I went to the beach because I had time.
I saw dolphins and a gorgeous sunset. I cant explain it. It was venice beach so there were a mix of highschoolers, hippies, vatos, roller-skate dancers, and et cetera. Many of each of these were trying to put the pink clouds, and ocean with the silohetted gulls into thier pockets via their digital cameras and camera phones.
I had no such devices, so I sang songs to try to help me capture the moment in some way:
I see the Lord seated on the throne and the train of his robe fills the temple with glory.
And the whole earth is filled... with his glory.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Adam and Eve
The history
Man breathed the air. Thick.
Hand in dirt, naked, naming.
He stood straight like the trees.
But the trees were taller.
The green beans grew tendrils, like the hair on his head.
But he ate the greenbeans and then they were gone.
He blinked like the deer, elephants, monkeys, rabbits, but they did not
Open their mouths to speak like he did.
He spoke to God. And God spoke back from every direction at once.
Man was from head to toe and that was all.
God was from dark to light, up to down, earth, east, west, sky, deeps.
“Sleep and when you wake you will find what you have been looking for”
Man had no choice but to sleep at the soothing sound of God’s suggestion.
What had Man been looking for? I planted the green beans, I harvested the strawberries,
I swam in the river. I sang praises to God.
Yahweh was always thinking a head. That first day, I just sat down,
After examining my reflection in the river, wondering what I ought to do next,
That’s when God let me name the animals.
I got to be a part of the creation that God told me was only a little order than me.
The names just rolled of my tongue. I felt like it wasn’t the first time I was seeing them
I named that strange animal with the long neck, giraffe,
Yes, I like the sound of that...giraffe…
“Let me reach into your side” Yahweh hummed a lullaby
“to create your Ezer."
God, kneaded the rib in his hands, stretching, sculpting.
Massaged the bone into flesh
Breathed still lungs into movement.
---
Man woke there was a fire in his side
Like he was the earth and someone dug him open.
His side had no scar.
He saw something and that something had been watching him sleep.
It was like he has been a single winged butterfly
Only now discovering the other wing
Breathing never felt like this before.
He whispered into her ear, you are what I have been looking for,
You are bone of my bone.
I am flesh of your flesh.
Can I call you woman, for yesterday,
man was alone, but today, today you are here.
---
Woman, the word felt familiar on her tongue, like a tickle down her spine.
They walked between the tall trees, past the blinking animals, swam in the river. She loved the way the cool streams of water, ran through her fingers. She held her hand just on the surface and she watched the little ripples run over her hands as the water rushed by.
They went to the gardens and ate from the trees.
The sky turned purple as the sun sank lower.
Humidity hung over the pair like a blanket as they watch the stars.
---
The Rant
Now here is the second part of this poem, written millions of years and sins later, when butterflies have learned how to travel without wings, and no one thinks about breathing, or blinking anymore.
Man breathed the air. Thick.
Hand in dirt, naked, naming.
He stood straight like the trees.
But the trees were taller.
The green beans grew tendrils, like the hair on his head.
But he ate the greenbeans and then they were gone.
He blinked like the deer, elephants, monkeys, rabbits, but they did not
Open their mouths to speak like he did.
He spoke to God. And God spoke back from every direction at once.
Man was from head to toe and that was all.
God was from dark to light, up to down, earth, east, west, sky, deeps.
“Sleep and when you wake you will find what you have been looking for”
Man had no choice but to sleep at the soothing sound of God’s suggestion.
What had Man been looking for? I planted the green beans, I harvested the strawberries,
I swam in the river. I sang praises to God.
Yahweh was always thinking a head. That first day, I just sat down,
After examining my reflection in the river, wondering what I ought to do next,
That’s when God let me name the animals.
I got to be a part of the creation that God told me was only a little order than me.
The names just rolled of my tongue. I felt like it wasn’t the first time I was seeing them
I named that strange animal with the long neck, giraffe,
Yes, I like the sound of that...giraffe…
“Let me reach into your side” Yahweh hummed a lullaby
“to create your Ezer."
