel lost behind a smudged-up screen, I'm sick
of feeling controlled

by plastic, and battery acid is stinging my
mind
is not mine; my
mind
is not
mine.

It belongs to Apple and Radio Shack and I
can't steal it back
no matter how much I
try,

and I
don't want to have to search
for a synonym
for cold--
I want it to come from within,
but not the cold
the sin.

But then I'll touch you again
and shudder
and you'll melt beneath my hands like
butter
and I'll tell you what to do, yet

I'm only kidding myself,
'cause I don't own you.

But I'll toy with your buttons 'cause
I know how much I love to
turn
you
on...

And my status
is this: I am losing
my grip.
But even still,
I'll never let you go...you know I couldn't
even if
I
could.

Stop bloggin' maaane, try and make some moneyyy

2011-10-05T09:57:00.000-07:00

Below you will find reason number 4,087 why I think that I probably have ADHD. Oh, look, a butterfly...

Thank you!

2011-09-22T18:34:00.000-07:00

Just a message to all of you who read my blog, and send me comments, whether on Blogger or on Facebook. I appreciate the feedback from friends and fellow bloggers very much!

To those who leave disparaging comments, however, you are quite welcome to stop.

Word of the Day!

2011-09-22T11:10:00.000-07:00

Paramour (noun):

An illicit lover~

Mmmm scandalously sexy...gives me a warm feeling in my tummy, similar to the one I get from drinking tea and from the word...

Siren (noun): temptress, seductress

Yet, siren sort of reminds me of...

Seraphim (noun): Angels {pl. of seraph}

These all sound like marvelous characters in a book...the illicit lover, the nightly temptress, the angel, maybe not so innocent or one-dimensional as she is perceived. Maybe it would be a sci-fi fantasy or a mystery.

Then I am reminded of...

Protean (adj.): versatile

Why this one, hmmm. Maybe I was half Greek in another life...!

Tried and True

2011-09-21T10:03:00.000-07:00

When you're at the end of your rope,
tie a knot
and hang on.

Today I need to take my own advice.

I once wondered if I was "fatally flawed, or flawlessly fatal." And now I'm wondering this not of myself but of other situations in my life.

I think my soul is skipping out on me.

words--for now

2011-09-14T06:29:00.000-07:00

When I die, bury me in
books
and pages, sages
make my tomb a tome
of words
and phrases, cover me
in a blanket of
tossed-out paragraphs--delicious,
outrageous
exclamations.

Cross myheart with sentence
starts,
rejected
before they ever got to the
point
at the end...

At the end,
please send me away
on an
epic sea,
no eulogy
need apply,
'cause I'll
be
gone on a ballad of
cacophony.

A poem to honor those who know their way around this Earth a little more than most

2011-09-12T14:08:00.000-07:00

"White...is not a mere absence of colour; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black...God paints in many colours; but He never paints so gorgeously...as when He paints in white." -- G. K. Chesterton

White

is streaming bands of
vibrant

shades of

melting, blending, violet—

bright as the light

still shining on her own tiny corner of

yesterday. Every day

bleeds together when you’re young

as daisies, freshly kissed by the eternal lips

of spring. But

turning back (the rusty knob)—
peeling off
the layered years,
white reaches to the other side
of photo snaps, leaping the murky,
chaotic synapse to then…

And us, again we’d get sucked in—we’d fight
for right
but white
knows better… knows
that we can’t live forever
dazzling in pinks and blues and
who do we think we are?
To claim this world as our own…
this home as only our
home...

white knows
It’s not.
Before her earthly tones
fade, her rosy façade
gives way to
rot…
save for yourself a
lock of brilliant
white.

Because white is fuchsia,
drunken lust, aquamarine-rimmed
aureoline bliss and
bisque--
riding high in a tangerine sky of
sienna and turquoise-tinged
umber…

where
coral and crimson clash,

another dash of white takes flight…

her rainbow is complete.

My Amazing-Dinner-Turned-Incredible-Lunch

2011-09-12T09:32:00.000-07:00

Chicken Enchiladas...uh, YUM!

ingredients:

-6-10 soft tortilla shells, depending on size*

-~1lb chix (this is my abbrev for chicken...get over it)**

-1-2 packets of cream cheese***

-large (32 oz.) can of Enchilada sauce****
-Zatarains brand cajun seasoning
-shredded cheese-colby jack, taco blend, cheddar, take your pick--they all turn out lovely
-baking pan with sides about two inches high

*HEALTH KICK: whole wheat shells
**HEALTH KICK: antibiotic and hormone-free, 100% natural, free-range chicken breast. Second tip--if you are really short on time, you can get pre-cooked, canned chicken...still yummy.
***neufchatel cheese is essentially the same as cream cheese--you may substitute
****HEALTH KICK: look for low-sodium, and, as always, all natrual ingredients list including no preservatives--note: if an ingredient is labeled "added to preserve freshness," you've just entered preservative-city!

Unfortunately for you, I am not a fan of exact measurements in cooking. Making food is messy...and it should be. It is a fine art, and each meal is as individual as the cook preparing it. Therefore, I have not saved the precise measurements from this recipe, which I learned many years back. Nor have I rewritten any of the measurements during any of the numerous times I have recreated this dish. Therefore, I can give you guidelines, but as with anything in life, you'll have to do some experimenting along the way to figure out what is just right for you :)

If you're using canned chicken breast, you can obviously skip this first step. If you're not, you need to boil your chicken breast. until it is cooked all the way through (ie, NO pink remaining). Now for the fun part. Put your cooked chicken in a bowl, and pull out all the ucky parts that are far from appetizing, such as fat, tendons, and generally gross, hard and/or slimy components that you'd rather not experience chomping on. Grab two forks (or just your fingers, if you'd prefer) and start shredding the shit out of the chicken. You can shred it as fine or as chunky as you like, but I have found that the finer it is shredded, the more melt-in-your-mouth (ie delicious) the outcome of your enchiladas.

Once you are thoroughly satisfied with your shredding job (It probably took awhile. Yeah i know it sucks.), you are ready to add the cream cheese! Now depending on how close to a pound of chicken you used, you may use anywhere from one to one and a half, maaaybe two packages of cream cheese. There should be enough cream cheese to coat all of the chicken, but not a ton extra. You want your enchiladas to be moist, for sure, so make sure to cover thoroughly and mix it through well with your hands, but don't go overboard.

Next, add the Zatarains. The seasoning has salt in it, so you're going to want to taste as you add to be sure you have just the right amount. Add it little by little. At first, you can add about enough to cover the whole mixture pretty well--dont be afraid. After this though, taste as you add more so you don't put too much.

You're almost done! Now just put a hunk of chicken mixture in the center of a shell, how ever much you want (eyeball it, keeping in mind how filling you want each individual enchilada to turn out) while leaving at least an inch, inch and a half or so of uncovered tortilla on all four sides. Now fold over one side, then its opposite, then the same with the remaing two sides. Your tortilla will most likely not stay folded, so that's why you need to turn it over so that the weight of the enchilada keeps everything in place. Repeat for each shell, and fill a glass pyrex dish, aluminum dish, or whatever baking dish you have that has sides at about two inches high or so. Place the enchiladas in the dish in only one layer. Their sides may touch.

Now, pour on the enchilada sauce, being CERTAIN to get the sauce UNDERNEATH each enchilada so they do not stick to the pan, and also in between them all, particularly if their sides are touching. Do not completely cover them--you are not making soup. Rub the sauce over the tops to coat, but only fill up the pan about halfway. Now cover your pan with foil and put in the oven on 350F for about 40 minutes, until hot and bubbly. At this point, you will remove the foil and sprinkle cheese liberally on the tops of the enchiladas. Leave the foil off and return the pan to the oven for about ten more minutes, or long enough to melt the cheese. Be careful, those babies will be hot...hot and AMAZING! ENJOY :D

my first foodie blog post--yayy!

2011-06-21T21:38:00.000-07:00

What follows is a simple, delicious waffle that is super good for ya, and definitely satisfying--especially for those of you who have a sweet tooth at breakfast.

Start with a good canvas: I highly recommend Van's waffles for an excellent pre-made waffle choice. Making your own everything is always better, but most of us don't have the time to do every single step from scratch. So if ever there were a shortcut to take, it is these! They are chock-FULL of nutritious grains, contain no artificial ingredients, and are by far the most delicious waffles I have ever tasted (I'm talking specifically about the berry variety of Van's--they are made with berries and spices).