God, kneaded the rib in his hands, stretching, sculpting.
Massaged the bone into flesh
Breathed still lungs into movement.
---
Man woke there was a fire in his side
Like he was the earth and someone dug him open.
His side had no scar.
He saw something and that something had been watching him sleep.
It was like he has been a single winged butterfly
Only now discovering the other wing
Breathing never felt like this before.
He whispered into her ear, you are what I have been looking for,
You are bone of my bone.
I am flesh of your flesh.
Can I call you woman, for yesterday,
man was alone, but today, today you are here.
---
Woman, the word felt familiar on her tongue, like a tickle down her spine.
They walked between the tall trees, past the blinking animals, swam in the river. She loved the way the cool streams of water, ran through her fingers. She held her hand just on the surface and she watched the little ripples run over her hands as the water rushed by.
They went to the gardens and ate from the trees.
The sky turned purple as the sun sank lower.
Humidity hung over the pair like a blanket as they watch the stars.
---
The Rant
Now here is the second part of this poem, written millions of years and sins later, when butterflies have learned how to travel without wings, and no one thinks about breathing, or blinking anymore.
Quick write: “If my heart were…” (inspired by my desk at work and a few other things)
If my heart were a store front shop, it would have a sign: open for business during construction.
If my heart were a plant it would have some yellow dead leaves.
If my heart were a pen, it would run out of ink sometimes
If my heart were a font, it would be hard to read.
If my heart were a pair of scissors, the edges would be sharp.
If my heart were a bottle of hand sanitizer, it would say kills 99% of germs.
If my heart were a computer screen, it would have a gamma ray shield hanging in front of it.
If my heart were a plastic spoon, I would need to wash it in order to eat off it again.
If my heart were a electronic stapler, it would not get tired of trying to hold things together.
If my heart were a telephone, I wouldn’t answer it every time it rang.
If my heart were an email, the subject line would be left blank.
If my heart were a map of the US, it would be color coded, but have no key to say what the colors mean.
If my heart were cubicle, I would want to tears holes in the walls so I could see out.
If my heart were a bottle of water, it be would have lost it screw-on-cap a long time ago.
If my heart were a plant it would have some yellow dead leaves.
If my heart were a pen, it would run out of ink sometimes
If my heart were a font, it would be hard to read.
If my heart were a pair of scissors, the edges would be sharp.
If my heart were a bottle of hand sanitizer, it would say kills 99% of germs.
If my heart were a computer screen, it would have a gamma ray shield hanging in front of it.
If my heart were a plastic spoon, I would need to wash it in order to eat off it again.
If my heart were a electronic stapler, it would not get tired of trying to hold things together.
If my heart were a telephone, I wouldn’t answer it every time it rang.
If my heart were an email, the subject line would be left blank.
If my heart were a map of the US, it would be color coded, but have no key to say what the colors mean.
If my heart were cubicle, I would want to tears holes in the walls so I could see out.
If my heart were a bottle of water, it be would have lost it screw-on-cap a long time ago.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
dirty laundry
I thought I was a generally civilized person until, I went to Granda Lavandaria. It was a Saturday morning after being sick for a week, so it felt like my first time out in the world in a while. My laundry was about two weeks overdue. Plus, after being sick I needed to wash my sheets, and my duvet cover, and just for good measure I threw in the house rags, and the nasty rugs from the bathroom floor. I mounded, molded, shoved these heaps of dirty fabrics into a laundry basket and then some. I carried the pouch of quarter in my front left pocket, my purse over my shoulder filled with books and my journal, and somehow manage to add to this pile of my burdens the stupidly large plastic container of liquid laundery soap. I struggled to the Laundromat with all of these things, looking burdened and unshowered. The kind lady who wears the apron and sweeps the floors and checks the machines, saw me and pushed one of basket on wheels in my direction. I smiled greatlfully and then noticed the rows and rows of people doing the loads and loads of laundry. Families with children and dogs and snacks and bootleg dvds and tamales for sale. Where was the peaceful laundery doing journal writing time of my Saturday morning. The kind lady asked if I was looking for the dollar machines. Si, si, I nodded. She found me one that was empty. I put in my first load, despeartly trying to control the flying socks and t-shirt limps and I pulled the items from the overstuffed laundry basket. Poured in the stupid and slow soap and then went to scavenge for another machine. The next row over looked empty! I went to inspect. Every single machine, about 8 in a row, was taken by these two young women. Estan usando todos! I asked in disbelief. Si they replied separating their loads. I was enraged. I rolled my oversized laundry basket through the maze of men and women folding their clothes watching the 3 TVs showing the Chivas girls in their too small t-shirts, underwear and oversized belts talk about how they learned all their complex dance moves. My hair was a mess. My laundry basket too full. My eyes darted from here to there looking for a machine! Its not fair, I don’t have small children to send and guard the open washers or dryers. I don’t Spanish well enough to haggle my way in or defend my need for the machines. I felt at a disadvantage. All my plans for having a nice little quiet time while doing my loads of laundry were foiled!
I felt like I had gone back to the caveman days and I was scouting territory and there was none. I nothing to do but wait for my one machine to finish and fume about the what a Godless place this was and how selfish and who did they think they were taking up half the machines and what the heck this is a laundrymat why don’t they have more freaking washers! I tried to put my laundry in more manageable piles.
I was livid, annoyed, hating the world and completely aware that I was overreacting. It was horrible. I returned home, with a load a dirty, a load of clean and slightly damp and even a load of clean and dry and slightly folded.
The next day morning I woke up at 7:30 with one plan and one plan only. Get rid of clothes you don’t need, wear, like, or have to many of. If it doenst fit in the drawer with ease, its gone! I got ride of sweaters, pants that didn’t fit, shirts that were ugly, my sparkly prom shoes, and much more. Now I have a pile of clothes to get ride. I folded the clothes in my drawers and organized my closet (this is a small miracle).
I feel accomplished, but no more civilized. There is survival-of-this-fittest-caveman living deep inside of me. But I breathe and pray and go to church to learn about Grace and I get through my day.
I felt like I had gone back to the caveman days and I was scouting territory and there was none. I nothing to do but wait for my one machine to finish and fume about the what a Godless place this was and how selfish and who did they think they were taking up half the machines and what the heck this is a laundrymat why don’t they have more freaking washers! I tried to put my laundry in more manageable piles.
I was livid, annoyed, hating the world and completely aware that I was overreacting. It was horrible. I returned home, with a load a dirty, a load of clean and slightly damp and even a load of clean and dry and slightly folded.
The next day morning I woke up at 7:30 with one plan and one plan only. Get rid of clothes you don’t need, wear, like, or have to many of. If it doenst fit in the drawer with ease, its gone! I got ride of sweaters, pants that didn’t fit, shirts that were ugly, my sparkly prom shoes, and much more. Now I have a pile of clothes to get ride. I folded the clothes in my drawers and organized my closet (this is a small miracle).
I feel accomplished, but no more civilized. There is survival-of-this-fittest-caveman living deep inside of me. But I breathe and pray and go to church to learn about Grace and I get through my day.
Friday, March 17, 2006
ribs
Ten minute quick write ribs:
At first it was almost fun. No not fun, but surprising, alarming in an interesting way. I coughed and made a loud angry sound. Something totally different, separate from me and who I am and the sounds I make. This was fine, while it was the only symptom of the sickness. Then I just got plain sick and the coughing didn’t stop. Now my rib muscles and back muscles are painfully aware of their existence and every emotion they are used for.
Now even the slightest ‘ha’ or “heh” is much too painful to endure. My roommate joked that I could sell this sickness as “Abs of Steel .. Look good, feel horrible … One Cough at a Time.” I do suppose that there probably are people who would buy it.