Grab a bag of frozen berries (I used blackberries--blueberries, strawberries, raspberries or mixed are all equally acceptable choices--the possibilities are endless!). I say frozen because they are usually cheaper, and you won't have to worry about them spoiling the way fresh fruit would.

Place the berries (about a cup and a half?) in a saucepan and begin heating them up. In a side dish, mix just a bit (around a half teaspoon) of cornstarch (flour will do also) with about a cup of water, and a couple teaspoons of brown sugar. Mix this and pour over the berries, continuing to heat them. The berries will, upon heating, release their natural sugars and become soft and extra juicy. The cornstarch serves as a thickening agent (so you can--please--toss that crappy, imitation maple syrup or jelly you were using before you became so savvy) which will allow the berries to form a sauce, which can be poured warm over your waffles after you toast them.

Want an even more indulgent kick? Buy a little carton of Whipping Cream. Pour about a cup into a dish, sprinkle in a tablespoon or two of powdered sugar, and using an electric mixer, beat for about three to five minutes until the cream thickens. Place a spoonful on top of your waffles, and enjoy the homemade, natural, healthy deliciousness of it all--and all in about fifteen minutes or so. Who says convenience foods have to be crappy foods? I say eating should be an indulgent treat and a nutritious boost, all at the same yummy time :D

My food methodology...

2011-06-21T21:25:00.000-07:00

...is quite simple.

natural=healthy

homemade=always better

Why? Because Mother Nature is no dope--she doesn't use ingredients like Red40 and High Fructose Corn Syrup for a reason, so eat the wisdom. And cooking at home puts you (and not the government or food industries) right back in control of what you are eating, which is the way it ought to be. No chemical mumbo-jumbo--no artificial anything--just real, honest-to-goodness (and I mean goodness! YUMM!) food. It's healthier for your bod, and it'll make it look damn sexier as well.

So what are you waiting for...?

My life is a cooking show

2011-06-21T21:21:00.000-07:00

I love to cook, and I'm constantly coming up with new, hEaLtHy shtuff to make my (and your!) kitchen smell juuust delightful.

I have shared a few recipes and such on Facebook, but I'd like to start focusing on a more targeted crowd.

This is where you come in, bloggers. I'm going to start posting my cooking tidbits here, on pardon me my reverie, for you to enjoy discovering, cooking, and most importantly, eating!

bon apetit!

I wrote you a note last night at the jazz club--

2011-06-21T21:11:00.000-07:00

I wish you thought I was
beautiful,
captured in the light of
your six dollar beer, my
ten dollar wine, one time, one time,
and everything is
everything
is lost,
as the jazz flows
fluid through
saxophones, butter on the crumbling toast
of my
candlelight...
it's in my eyes
it's in my eyes, can't you see
through the smoke of my
complacent
guise--the notes
are eating
me alive.
As the beat
competes,
I catch your eyes--
but I'm losin'
every
time.

I need a new computer :(

2011-06-21T21:03:00.000-07:00

I have been MIA because:

1.) My computer has irrevocably, unapologetically, irreconcilably BROKEN. It was a sad day...and now, each day is sadder. Hence, my iPhone is now my sole connection with the outside world (ie internet) when I am at my house, and as any of you may know, is not very conducive to adding blog posts.

2.) I do have 24/7 access to Pitt computers if I take a short trip to a campus lab, however I have recently sold my soul to Hofbrauhaus and they have been quite stingy with it.

I shall return in full force, my next poem serving as testament to this...the blog eats words...it grows larger.

The sensation I feel, the cessation of fear...who knew letting go could be so right

2011-05-01T19:00:00.000-07:00

I always want to be there then but
I
could be there now--dancing, barefoot
through summer streets
toes lapping hot pavement, grit in my feet
twirling my dress like any
dervish...devilish,
my eyes' grip on gray and silky plumes--the most lovely
kind
of muck.
I'd breathe it, in and out,
and I would
dance,
barefoot on the hardwood floors
of Heaven's basement.
We'd play Billie Holiday and those floors
would creak
to the beat
and I
would sigh
my chest would heave
in tune with someone more like me,in that place
that more likes me...
and baby,
would I dance--
take off my toe rings and stack them.
Though the pizza grease might make them slip,
I wouldn't cry if I
lost my grip, when I lost my grip...
just hold my wine and sip
and spill
with every step
I'd dance.

I take a little jazz with my coffee, please

2011-04-30T03:43:00.000-07:00

Nothing puts quite the same smile on my face as a little Billie Holiday or Louis Armstrong, some Ella Fitzgerald and a hint of Ray Charles...jazz has an effect like not much else.

Listening to old jazz
awakens the corners of my mouth, to the corners of my soul
--the innermost depths of my inner indulgence...
the sweet, of the beat; moist,syrupy air--
breathing in the romance of tender rhythm,
a long, slooow drag,
drawing each note out to its tip.
The swing of the tsk-a-tsk of cymbols,
a rousing, lazy-day seduction,
a memory no dreamer could imagine--
a shudder no man's hands could
reproduce.

Sometimes I wear lipstick even though I know it doesn't look so good on me.

2011-03-20T14:21:00.000-07:00

Red
her lipstick painted on like
red and blushing cheeks or
roses red;
sinks into tiny lines,
divine,
but withering
like roses die.

Laughter stuck
behind the velvet ring encircling
applied by
trembling hand to hide the hurt.

Eyelashes bat mascara mattes,
above, below,
the withering nerves--
they strain to read, they strain
and bleed
the bitter salts
that whisper wounds unseen.

And when I look at her
I hate to know the best's behind,
stored in dainty laughter lines
that fill with red that's
run amuck
again.

I can't lift the weight of this silent thief
who kills that which it can't
bequeath
and I hate that I won't see her soul is crumbling...
I hate to watch her fingers numbing,
hear her cry--"My legs won't work."

The muscles clench in pain, constrained they wither
dry like sinew straps,
they crack
her voice like whips
before she sings.

And now she's ash and memory
blowing through the wind and free
and free and free she's free but now
it's me
who'll be
the one to do the
suffering.

Thirst unquenched, we light the flame and dance through flickered nights; toes beating through the soil--sick--oblivious in lust.

2011-02-22T09:02:00.000-08:00

I sip from the chalice of
the earth's condition,
wise with poison, drunken
of the salts of passion come before.

Sweetness, stolen from
the branch
entrenches senses,
wipes the slate with
bitter berry blossoms,
ripening still
deep in my
rumbling tummy.

The sour sting of
acid, then
the tartness, yearning
to be sweet,
wtih syrupy
abandon, I
can die
a restless beast.

Take a breath. Look around. As we hurtle toward death, there's life to be found.

2011-02-22T08:26:00.000-08:00

“Our work is to make ourselves visible in the world. This is the soul’s individual journey, and the soul would much rather fail at its own life than succeed at someone else’s.”
— David Whyte from Crossing the Unknown Sea: Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity

“Let the beauty that we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.”

— Rumi

I got these quotes from GinaMazza.com, and I wanted to keep it because it is so inspiring!

http://www.ginamazza.com/index.htm

The stars, 'n their eyes

2011-02-17T17:08:00.000-08:00

...and all the stars, tucked away in their own tiny skies,
pulled the covers up over their heads
and closed their eyes...and Mother Moon sighed.

The Breath of Leaves Immiscible

2010-12-27T16:00:00.000-08:00

Divine: the wind blows gentle
kissing
tugging
amber leaves-just so-
prolonging timid cuddles.

And then the wind grows
wicked and
they bunch
and sway
in frantic droves, in
panic--
cling and press against
eachother, holding
close and tight
until the night
gives way--

then flutter,
soaring, free and wild
into the waiting ground's
embrace;
they fall amongst the blades
and feel no pain.

Engineering Humor...because those two words go so well together.

2010-10-27T10:48:00.000-07:00

‎"A pessimist will tell you the glass is half empty; an optimist will tell you the glass is half full; an engineer will tell you the glass is twice as big as it needs to be."

Civil engineers build targets, but mechanical engineers build weapons. (ME pride :D)

What is said followed by What it means

A number of different approaches are being tried. We don't know where we're going, but we're moving.

An extensive report is being prepared on a fresh approach to the problem. We just hired three guys... We'll let them kick it around for a while.

Developed after years of intensive research. It was discovered by accident.