Being sick is lame. When I am sick I feel sorry for myself. Boohoo, I can’t sleep. Boohoo my stomach muscles hurt from coughing. Boohoo, I can’t even eat dinner because my cough is so violent, my soup comes out my nose. Now those are some pretty good reasons to feel sorry for myself. But then I think of my coworker, who is also sick, but lives an hour away by train with 5 daughters she has to take care of. What a luxury it is to be single and only worrying for myself. Then I also think of all the people in Payatas, whose very livelihood, if it can even be called that, gives them every disease known to man, from birth defects to asthma to death and then they spend 50 percent of the money they make from walking the trash dump day in and day out on aspirin to ease the pain of their tumors or fevers or hydrocyphilis. And I think of them, and if I am feeling humble enough, I will pray for them, but then I will cough, and I will still be sick, and stuck in bed, what good am I when I am sick in bed?
I guess being sick is a good reminder of fragility. Life is woven together with fine pieces of beautiful colored thread. Thread that can be snipped, pulled, broken, gnawed through, lit of fire, unraveled, or bleached in a matter of seconds. When I was born I came with no slip of paper with Lifetime guarantee or even a warranty, nothing stating that when I’ve reached 3000 miles or 3 years which ever first please come in for an oil change. My life, standard of health is a blessing, luxury, privilege, for which I become more thankful for as I sit in bed for 2 days sleeping.
I started coughing again and as it is 430 I took some narcotics. The cough medicine with codeine that the doctor, who I am privilege enough to be able to see, prescribed for me. It makes me feel slightly strange as I picture this narcotic dripping down my throat through the insides of me coating me with sleepiness.
The office is almost entirely quiet, just a few people linger here this Friday afternoon. I am such a goody goody. I can not leave my desk until I see the clock strike 5. I guess I am not that much of a goody goody because I checked out mentally sometime ago, when I started writing this about my ribs. Good night office, good night moon. I am going to go to sleep again.
At first it was almost fun. No not fun, but surprising, alarming in an interesting way. I coughed and made a loud angry sound. Something totally different, separate from me and who I am and the sounds I make. This was fine, while it was the only symptom of the sickness. Then I just got plain sick and the coughing didn’t stop. Now my rib muscles and back muscles are painfully aware of their existence and every emotion they are used for.
Now even the slightest ‘ha’ or “heh” is much too painful to endure. My roommate joked that I could sell this sickness as “Abs of Steel .. Look good, feel horrible … One Cough at a Time.” I do suppose that there probably are people who would buy it.
Being sick is lame. When I am sick I feel sorry for myself. Boohoo, I can’t sleep. Boohoo my stomach muscles hurt from coughing. Boohoo, I can’t even eat dinner because my cough is so violent, my soup comes out my nose. Now those are some pretty good reasons to feel sorry for myself. But then I think of my coworker, who is also sick, but lives an hour away by train with 5 daughters she has to take care of. What a luxury it is to be single and only worrying for myself. Then I also think of all the people in Payatas, whose very livelihood, if it can even be called that, gives them every disease known to man, from birth defects to asthma to death and then they spend 50 percent of the money they make from walking the trash dump day in and day out on aspirin to ease the pain of their tumors or fevers or hydrocyphilis. And I think of them, and if I am feeling humble enough, I will pray for them, but then I will cough, and I will still be sick, and stuck in bed, what good am I when I am sick in bed?
I guess being sick is a good reminder of fragility. Life is woven together with fine pieces of beautiful colored thread. Thread that can be snipped, pulled, broken, gnawed through, lit of fire, unraveled, or bleached in a matter of seconds. When I was born I came with no slip of paper with Lifetime guarantee or even a warranty, nothing stating that when I’ve reached 3000 miles or 3 years which ever first please come in for an oil change. My life, standard of health is a blessing, luxury, privilege, for which I become more thankful for as I sit in bed for 2 days sleeping.
I started coughing again and as it is 430 I took some narcotics. The cough medicine with codeine that the doctor, who I am privilege enough to be able to see, prescribed for me. It makes me feel slightly strange as I picture this narcotic dripping down my throat through the insides of me coating me with sleepiness.
The office is almost entirely quiet, just a few people linger here this Friday afternoon. I am such a goody goody. I can not leave my desk until I see the clock strike 5. I guess I am not that much of a goody goody because I checked out mentally sometime ago, when I started writing this about my ribs. Good night office, good night moon. I am going to go to sleep again.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Clock Substitutes
My account manager’s eye is healing very well. I am kind of sad. He got jumped two weekends ago and arrived to work last Monday with scrapes, cuts, and a glorious black, purple, green and yellowish eye. After the shock of it, it was fun to keep him informed of the most recent state. It’s oozing a little. The swelling looks like it’s gone down. Wow, its really changed colors, a lot less purple today. Now, there is no purple left. Not as much to talk about. In the working world I have come to accept the processes, as ways to mark the time, to ease the monotony of Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Up Past my bedtime
I just have to let you know its 10pm on a Thursday. I should be in bed and I usually am. However, today I wrote the poem you could have just read about the Macy's Plaza and lunch, etc. Even though i have forgotten how to write, just the attempt of it was so life giving that i am here blogging, just letting the words come out of my fingers. past the headache. past the worries of friday. Oh well. I am proud of myself when i stay up past ten p.m. it helps me know i am human.
Love, Alessandra
Love, Alessandra
Another place where there is no formula: My blog.
A Lunch Break Lost in Mona Lisa’s Smile
I sit in the Macy’s Plaza. A man is paid to play the Grand Piano.
Without the words, the song shapes waft over me.
There are a dozen people on their lunch breaks.
We sit, scattered pigeons, devouring the music notes like crumbs.
The piano man stops betweens songs, looks around.
I stop breathing to fill the wasted minutes.
My clap’s not heard inside the hollow cake, the carpeted mall,
Over decorated with business suits. He starts a new song.
The ceiling is made of glass. I concentrate on details.
I close my eyes. Perhaps, love is possible.
-----
critique? criticism? What lines are not working for you?
I sit in the Macy’s Plaza. A man is paid to play the Grand Piano.
Without the words, the song shapes waft over me.
There are a dozen people on their lunch breaks.
We sit, scattered pigeons, devouring the music notes like crumbs.
The piano man stops betweens songs, looks around.
I stop breathing to fill the wasted minutes.
My clap’s not heard inside the hollow cake, the carpeted mall,
Over decorated with business suits. He starts a new song.
The ceiling is made of glass. I concentrate on details.
I close my eyes. Perhaps, love is possible.
-----
critique? criticism? What lines are not working for you?
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Driving.
God is a poet who has much more than words and paint to create metaphor and analogy.
As I turned left on to Mission Street, only because I heard it mentioned, not because I knew where it went, I slowly became conscious that I was in the middle of one of His short poems, perhaps entitled “How to get home”. With my eyes open, I still felt blind, tensed and leaning in my driver’s side seat as the truth settled in, I have no idea where this street is taking me, it feels like its generally heading Southwest, and I generally live southwest of here. I could get lost, I could get home. Either way I am going. somewhere.
There were all the emotions in the drive home that a good movie has: everything from fear, to joy, laughter to peace. Eventually I got home. It was a long circuitous route. it was the best one I could have taken. Because it became a poem for me of HEALING. The healing process, the process of finding my way home is one where your muscles get tensed with uncomfortablity as you explore the nighttime roads, and turn on the lights. Where you see in the distants the lights of the buildings you want to get to, you know your headed in that direction as they loom in front of you, but in the distance, more than an arms length away. Out of reach. But you just got to keep heading in that direction. Even though you dont know how these dark, uncomfortable, twisted, streets will ever lead to those illuminated builidngs. You got to have hope. You got to have faith that getting to those buildings, will get you home.