Modifications are underway to correct certain minor difficulties. We threw the whole thing out and are starting from scratch.

Preliminary operational tests were inconclusive. The darn thing blew up when we threw the switch.

Test results were extremely gratifying. It works, and boy are we surprised !

The design will be finalized in the next reporting period. We haven't started this job yet, but we've got to say something.

The entire concept is unworkable. The only guy who understood the thing just quit.

We need close project coordination. We should have asked someone else.

Alternate: Let's spread the responsibility for this.

Top Ten Reasons To Date an Engineer

The world does revolve around us... We pick the coordinate system.

Find out what those other buttons on your calculator do.

We know how to handle stress and strain in our relationships.

Parents will approve.

Help with your math homework.

Can calculate head pressure.

Looks good on a resume.

Free body diagrams.

High starting salary.

Extremely good looking

from http://www.gdargaud.net/Humor/Engineer.html

Or will that just make it steal away my breathing doubly as fast?

2010-10-27T08:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it seems
as though
the clock ticks simply
to spite me

as the hands muddle through
the muck imposed
by my trying glance
my
futile glance.

Smugly
I remove its batteries
and try as I might
to hide them
in my pocket
still, my hair turns gray

...I think that perhaps
I'll break that clock in two.

Maybe

2010-10-27T08:48:00.001-07:00

Maybe the art of living is knowing how to balance the mindset that you have forever with the mindset that today is all you've got.

I'd love to say hi to you again.

2010-10-03T15:21:00.000-07:00

I remember the arches of her feet,
high and
graceful;
high
and
empty;
high,
and tracing outlines of insoles,
clicky heels,
so high and black.

And now she's high
and dissipated
against/throughout/within
the blue and grayest
skies,
she's high
so I
still wear her shoes
to keep her memory
walking.

Drowning

2010-10-03T14:21:00.000-07:00

In the rain,
some drops you see
some drops you feel
some others
sound
their pitter-pats across the world,
so far
that you might never know that they were here,
not here, nor there,
but all
have come
and gone.

Does the rain really cleanse anything away, or just hide it beneath a drowning river?

2010-10-03T14:14:00.000-07:00

It's raining today.
The water trickles down the street-sides,
gently tugging at
lethargic leaves
that don't know the difference
between stay and go.

The window cries onto
my pane
and drips the muck of washless days.
My heart is searching
for something real
outside, between the grungy lines.

I call out to you.
Both.
Alive, or dead,
I get no response,

The way that raindrops fall and melt
into the ground
with no remorse or
absolution.

Reach out to touch them,
once or twice,
they'll shatter in your palm.

Luck

2010-10-01T13:37:00.000-07:00

It is believed by some that finding a ladybug nearby or say, on your arm, is a sign of good luck to come.

Today, I looked at my shoulder, and what was sitting there?

...A stink bug.

Ay me.

I saw the sun rise in your eyes, then I saw it outside my window. Now tell me where are my shoes so I can go.

2010-09-24T13:15:00.000-07:00

I can't take it, but you're screaming

in my face--
take it.

You press me down
and down
and suck me
right out of my head
and into your eyes,
so deep
that I can feel the crash.

You're pressing more,
and I want more,
so you slap the chills off my seething back,
then rip me open--
we're face to face.
And I can't hide
with you inside me like this,

pulling me down,
deeper and deeper until you jam
your imprint into my heart.

I try to fight and I'm breaking
through the surface of your skin;
I've got you under my
nails.
But you're bursting through my futile walls
and we feel the end
as it starts to begin.

And you know that I know you
can taste
the wanting, can taste
the hate
and sweat on my skin.

As you open your mouth
to tear me apart,
I finally let go--
there's no
going back
now,
I'm gushing my disdain.

First of three poems concerning my ten handiest appendages

2010-09-24T13:06:00.000-07:00

My nails are jagged, skin rushing, rough and
ragged, red adorns the only armor that I wear—cursed, marred—they ooze
despair and clumsily they grapple
like there is no railway of spindly veins that drive, no pulsing
Throb
to throw them life and
lost.
They are hopelessly
Lost endlessly
Lost vividly, wildly, stunningly falling
Short.
They sit on the edge and prod and wait and crack and heal and they are
Hard…but behind the shells,
The crimson façade,

…Is

Flesh.

Second of three poems concerning my ten handiest appendages

2010-09-24T13:03:00.002-07:00

I want to touch the world, I reach
Out with my
Novice hands
And ache that something
Someone, somewhere might brush against
Or hold them.

Third of three poems concerning my ten handiest appendages

2010-09-24T13:03:00.000-07:00

I’ve pricked my fingers, once and Twice.
Raw and bleeding, I come
Back to taste you with the tips
Once more,
“Where is my cure
For this
Disease”?

Link to (most of) my Pitt News articles :)

2010-09-24T12:58:00.001-07:00

http://pittnews.com/?s=streussnig

'Phantom of the Opera' makes final run in Pittsburgh, for The Pitt News, 8/25/10

2010-09-24T12:53:00.001-07:00

“The Phantom of the Opera” is giving Pittsburgh a chance to experience the man behind the mask and the thrill and intrigue behind the centuries-old tale of dark obsession and unrequited love.

The Phantom will run rampant in Pittsburgh from Aug. 25 through Sept. 19 thanks to The Pittsburgh Cultural Trust, Pittsburgh Symphony and Broadway Across America. The show will be a part of the 2010-11 PNC Broadway Across America-Pittsburgh series.

Originally published as a novel in 1911 in France by Gaston Leroux under the name “Le Fantôme de l’Opéra,” “The Phantom of the Opera” was adapted as a musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber and debuted at Her Majesty’s Theatre in London on Sept. 27, 1986.

Since then, the show has picked up incredible speed and grossed more than $5 billion, making it “the most financially successful musical of all time,” according to thephantomoftheopera.com.

It became the longest-running Broadway performance overtaking the record set by “Cats” on Jan. 6, 2006 with its when it overtook the record set by “Cats” with its 7,486th performance. “It is the only Broadway show ever to reach 18th, 19th, 20th and 21st birthdays,” also reaching its 22nd in January of 2010.

“The Phantom of the Opera,” directed by Harold Prince, is the story of a young performer at the Paris Opera House who begins accepting musical tutelage from a man she refers to as her “Angel of Music.”

This mysterious, masked teacher whose face is marred by some unknown deformity wants more from Christine Daaé than what appears, yet she naively continues on with their lessons, all the while falling in love with another man.

The Phantom wreaks havoc on the opera house and the lives of the performers on his zealous quest for Christine’s heart and commitment.

The story reaches its climax when the Phantom steals Christine away and forces her to decide the outcome of her life and of the story: Stay with the Phantom forever or live without her true love, who will be killed at the hand of the Phantom.

The Paris Opera House is a real place and has been around since the end of the 19th century.

“Anyone familiar with a large opera house would testify that it is an extraordinary labyrinth of people and passageways, but the Paris Opera House ... was remarkable by any standards,” according to the Phantom site.

Its majestic appearance and maze-like layout make the Paris Opera House the perfect inspiration for the Phantom’s eerie and imposing tale. The 17-story fortress, complete with stables for the “opera horses” and a lake beneath the building, will be played this fall by the Steel City’s own Benedum Center, bringing all the majesty and the intrigue of the Phantom to our doorstep.

Performing will be a 36-member cast from The Cameron Mackintosh/Really Useful Theatre Company. The show will star Tim Martin Gleason as the shrouded main character and Trista Moldovan as Christine Daaé, the innocent object of the Phantom’s oppressive fixation.

Matisyahu brings good vibes to Mr. Small's--for The Pitt News, 8/29/10

2010-09-24T12:51:00.000-07:00

When Matisyahu stepped onto the stage at Mr. Small’s last week, the mood of the room took a noticeable turn.

The buzzing drone of chit-chatters quieted, cell phones were resigned to the depths of purses and pockets and the reggae artist known for his novel approach to music bowed his head to the microphone. The experience had begun.

From that moment until the very last note, Matisyahu, an American Hasidic Jew, exuded a mix of uniqueness and relatablity. The 31-year-old native of West Chester, Pa., wore the traditional Jewish tallit, a shawl typically worn during prayer with four white tassels hanging from the bottom, aviator sunglasses and a Volcom flat-brim hat. He was, of course, also sporting his signature beard and payot, locks of hair in front of the ears that wearers don’t cut for religious reasons.