Tonight I went on a drive to old familiar territory. A place I had spent a lot of time once upon a time. Only to find it all underconstruction and only vagely familiar. In the dark car with only the lights of the valley pouring up at us. I felt as underconstruction as the church whose parking lot we were using. This church sits on the edge of fancy houses on the Mulholland Drive. It has the most amazing view of the valley. Its vast like looking at the ocean. It's roar is not like the oceans though, there are no waves, just a simple whispered roar of the not too distant freeways.
I have before compared my heart to a seashell closed and hard. Now there is bulldozer wanting in. Wanting to turn the calcified shell in to soft life giving dirt. The kind you drop seeds into and they grow, and blossom.
I am driving in a car with a unopened seashell in my chest. Yes. Life is as awkward as mixed metaphors.
As I turned left on to Mission Street, only because I heard it mentioned, not because I knew where it went, I slowly became conscious that I was in the middle of one of His short poems, perhaps entitled “How to get home”. With my eyes open, I still felt blind, tensed and leaning in my driver’s side seat as the truth settled in, I have no idea where this street is taking me, it feels like its generally heading Southwest, and I generally live southwest of here. I could get lost, I could get home. Either way I am going. somewhere.
There were all the emotions in the drive home that a good movie has: everything from fear, to joy, laughter to peace. Eventually I got home. It was a long circuitous route. it was the best one I could have taken. Because it became a poem for me of HEALING. The healing process, the process of finding my way home is one where your muscles get tensed with uncomfortablity as you explore the nighttime roads, and turn on the lights. Where you see in the distants the lights of the buildings you want to get to, you know your headed in that direction as they loom in front of you, but in the distance, more than an arms length away. Out of reach. But you just got to keep heading in that direction. Even though you dont know how these dark, uncomfortable, twisted, streets will ever lead to those illuminated builidngs. You got to have hope. You got to have faith that getting to those buildings, will get you home.
Tonight I went on a drive to old familiar territory. A place I had spent a lot of time once upon a time. Only to find it all underconstruction and only vagely familiar. In the dark car with only the lights of the valley pouring up at us. I felt as underconstruction as the church whose parking lot we were using. This church sits on the edge of fancy houses on the Mulholland Drive. It has the most amazing view of the valley. Its vast like looking at the ocean. It's roar is not like the oceans though, there are no waves, just a simple whispered roar of the not too distant freeways.
I have before compared my heart to a seashell closed and hard. Now there is bulldozer wanting in. Wanting to turn the calcified shell in to soft life giving dirt. The kind you drop seeds into and they grow, and blossom.
I am driving in a car with a unopened seashell in my chest. Yes. Life is as awkward as mixed metaphors.
Ten minute quick write (and then some): Patterns.
Once in kindergarten we had to make patterns using colored pasta.
There were purple ones, green ones, all the colors and all the
shapes. There were little shell like ones, dark blue. I did my
pattern all with these. One upside down and one right side up and so
on. The teacher came by and looked at mine and said that's not right
you have to use different shapes. And she goes on to describe what a
pattern. She didn't notice the subtly of my pattern.
A lot of patterns are subtle. Take living in the dorms. The first
two weeks you try a bunch of different things and then for whatever
reason you choose someone to hang out with. Then they become your
pattern. Its hard to mix it up. Once C dorm kids get to know all the
other C dorm kids they will not hang out with the A dorm kids.
Simple as that. You have to work you way into peoples lives in the
first couple of days of transition or you'll never get in. Or at
least it's a lot harder.
I didn't realize the work place has its dorm like patterns until
today. The first 3 months I cried through every lunch break, so
there was no way I was suitable for making friends with the
coworkers at lunch. I read the new Harry potter book, which was
kindly given to me my first day of life as a true adult with a 40
hour job. That book help me survive. It made the lunch hour seem so
long because its easy to read Harry Potter quickly.
But whatever, it established a pattern. Alessandra disappears at
lunch. Even after I stopped crying through the 60 minutes of
freedom. Of outside of the cubicle. I had to get out of the
building. Now sometimes I am at work and its that 11oclock hour and I just long for a friend. Its a pretty wierd feeling to long for a friend on a floor with 70 people staring at computer screens. But it happens. I run through the people in my mind i could be friends with.