His vocals went from a melodious prayer spoken in Hebrew to a series of rapping and beat-boxing interludes. Some of his songs were so catchy that they sounded like they could be Top-40 hits. Others blended various types of music, such as hip-hop and reggae to create a totally unique sound.

Matisyahu created his own original flow, transitioning between rapping, singing and prayer-like chanting. There was something to please every taste, and Matisyahu captured everyone’s attention. He even threw in some dancing and walked along the very edge of the stage, hinting at the possibility that he may fall right into the crowd. There were many open hands eagerly waiting, but the artist just slapped a few high-fives and continued alongside his band.

The music that set the stage for Matisyahu’s performance was played by Dub Trio, his openers from Brooklyn, N.Y. The group and Matisyahu had great chemistry and a talent for diverse rhythms that was apparent in its musical sequences. Despite posessing undeniable skill, the band members took a backseat to the solo artist, as his mouth ran a mile a minute into the microphone, causing his voice to sound as if it were another instrument.

Perhaps what was so striking about Matisyahu was his seemingly flawless ability to create an energy unlike any other. His seamless transitions between reggae, hip-hop, alternative and folk stylings, coupled with his self-effacing lyrics that called for peace among mankind, created an undeniable air of community and interconnectedness throughout the audience.

Matisyahu’s style is not so much a clash of customs as it is an avant-garde merging of melodies and cultures. While he performed, it seemed as though invisible forces stirred on the stage and inspired the crowd to be further unified by the swaying of hips and the shifting of hands and heads beneath the green, red and blue flood lights.

“You can hear the ground breathing,” he sang, and it was almost as if you could, listening to the cyclic beat of the drums behind him and the shuffle of the crowd.

Matisyahu will continue on to Hungary, Israel and California for additional shows to wrap up his 2010 year of performances of his most recent album, Light, out on Epic Records. Light debuted in the Top 20 on the Billboard charts, and “One Day,” a single from the album, was designated the official anthem for the 2010 Winter Olympic Games.

Bob Marley's family commemorates him in concert--for The Pitt News, 9/23/10

2010-09-24T12:47:00.001-07:00

Thirty years ago, the voice of the legendary reggae performer Bob Marley rang out over a crowd of his devotees for the last time in concert here in Pittsburgh at the Stanley Theatre, known today as the Benedum Center.

Today, on Sept. 23 — the anniversary of Marley’s final performance — his family will take to the Benedum Center stage to revive his voice, celebrate his legacy and support his lifelong mission — peaceful and conscientious living for all mankind.

Ed Traversari, producer of the upcoming show, is experiencing a sort of déjà vu in preparing for the celebration — he was also a producer of Bob Marley’s final performance.

“It’s been a passion of some of us who were at that show in 1980 to see a show like this come to Pittsburgh to celebrate Bob Marley. Not a lot of people know that his last performance took place in Pittsburgh,” Traversari said.

He said producers started tossing around the idea of a tribute show about 10 years after the 1980 performance.

“We thought about it for a while and were considering doing it around the 25-year mark,” he said.

But planning the show turned out to be quite a bit of work and they needed more time to “pull all the pieces together,” Traversari said.

Finally, after 30 years, the Marley family will join together to commemorate their relative and show Pittsburgh how much his music can still move a room. Family members thus far confirmed to be taking part in the performance include his daughter, Cedella, along with her group The Marley Girls; his sons, Stephen, Julian, Ky-Mani and Damian “Junior Gong;” and his widow, Rita, the “Queen Mother.” Alongside Rita will be former I-Threes member Marcia Griffiths.

Rita Marley will travel all the way from her home in Ghana to be a part of the tribute.

The set list is the exact one played by Bob Marley himself at his last performance and includes such classic hits as “Natural Mystic,” “Exodus,” “Jamming” and “Is This Love?”

All of the show’s proceeds will go to the Marley Family’s new nonprofit organization, 1Love. Its website, www.1love.com, describes the movement as “a global call to arms dedicated to giving back through charities that empower individuals and groups to take action for sustainable and responsible living.”

On the 1Love site, Cedella Marley writes about the inspiration her father’s life provides to her. “Still to this day, our father’s ‘Tuff Gong’ spirit has never backed down in his fight to end corporate and political greed, abolish prejudice and racism, and spread peace, harmony and equality throughout our planet. In fact, he always says, ‘the bad guys never take a day off, why should I?’”

Donna Mastropasqua, executive director of 1Love.org — established this past June — said that the upcoming concert is the very first effort of the new organization, which is set to be formally launched this fall.

“1Love basically was created to further Bob Marley’s vision on how to make the world a better place,” Mastropasqua said. “We’ve come up with three pillars that are the areas in which we look for charities to help out through money, resources, volunteers — any way we can in the name of Bob Marley’s vision.”
These pillars are youth, planet and peace. Some of the charities that 1Love will assist include the African Leadership Academy, an organization dedicated to the encouragement of young leaders in Africa, and Water.org, a nonprofit committed to supplying safe, fresh drinking water to developing nations.
As the excitement builds, locals are looking forward to the concert and appreciating the legacy that Bob Marley left behind.

Pittsburgh musician and Bob Marley fan Scott Weishorn said, “For Bob Marley coming from a place that is so poor and filled with crime ... to send a message that is so positive and inspiring is truly a gift. From a musician’s perspective, for such a huge event to happen in Pittsburgh is very historic and I can’t wait to hear what the Marley family has in store.”

Judgmental Ass...I'm back.

2010-09-21T13:21:00.000-07:00

Is it right to assume that past a certain age, say like somewhere in the thirties, there is something...odd...about being single?

Maybe I am a judgmental ass or just a total weirdo myself, but when I see someone around 35ish or older, as I trace them over with my eyes doing that momentary inventory that we all daily fall victim to, I tend to find myself lingering on their left hand, fixated and waiting for them to shift it just so in order for me to make my determination--married...or freak.

All else about the person can pass my mental examination for basic normalcy and competence at life, but if they're missing the band, I generally assume, without even meaning to, that a few bolts are missing upstairs, as well.

True, they may choose to remain single based on some actually superior mental awareness and capacity that most of us lack, or they could be recently divorced or separated.

Yet, when I notice that that particular finger is bare as a naked butt, I automatically, as if on cue, picture the person sitting at home, alone on a Friday night, the melancholy lights of some news show or another flickering on the television somewhere in the background.

He or she is sitting on the couch (which doesn't match the chair--an obvious hand-me-down) in only underwear, unshaven and absentmindedly fiddling with some pointless collection accumulated over the lonely years.

Maybe it's train sets, model airplanes, Sacajawea coins--it doesn't really matter. Each is as sad as the next.

And there's always a cat (or five) creeping around on an emptry shelf amidst the dust and lint where photos of children should be.

Am I an evil drone, a mindless product of society? Do I even have a soul!???

:)

SPAM food column for Pitt News, 7/6/10

2010-07-13T19:00:00.000-07:00

SPAM. It’s a great source of ... SPAM.

As college students, sometimes we’ve got to take some risky ventures when it comes to our cuisine because time and money are short. But should we go so far as SPAM? What exactly is it that is lurking behind that well-known label, anyhow?

According to the package, SPAM consists of pork shoulder meat, ham, salt, water, modified potato starch to bind all the yumminess together and sodium nitrate to maintain that vibrant, appetizing pink color.

SPAM was first created, in 1937 and was originally called Hormel Spiced Ham. When market share began to fall, Hormel launched a naming competition. According to WordIQ.com, SPAM has been said to be an acronym for Shoulder of Pork and Ham by a Hormel official.

However, the public has come up with its own ideas for what SPAM really stands for. Specially Processed Assorted Meat, perhaps? Or better yet, Something Posing As Meat? We might never know for sure.

The ambiguity of the name, however, has not stopped people — college students and beyond — from downing can after tasty can of the stuff.

SPAM saw a particularly large rise in popularity during World War II, especially in Hawaii where meat was difficult to come by. Hawaii is still the biggest consumer of SPAM in the world per capita, according to WordIQ.com, consuming on average 5.5 cans per second (compared with the United States’ 3.1 cans per second).

SPAM comes in many varieties including SPAM Hot & Spicy, SPAM Hickory Smoked and SPAM Spread for those who’d rather just smear it on rather than waste their precious between-class time slicing.

SPAM mania doesn’t stop with just eating it, either.

SPAMarama, a public fair dedicated to the consumption, versatility and overall fun of SPAM, takes place in Austin, Texas annually since 1978.

The fair is known for its notorious SPAM cooking competition, which has included recipes such as Doug Holloway’s Stuffed SPAM with Sauce a la Pepto, Carl Hickerson’s Kosher Gas Attack, SPAM brownies and even SPAM ice cream.

Because SPAM, dare I say it, doesn’t always taste great when eaten for dessert, each judge is allowed three “passes” for those porcine concoctions that are less than appealing, and, in addition to an award for the best-tasting entry, they also present one lucky SPAM-lover an award for the worst submission, according to Hubpages.com. Partying with SPAM is a win-win situation.

Then of course there is the SPAM eating contest, SPAM toss and SPAM tug-of-war, which takes place on either side of a large pit of the meat of the hour, SPAM.

But like I said, it’s otherwise your typical, run-of-the-mill shindig.

SPAM Jam, held yearly in Austin, Minn., is yet another celebration of this little meaty joy.

According to WordIQ.com, in addition to parades, games and fireworks, guests at SPAM Jam will likely come across “copious amounts of blue and yellow [the colors of the packaging], and myriad dancing men and women in large SPAM can costumes.”

As Austin, Minn., is the location of the Hormel facility that produces SPAM, it has got even more to offer fans than the festivities of SPAM Jam.

It is also the home of the SPAM museum, where visitors can take a guided tour through the history of SPAMdom, led by an official “SPAMbassador,” according to Roadsideamerica.com.

Upon entering the museum, one is confronted with a large wall o’SPAM, consisting of 3,390 cans stacked to the ceiling. There are interactive activities so that people can get an idea of what it would have felt like to work on a SPAM assembly line before the advent of machinery that does the job.

The SPAM museum also features a small theater — which plays a 15-minute film about SPAM — a gift shop boasting SPAM memorabilia, and as visitors make their way through the facility, “the ‘Monty Python’ cast” can “be heard singing ‘SPAM’ through a loudspeaker, over and over.”

Mmmm, I can just hear it now, and it’s making me want to toss a can in my backpack for later.

Grown Ups movie review for Pitt News, 7/13/10

2010-07-13T18:57:00.000-07:00

Walking into the theater to see “Grown Ups,” which boasts an all-star army of comedic valor that includes Adam Sandler, Rob Schneider, Kevin James, Chris Rock and David Spade, I expected that the movie would be a typical goofy comedy.

We’ve all seen and laughed unashamedly at the antics of these actors in their own films, but what mayhem, what shenanigans, what all-out epic tomfoolery would these guys pull off when not two, not three, not four but FIVE of them were tossed into the same cinematic stew?

The result, I decided as I purchased my $8 popcorn, simply must be one of two scenarios: either total hilarity of historic proportions or a flop, sort of a “too many chefs in the kitchen” kind of result.

What I got, however, I wouldn’t characterize as either of these.

“Grown Ups” definitely did provide some good laughs — at one point, Rob Hilliard (played by Schneider) absentmindedly dips his hand into a bucket of chicken immediately after tossing the ashes of the other guys’ deceased basketball coach. They yell at him for touching the chicken with “coach hands,” but everyone is so hungry that they eat it anyway.

These moments, however, are overshadowed by the overall — get ready for this folks — plot of the movie. There is, in fact, more to “Grown Ups” than stupid humor. The movie centers around the theme of family and the realization of what is most important in life. In addition to laughs, “Grown Ups” packs a lot of heart.

To some, this might be a refreshing take. Maybe it will even produce a little bit of warm fuzziness. To others, perhaps it might border on cheesy.
Either way, “Grown Ups” offers up a few life lessons in addition to the typical array of broken appendages and brainless one-liners, like it or not.

A Treacherous Affair

2010-07-13T18:49:00.000-07:00

Life is a beauty with two faces.

…She slinks in through the crack of your door in the dark of night and pours the venom of nightmarish thoughts onto the creases of your eyelids; whispers in your ear with her supple, torturous lips, glistening red against moonbeams, of all the ills and frights her illicit and stunning mind can concoct, only to wake you—pierce through your curtains, rattle your blinds, with a sunrise that clears through the muck and mire in such splendid hues that it blinds the demons inside you, seduces away your evil dreams and makes you forget, if only for a moment, her ephemeral clutches and that she has ever had the capacity to be so cruel.

Three of the reasons I love S. Hawking

2010-07-13T18:46:00.001-07:00

‎"One, remember to look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Two, never give up work. Work gives you meaning and purpose, and life is empty without it. Three, if you are lucky enough to find love, remember it is rare and don't throw it away."--Stephen Hawking

did i finally do it? geez.

2010-06-08T20:43:00.000-07:00

I just saw a Shell commercial
of this girl riding
on the back
of some guy's motorcycle

and I could almost feel
the night air
see the lights of man
defying nature,
rushing by in a blur
when all that faces me
is the back of his neck

i don't notice my fingers
gripping themselves
laced and
wrapped,
straining muscles in my hands i didn't even
know i
had.

they'll hurt for the next three days,
my hands

and i only know because i asked for a ride
and soared through the warmth of the just barely summer
weightless and
rushing
on the birmingham bridge
skimmed right over
the birmingham bridge and

we never really talked again,
only shared that momentary
closeness of my chest against your back,
mine weighed down with the books of both our backpacks
but free as the wind in my pigtails

we never really
talked again
but everytime i see
that liquid motion, feel the pavement melt away beneath me
i'll always remember
the heat.

poetry is symptomatic of a life riddled with life. i can't really doubt myself, but you--

2010-06-08T20:16:00.000-07:00

[lucky me
can't you see
i'm in love?]

i really thought you were
really somethin
else when you told
me that you liked frank sinatra.

how many guys
this day, this time
would ever say such a thing...mean such a thing...

and then you sang
"you're nobody 'til somebody loves you"

and that's when i knew
what you'd never know

that's when i knew
you were lying--
that it'd never be that easy

moon beams can only reach so far into
the woods.

i waited all my life to be here with you tonight

2010-06-08T20:07:00.000-07:00

you played me that song
like it stood for for
ever
when really it stood
til you found someone better

...yourself.

((maybe he was onto

something)).

The Path

2010-05-09T22:35:00.000-07:00

I was looking out the window, saying my prayers (a nightly ritual of mine), and thinking about my grandma, hoping that one day I will see her again, but not really knowing what I believe.

As I was getting up to go to bed, I noticed a line in the road, a crack, meandering its way across the road perpendicularly, originating on my side of the road and continuing on across to the other side.

A thought struck me. Now, I am not one to immediately believe that God or my grandma was trying to communicate with me in any way, necessarily, by my sudden awareness of this crack and my thoughts thereafter, but I will admit that the possibility did cross my mind.

I looked at the line and I drew an immediate parallel between it and life..the path it took was crooked, ohhh so crooked, but it still seemed to be headed for something certain, as if despite an insect following the crack and feeling like it is wandering all over in no certain direction, I, from my larger point of view, my perch presiding over the bigger picture, I guess you could say, could see an obvious direction in the wavering path.

And as my eyes followed the crack in the road from where it began onward, I noticed that the line was harder and harder to see, it getting farther and farther from where I was at the present moment, yet I still knew, I just knew, that that path was headed somewhere, more specifically, to the other side of the road.

For a moment there, thinking of the crack in terms of life, it seemed almost silly to me to think that people look at their life paths and, just because they can't see it all from where they are situated, think that there is nothing more beyond what they are seeing. Looking at the crack, it was obvious to me that despite my inability to see farther, the path didn't just stop. Why should I assume that the path stops right at the spot beyond which I can see no farther...?

Okay, I really feel like a priest or something right now, so I'm going to wrap up the sermon, but I really did have this thought, and it's interesting. I oftentimes find myself grappling for faith, but experiences like these make me think that maybe, just maybe, there is another side to this road.

Last night,

2010-05-05T23:10:00.000-07:00

I looked up at the sky, and all the stars splayed across it like...oh I don't know, what new way can there be to describe the stars? I feel like every metaphor, every simile has already been spoken for those little wonders.

I found myself thinking how the sky looks the same for everyone, no matter their location. It is a constant in our lives, no matter who, no matter where, no matter when.

From the very first time you looked up in wonder and contemplated is there more? to this very moment, that sky that hovers above us has never changed.