Account Manager Matt: No, it seems like he only would deign to eat lunch with me when he is paying as in saying thank you for being a great assistant.
Marissa: No, She is always too busy to take lunch. She humms and haaws and then says no.
Gil: No, sometimes, I just dont want to hear about the newest cool thing or how great he is.
Deanna: I have hope with this one. Someday we will play frisbee. She said she would want to but, it just hasnt worked out.
Then there are all these other people with their preestablished patterns of lunchtime, with the preestablished groups of friends. and i suddenly become the third grader eating jicama in the cafteria and i try to lie and say its apple, but they see my vegetiable is not a fruit and I get strange looks for the rest of the year.
paingeli
So today I bought a book at lunch. A girl needs a book is she cant have friends. (this doesnt mean I have given up on being friends with people). "In the times of the Butterflies" a fictional book based on the political matyred sister in the dominican republic. Looks good.
There were purple ones, green ones, all the colors and all the
shapes. There were little shell like ones, dark blue. I did my
pattern all with these. One upside down and one right side up and so
on. The teacher came by and looked at mine and said that's not right
you have to use different shapes. And she goes on to describe what a
pattern. She didn't notice the subtly of my pattern.
A lot of patterns are subtle. Take living in the dorms. The first
two weeks you try a bunch of different things and then for whatever
reason you choose someone to hang out with. Then they become your
pattern. Its hard to mix it up. Once C dorm kids get to know all the
other C dorm kids they will not hang out with the A dorm kids.
Simple as that. You have to work you way into peoples lives in the
first couple of days of transition or you'll never get in. Or at
least it's a lot harder.
I didn't realize the work place has its dorm like patterns until
today. The first 3 months I cried through every lunch break, so
there was no way I was suitable for making friends with the
coworkers at lunch. I read the new Harry potter book, which was
kindly given to me my first day of life as a true adult with a 40
hour job. That book help me survive. It made the lunch hour seem so
long because its easy to read Harry Potter quickly.
But whatever, it established a pattern. Alessandra disappears at
lunch. Even after I stopped crying through the 60 minutes of
freedom. Of outside of the cubicle. I had to get out of the
building. Now sometimes I am at work and its that 11oclock hour and I just long for a friend. Its a pretty wierd feeling to long for a friend on a floor with 70 people staring at computer screens. But it happens. I run through the people in my mind i could be friends with.
Account Manager Matt: No, it seems like he only would deign to eat lunch with me when he is paying as in saying thank you for being a great assistant.
Marissa: No, She is always too busy to take lunch. She humms and haaws and then says no.
Gil: No, sometimes, I just dont want to hear about the newest cool thing or how great he is.
Deanna: I have hope with this one. Someday we will play frisbee. She said she would want to but, it just hasnt worked out.
Then there are all these other people with their preestablished patterns of lunchtime, with the preestablished groups of friends. and i suddenly become the third grader eating jicama in the cafteria and i try to lie and say its apple, but they see my vegetiable is not a fruit and I get strange looks for the rest of the year.
paingeli
So today I bought a book at lunch. A girl needs a book is she cant have friends. (this doesnt mean I have given up on being friends with people). "In the times of the Butterflies" a fictional book based on the political matyred sister in the dominican republic. Looks good.
8 minute quickwrite: Posturing
8 minutes. Is not much to speak of so I will write on a small Item. The bra. Today I forgot mine when I went swimming at the gym. How did I remember my lunch, my luke manuscript, even my mascara, (which I did not wear as lack of bra makes me much too sad to even consider make up). I also forgot my shoes. I am wearing wet shower shoes. I also wore these shoes to the Malakanyan which is the white house of the Philippines, so I do not feel so bad a wearing them to blue cross. I told my gym mate Lydia…. “uh, I forgot my bra… do have anything slightly resembling”. She handed me her sweaty sports bra. Bras are very important. They can determine if I feel like standing up straight with confidence or slouching in the hopes of not being seen. Bras are not the only item that can determine posture. Right now I am posturing. Posturing comfortability. I look fine with this sports bra drenched in someone else’s cold sweat. But I do not feel fine. I asked Jen with importunity if she could bring me these few things to work, as she has not left the house yet. When she heard that I was wearing Lydia’s soiled bra, she said “that’s disgusting, let me check with my carpool” I am glad I have a roommate who has such a strong sense of hygiene. I mean usually I am quite fine with what others would consider dirty. I usually only shower every other day. 8 am in now here. I must begin work