I'd like to simply state that observation without interpreting it or relating it--just leave the thought to stand on its own and perhaps provide a moment of reflection and yet...it's just not my nature!

This observation made me think of how small so many of our problems actually are in the scheme of things; that no matter what is going on down here on earth, the same sky is watching over us, calm, vast, and brilliant.

A wild sleep, A nightmare. Or a dream that doesn't make sense yet.

2010-04-25T14:47:00.000-07:00

I want to see you standing there again.
In the morning,
in your kitchen, next to the sink.
The sunlight would glint off the stainless steel
and you would wind your spindly fingers
around the handle of your white coffee mug--
No sugar, just a hint of milk--
and smile like the dawn,
wrapped up in your pink bathrobe,
hair wild as the wildest
sleep.

I feel like you're still here, until I know you aren't. I wish you were still here. I've lost my biggest heart.

2010-04-24T20:47:00.000-07:00

When I look at pictures of her, my heart wants to break through the walls
of my chest
and my eyes wet as if
I might clean her absence away.
The pictures
bring to mind
all I have lost
all I have
never given, never will be able to
give.

They speak athousand
yesterdays
and wishes for tomorrows
and stab me,
slow and
deep
as if to remind me;
whisper in my ear...
yell in my face...
slap
awake my desperate,
hopeless,
empty gutters
and nick away at my restless
sleep.

I'll always keep your pictures
but looking at them will never feel
like anything less
than death.

It Appears I'm a Tool Bag

2010-04-22T18:25:00.000-07:00

I am well en route to the land of calculus knowledge, everyone may be pleased to know. Also, it seems that everyone in the library hates my guts. Not, wait, let me amend that. Everyone in and around the library.
Yes I am boisterous. Yes I am loud. Yes this can amplified when I am "studying" with one of my favorite friends who I never see.
However, that is no excuse, upon my leaving to get a drink, for some random chick who I do not know to plop herself down in my seat, and write on my stuff something about how she hopes my final isn't "too awful," hinting that I obviously would do horrible on it.
I walked back in just in time to catch her in her immature and mean deed, and let's suffice to say that I very nearly got in my first fist fight ever.
Then, I go out into the hall to make a phone call. I am in perfectly acceptable phone call space, talking to my friend about the incident and having a good chuckle when some other douche bag gets off the elevators and glares at me as if I tried to eat her child.
What did I do!?
I do not feel that I am blameless in the first little squabble--yes I was being kind of loud and kind of obnoxious in the library, and I know that's a crappy thing to do. But wouldn't it be more mature to say "Excuse me, wouuld you mind keeping it down?"
Plus there's always the option of studying at home or in the room marked "quiet study" at the library, because we all know there's always a big tool bag like me planted at a table just close enough to you to fuck up your day.
But anyhow, that's neither here nor there.
My point (did I have a point?) was just to say that I am loud. I have a personality that...well, not everyone can take. But I am fine with that. No I do not condone being rude, but I also will not feel guilty for being who I am--a happy, happy girl--wherever that happiness may take place, whether it be smack dab in the middle of your study session or not. If I had known how much I was bothering that...girl...I would have quieted down. But I like who I am, squeaky voice and all. Loudness and overtness. Over the top-ness as well.

I Have a Theory

2010-04-16T18:10:00.000-07:00

My calc 3 final is pressing...pressing down on me. The weight of how much stuff I still don't know is almost too much to bear, so I must be brief here!

I have this theory. My disclaimer: this isn't 100% guaranteed, because uh nothing is.

HOWEVER, I am continually wowed by applying this in life because with the right amount of confidence, smiles, and gusto...it just might work for ya, and by just might, I mean probably will.

Okay, enough with the buildup. I'm gonna lay it out for you--Go For It! Tadaa!! That's it. If you want something, something big, something small, whatever it is, sometimes it's literally as simple as just asking for it.

Yep, my recipe for success in life includes one ball, two balls, wam bam you made it!

You want examples? Oh, I have examples. Where to being, where to begin...aha!

Just the other day, I had something to fax. I was in an academic building, with the closest official fax machine located multiple blocks away at the ups store. It was hot, I was busy, and I quite frankly didn't feel like paying two bucks a page to fax something when, with the right attitude, I might just find a better option.

I walked to a tutoring office across the street (saving myself distance, and thus time) and, with a smile and a slight twinge of desperation, kindly asked the lady at the front desk if she might help a student in a pinch. Her first response? NO.

So I thanked her anyway and started to ask where she would suggest I might go to fax my papers. No sooner did I say this than she asked me for the fax number, took the papers from me, and faxed them, bada bing bada boom, no sweat.

I thanked her multiple times, and earnestly told her that I really appreciated the favor (which I did) and went about my day, wallet still stacked to the brim (okay, really I had like $8, but that's $4 more than I would have had!).

This is a perfect illustration of what I am talking about. Did the lady mind taking two seconds to do me a favor? Not a bit. It just took her a minute to realize the triviality of what I was asking her to do and agree.

You can duplicate this result!

Fax machines not a big concern for you? Okay, fine. I'll pull out a doozie.

I am an artist (from time to time) and joined an art club back home where I'm from (Greensburg, Pa). It ended up being different from what I expected--I was by far the youngest member. As a matter of fact, I felt like I acquired a lifetime supply of friendly grandparents by joining, artsy ones, at that.

But I stuck around and got to know the president of the club and her husband, and they turned out to be really kind people.

One day I thought to myself--"Wow. It would be really sweet if I could have my very own art show...just my work...solo exhibit...yeah! I'll fill this place with all my art! And invite a bunch of people! And maybe get famous...!"

Okay, that's enough of my thoughts for you. Anyhow, the moral of that tailspin was that I wanted to have a solo exhibit.

Mind you, I had never done anything of the sort in the past, and I later found out that I knew little to nothing about what it takes to put together an exhibit (which is, by the way, a lot of work and money).

Despite that fact that I didn't really know how it would work, or even IF it would work, if I'd even have a slim chance at convincing this group of serious, professional artists to hand over their space to me, a naive high school senior (at the time) to hang my, I'm sure to them, quite novice artwork.

But though I knew there was a possibility they would laugh in my face when I asked...I asked.

And they didn't laugh. They were definitely taken very offguard. They didn't really know what to say. But they told me they'd consider it, and that sounded great to me!

I think you can probably smell the conclusion of this one...they agreed to the show, and a few months later, I stood in the art club, surrounded by my work and only my work, with people filing through the door to attend the opening of my first-ever solo exhibit.

It was incredible that they said yes, but I will never ever forget the way they said yes.

The president wrote me a letter that said..."after considering your idea, we cannot see why not."

WE CANNOT SEE WHY NOT.

Give asking for what you want a try, and you will not get this response everytime. But I can almost guarantee that if you go at it with the right attitude, you will get this answer WAY more often than you would ever think.

Broadly speaking, I think I've decided

2010-04-16T17:13:00.000-07:00

on my life goal.

>I want people to look at me<

and all the things I've done in my life

and say

"How does she do it all"?

She's gonna be beautiful, beautiful!, I'm tellin ya's, just like Marilyn Monroe...

2010-03-31T00:47:00.000-07:00

I just got done writing a bit. And yes, I mean writing, actual old-school writing...you know, with a pen instead of a keyboard? My hand is cramped. I'm not used to this pen-ma-jigger-hickey.

It's been awhile since I've added a post. Oh, but it seems that I'm writing a play.

So see ya when I see ya, blogga.

Make sure you don't leave the refrijj open.

Do Not Get Stoned Before You Do the Above Two Steps

2010-03-18T13:35:00.000-07:00

"Stoners discovered that Pink Floyd's The Dark Side of the Moon syncs up perfectly with the movie The Wizard of Oz. Here's how you do it:
1.)Start the film.
2.)When the MGM lion roars for the third time, press play on your music player.
3.) Now get stoned. Do not get stoned before you do the above two steps, or you will probably mess up."

--from The Pocket DJ by Sarah Lewitinn

fUriOuS

2010-03-16T21:43:00.001-07:00

My life
it's so
inspired~*
fuck,
you set
my heart
on
fire

I miss forever

2010-03-15T20:02:00.000-07:00

My heart feels miles away tonight.

go ahead

2010-03-14T20:42:00.001-07:00

A muse.
Amuse me.

beautiful.

2010-03-14T20:41:00.001-07:00

"Fingers pause / above piano keys for the chord / that will not form. Slam them down / I say. Make music of what you can."

The night I went out for cookies

2010-03-04T20:46:00.000-08:00

I am going to get my hopes up.
And I'm going to storm this Earth.
I'm going to put my faith into all I want, and feel everything they tell me not to feel.
And I'm going to get hurt--I'll get hurt a million times.
I'll cry and I'll sob, but I'll just end up wanting even more.
And after I get it wrong,
and get it wrong,
and get it wrong a hundred thousand times,
one day, I am going to get it right.
And no one can take that away from me.

My Hope

2010-03-03T22:21:00.003-08:00

I really hope that what I write means something,
to someone out there,
because it means so much to me.

I'm in love, and I've never even met him...

2010-03-01T20:02:00.000-08:00

So I was reading Reader's Digest again, just flipping through the pages absent-mindedly, dreading going out in the cold to take my dog for yet another pee, when I saw him.

Jeff Deck is his name. I don't really like the name Jeff. I don't really like the name Deck. But what that man can do with a little ink just makes me tremble in my readers.

Deck is the founder of a magical organization called TEAL: "Typo Eradication Advancement League."

This...glorious, glorious man has made it his goal to, get this, travel the US with a few tools and his own post-grammar school inteligence, correcting sins against the English language wherever he goes.

Call me the biggest nerd of all time, but it irks me to no end when people who are responsible for creating ads and making signs and billboards that the general public (including impressionable young children, eek!) see on a daily basis make grammatical errors that a kindergartener should be shamed for.

It's "women's" not "womens'." "Less" does not mean "fewer." And yes, I WILL notice, not to mention become extremely uncomfortable, if you use the wrong form of to/two/too. Is it that difficult to learn your own damn language?

"I started thinking about how I could change the world in my own humble way," said my future husband.

Granted, he's not fighting malaria in economically substandard countries, but he's fighting stupidity, which I'd say is an admirable (and necessary) battle.

So bravo, Deck, and may the grammar gods guide you to victory.

*note: If you really do think I am insane, please watch the movie "Idiocracy." That is all.

Random stuff I read in Reader's Digest that amused me

2010-03-01T19:40:00.000-08:00

"In God we trust. All others, bring data."

"Friends are God's way of apologizing to us for our families."

And this one is silly, but I love it:
"What did the zero say to the eight?" "Nice belt!" (I really had to think about that for a minute.)

hehe.

hmm

2010-03-01T19:37:00.000-08:00

I have a cool idea of something I want to post on here...but it's kinda risky if I do it honestly!

I was reading through old journals of mine, and I've gone through so much on those pages. I kind of want to pick a starting point, and choose pages randomly (maybe every tenth or something) up until now and post what I wrote, or the gist of what I wrote.

Anyone who writes on even a semi-regular basis can attest to how obvious the evolution of a person can be through the precious thoughts that they deemed important enought to keep over a period of time. It's fascinating to me to see how far I have come in some areas, and how astounding it is that some areas of my life give me the exact same problems they did years ago.

I'm going to think on this one, but I'll probably do it soon!

Am I fatally flawed,

2010-03-01T19:32:00.000-08:00

...or flawlessly fatal?

Haiku by me, reader of much Japanese poetry

2010-03-01T17:24:00.001-08:00

Despite the day,
the night is always
silent.

genius

2010-03-01T17:23:00.000-08:00

"The force of will to make all the mistakes necessary to get the right answer--that is really the power of genius."
--Michio Kaku

I want to see beneath you, around you and inside.

2010-03-01T17:20:00.000-08:00

Can I line your body in ink,
wrap your fingers with curves of my own?
Trace your edges, back and forth,
until I get the lines
just right?
Peel off
your layers
of outer excess,
and paint dewey swirls all over your chest?
Dot your eyes with specks of light...
lover, can I draw you tonight?

This goes out to/ the one I /ruin/ goes out to the one I /love

2010-03-01T16:54:00.000-08:00

Beauty is my
weakness my
undoing my
destruction it
will surely be
the end of me
because it's all I see
in you.

Good night, Blogger.

2010-03-01T00:23:00.000-08:00

Wow I need to go to sleep.
It's already 3:22 a.m., Monday, March 1, 2010.
Good night, moon.
Good night, brain.

[I wish I had an off-switch.]

I was looking out the window one night when I saw the truth and the lies, and feared I did not know the difference

2010-03-01T00:22:00.000-08:00

The walls of this room
baracade me in-
my fortress, my
destruction.

They warp and bend,
standing white and
rigid before me,
allowing in only
patches of
light.

Their peep holes gazing
down at me,
laugh.

They hold me
in as we float, rough and tumbling,
smooth as glass through the universe.

...These walls suck the life right
out of me;
they suck the life right out.

A few poems I'm bending around about the Indian god, Kama

2010-03-01T00:16:00.000-08:00

Oh,
Kama...
why must you torture me so?

----------------------------------

Kama,
is that you?
Or just an unfamiliar wind...?

A wind I stirred myself,
long before the world
had taught me any better,
about what it's like
to spend these nights
alone--
stretched out weary on an endless bed of
black?

me again

2010-03-01T00:12:00.001-08:00

I think in stanzas.

I paint, therefore I am...a human canvas. God, I'm a mess.

2010-02-27T15:54:00.000-08:00

I'm painting an egg. Not painting on an egg, but painting a representation of an egg.

Oh, and it has legs. Long, sexy, female legs, perched atop a pair of scanty, hot pink hooker heels.

My original intention was to make both elements of this piece, the legs and the egg, excruciatingly realistic looking, creating an odd juxtaposition forcing viewers outside of the zone of the familiar.

Yeah, this was great plan until two things happened.

one). I got sick of looking at all that beige/peachy/white and pale apricot. I decided to incorporate some color when my frustration got the best of me and suggested that I paint a large red/orange stroke down the left leg of this ethereal and kinky creature, and so I did.

Now there is an irresistable assault of color winding up her leg, overtaking the pale blah-ness of what we see when we aren't really looking hard enough.

two.) I bought this wretched paint. I can't blame the paint, I know. Only the artist can be blamed if her work is anything but fantastic, yet I guess I must admit I was feeling lazy and didn't want to deal with the putrid result of that ucky yellow that was sort of like the oclor of a sick pea.

SO. Here's my egg, with one leg covered in color, the other in seductive black thigh-highs. I was really thinking of turning the egg part into a sort of Easter egg, I guess you could call it, with the colors migrating from the leg up onto the meat of the thing, but I decided maybe no.

Maybe, if I leave the color only on the leg, it's waspy tentacles falling just short of the creature's "body," I could create a kind of uncomfortable dissonance for viewers. Why stop at the leg? they might think.

Maybe I can create a real conversation piece insead of just a tribute to the already-been-done, eh?

Who knows. There's still quite a lot of paint to be flung.

My favorite speech of a Midsummer Night's Dream

2010-02-27T15:14:00.000-08:00

THESEUS:
More strange than true: I never may believe
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover and the poet
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,
That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear!

Essence is not of the time

2010-02-27T14:44:00.000-08:00

Time does not exist.

Should that not be a comfort?

Time is merely another human construct, our mortal way of attempting to explain the unexplainable, a theory marred by inferiority.

Then where are we in this "time," the fruit of our creation?

I think that while we are "here," in the 21st century, walking questions swarmed all around with cell phones and facebook invites, "here" and "now" are purely relative terms.

No, I'm not high. I'm just thinking. And this is probably the reason I should never be!

To be

2010-02-27T14:38:00.000-08:00

I think that if I had to choose the biggest component of success, I would say that it is a belief, deep in your being, that you are meant for something greater than to live and then die. A belief that you are meant to change things, and live on, far after your soul has ascended into the firmament of uncertainty.

I think
that's all
I know.

me

2010-02-27T14:30:00.003-08:00

I feel that I am three different people, caught in the body of one, and I have no idea how to reconcile myself.

Marilyn on a Thursday night, and then...

2010-02-26T22:16:00.001-08:00

"It's woman's spirit and mood a man has to stimulate in order to make sex interesting. The real lover is the man who can thrill you by touching your head or smiling into your eyes or just staring into space."
— Marilyn Monroe

I see my phone sitting lonesome on the nightstand. It doesn't deserve my touch.

"The body is meant to be seen, not all covered up."
— Marilyn Monroe

Deep down, all below it all, there is still
warmth.

"It's not true that I had nothing on. I had the radio on."
— Marilyn Monroe

And it played me
a bunch of lost music, that was always there,
I'd just forgotten about it.

"Well behaved women rarely make history."
— Marilyn Monroe

And sometimes at night
on nights like these I look
outside.

"If you're gonna be two-faced at least make one of them pretty."
— Marilyn Monroe

A chill runs down my sides. It runs
and runs
as if from me,
tiny hairs rise and fall-
electrified.

"Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring."
— Marilyn Monroe (Marilyn: Her Life in Her Own Words)

"I am good, but not an angel. I do sin,
but I am not the devil. I am just
a small girl in a big world trying to
find someone to love."
— Marilyn Monroe

Can you ever really leave
without leaving
your scent
on the pillow?

"Women who seek to be equal with men lack ambition."
— Marilyn Monroe

I cry.

""I knew I belonged to the public and to the world, not because I was talented or even beautiful, but because I had never belonged to anything or anyone else.""
— Marilyn Monroe

These ones, these ones reeeeally got me

2010-02-26T00:59:00.000-08:00

"...I envy you, drunk with flowers
butterflies swirling in your dreams."

I want to swirl
too.

But if I can't swirl
with you, then
what?

Sometimes when I listen to songs, I change them as they change me, just not as much

2010-02-26T00:43:00.000-08:00

"How it's bound to be
a heartbreak situation...
I can't fight it anymore--what you're givin'
I an happy to be--the way I feel
in your arms.
Isn't really somethin' I should do...
I should try to be strong, but all the pleasure
is worth
all the pain.
I know all about,
lovin' you."

>>>>I wrote this as a response to LeAnn Rimes' "Right Kind of Wrong"--it is a mishmash of the lyrics--all her own lyrics, all my own order and combination.

Some poems (by others) that I adore, and then I swear I am doing my homework

2010-02-21T21:20:00.000-08:00

The following are all poems I read in a compilation of Victorian verse.

They are: The Beasts, by Walt Whitman; Absent Yet Present, by Lord Lytton; Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe; Turst Thou Thy Love, by John Ruskin; and The Old Squire, by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt.

Each poem is separated from the others by a dashed line---------------------------

The Beasts, by Walt Whitman

I think I could turn and live with animals
They are so placid and self-contained,
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition,
They do no lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins,
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied,
Not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another,
Nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago,
Not one is respectable or industrious over the whole earth.

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Absent Yet Present, by Lord Lytton

As the flight of a river
That flows to the sea
My soul rushes ever
In tumult to thee.

A twofold existence
I am where thou art:
My heart in the distance
Beats close to thy heart.

Look up, I am near thee,
I gaze on thy face:
I see thee, I hear thee,
I feel thine embrace.

As the magnet's control on
The steel it draws to it,
Is the charm of thy soul on
The thoughts that pursue it.

And absence but brightens
The eyes that I miss,
And custom but heightens
The spell of thy kiss.

It is not from duty,
Though that may be owed,-
It is not from beauty,
Though that be bestowed:

But all that I care for,
And all that I know,
Is that, without wherefore,
I worship thee so.

Through granite it breaketh
A tree to the ray:
As a dreamer forsaketh
The grief of the day,

My soul in its fever
Escapes unto thee:
O dream to the griever!
O light to the tree!

A twofold existence
I am where thou art:
Hark, hear in the distance
The beat of my heart!

------------------------------------

Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

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Trust Thou Thy Love, by John Ruskin

Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?
Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure?
Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet;
Fail, Sun and Breath!--yet, for thy peace, She shall endure.

------------------------------------------

The Old Squire, by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

I Like the hunting of the hare
Better than that of the fox;
I like the joyous morning air,
And the crowing of the cocks.

I like the calm of the early fields,
The ducks asleep by the lake,
The quiet hour which Nature yields
Before mankind is awake.

I like the pheasants and feeding things
Of the unsuspicious morn;
I like the flap of the wood-pigeon’s wings
As she rises from the corn.

I like the blackbird’s shriek, and his rush
From the turnips as I pass by,
And the partridge hiding her head in a bush,
For her young ones cannot fly.

I like these things, and I like to ride,
When all the world is in bed,
To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide,
And where the sun grows red.

The beagles at my horse heels trot
In silence after me;
There ’s Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot,
Old Slut and Margery,—

A score of names well used, and dear,
The names my childhood knew;
The horn, with which I rouse their cheer,
Is the horn my father blew.

I like the hunting of the hare
Better than that of the fox;
The new world still is all less fair
Than the old world it mocks.

I covet not a wider range
Than these dear manors give;
I take my pleasures without change,
And as I lived I live.

I leave my neighbors to their thought;
My choice it is, and pride,
On my own lands to find my sport,
In my own fields to ride.

The hare herself no better loves
The field where she was bred,
Than I the habit of these groves,
My own inherited.

I know my quarries every one,
The meuse where she sits low;
The road she chose to-day was run
A hundred years ago.

The lags, the gills, the forest ways,
The hedgerows one and all,
These are the kingdoms of my chase,
And bounded by my wall;

Nor has the world a better thing,
Though one should search it round,
Than thus to live one’s own sole king,
Upon one’s own sole ground.

I like the hunting of the hare;
It brings me, day by day,
The memory of old days as fair,
With dead men passed away.

To these, as homeward still I ply
And pass the churchyard gate,
Where all are laid as I must lie,
I stop and raise my hat.

I like the hunting of the hare;
New sports I hold in scorn.
I like to be as my fathers were,
In the days e’er I was born.

"images, undying love"...for John Lennon, of course

2010-02-19T23:08:00.000-08:00

Words are flying out like/ endless rain into a paper cup/ Jai guru deva...ommmmmmm

and this, my singular obsession

2010-02-18T21:57:00.000-08:00

I once shook hands with happiness
some night so late
it was early.
I didn't get a glimpse of
his eyes,
so quickly did he go...
for some reason, though, I tend to think
they were a shade
of emerald green.
His grasp was strong
like the tide
except not driven by any moon.
And when I asked him for the time
he said only
that he didn't have one.
Perplexed
I thanked him anyway
and he tipped his hat to me
and off he went.

I once heard that finding a soul mate is sort of like one person's "recognition of their counterpoint in another," but personally, I'm just not sure

2010-02-18T13:02:00.000-08:00

There was a guy outside the library.
He was leaving, headed out those double doors that
way too often read "closed" and I,
I was coming
up those stairs, ready to enter another world,
needing to get inside
someone else's thoughts, for mine had grown me weary and then
he stopped.
He looked at me with a recognition of sorts, an air of
serendipity about him and I,
I averted him with every step,
but his eyes washed me over--
still...fixing me.
He could never
fix me
so I
kept walking
in my polka-dotty rain boots,
closing up
my matching umbrella as I approached those fickle doors,
but he kept on
and even though I kind of denied it, I knew I knew
that unfamiliar feeling that someone had noticed
something in me,
right off the bat,
and stopped.
I kept going, but then he spoke--"You braved the weather..."
I smiled, sort of
laughed,
dodging his halted form, there in front of that place he was leaving,
that place that I was going, only just arriving.
There was an awkward moment in those doors
where I paused,
thought to let him in
but I, only reasoning, resigned
looked away
was shy and decided
I didn't really know where he was headed and then
he smiled again.
He said good-bye.
But even so, his eyes
kept right on prodding....questioning, playful and aloof.
And mine answered back with an Idon'tknow, and an
Idon'tthinkthiswouldbe,
and I closed the doors, still in hot pursuit of something new.
I closed the doors
and now I'll always wonder
just where it was
that he was going.

and I take my daily dose of chili peppers...every day, that's right

2010-02-18T12:56:00.001-08:00

Take me to the place I love,
where poetry flies around
like birds and I
can be

Without ever being forced to realize
just how much being
I am doing.

Take me to the place
where music beats to the sound
of my footsteps on the path of my choosing
and plays, cold in the chilly nights.

The chilly nights that I
don't even notice, so warm am I, wrapped up in
thoughts, uniquely mine--
they're spilling onto every surface, now.

Take me to that place of mine,
that place of my construction,
where I might paint the sky
and write the rhythms of the seasons,

As letters fall from my mouthy trees like
leaves in autumn,
coating the ground in
the possibility of
so much
color.

I love I love I love!

2010-02-18T11:54:00.000-08:00

I think I think I think too much,
and I'm very efficient at wasting time.