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
A Half Dozen Half Thoughts
1. My life is held in two hour breaths.
2. Do you have words that run through your head just about every day or
during certain situations? Maybe you whisper them under your breath,
maybe they are in rhythm with your heart beat. Maybe they seem as
natural as breathing. Sometimes I am chanting a mantra without even
noticing. As my pen hits the page and the mantra scrawls out I
realize it's been circling my head like a tied down balloon caught
in the draft of fan.
I am in the business of changing my mantras. It feels like learning
to run backwards. I am changing my mantras because the old ones,
even the ones I thought had given up when I gave up wearing all
black in high school were still attached at the roots of my brain.
I figure, as I get older I have little time to mess with lies. If I
am going to have words riding the carousel ponies of my mind, they
need to be true, and beneficial to all the things that come in
contact with my brain and all things produced by brain.
Where you find such words with such affects, you might ask. Well I
have found them in the first couple of verses of Isaiah 43. I
squished down the main themes into 3 simple lines that are easy to
memorize. As I think about writing them down, I kind a feel
embarrassed, like I am opening up my mouth to let you see in after I
have just eaten a spoonful of peanut butter.
I am precious in God's eyes
I will not be afraid.
He created me for his glory.
This mantra helps me answer the phones at work, overshadows the gum
commercials that tell me I am not socially acceptable until I chew
Minty-Fresh. It negates the lies of my old mantras. It is sometimes
hard to believe. My brain is a stubborn instrument, rusted into
certain movements.
3. At the gym they show music videos, not all of them are MTV quality. Sweaty people run on treadmills and elyptical trainers toward these unattainable bodies of the 16 year olds prancing around in thier skin tight clothes singing about how love has wronged them. The singers and the runners never meet. But its like cheese held at the end of maze we hope to get to some day. Then RuPual comes on the screen. THe runners keep running, but in confusion.
4. The setting sun silhouettes the view from the middle of my street.
The palm trees are at their proudest, tall, lean and above all the
houses, streets, cars and people. All the cars look shiny. Its
recently rained, everything is appears cleaner than it really is,
including the sky. The fading sun leaves its residue thickly on
windows, in the expanding clouds, and in my abandoned breath. Pinks,
Orange, Yellows, even Lilacs appear as the evening walks down our
street.
This beauty is as much a part of South Central LA as all the other
words you've been taught to think of when you hear South Central on the news.
5. Men are what they can hold in thier hands. Women are what they can possess when their hands are empty.
6. Sometimes you just need a stranger to say, "I am glad you made it here tonight." Perhaps this stranger will hold thier arms out in the motion a bowl makes when it sits on the shelf. Perhaps this stranger will wear gaudy jewewlry and stalkings. Perhaps this stranger will listen as you unfold darker and darker mysteries you wish you had just read about in a fiction novel you picked up in the grocery store.
Perhaps.
2. Do you have words that run through your head just about every day or
during certain situations? Maybe you whisper them under your breath,
maybe they are in rhythm with your heart beat. Maybe they seem as
natural as breathing. Sometimes I am chanting a mantra without even
noticing. As my pen hits the page and the mantra scrawls out I
realize it's been circling my head like a tied down balloon caught
in the draft of fan.
I am in the business of changing my mantras. It feels like learning
to run backwards. I am changing my mantras because the old ones,
even the ones I thought had given up when I gave up wearing all
black in high school were still attached at the roots of my brain.
I figure, as I get older I have little time to mess with lies. If I
am going to have words riding the carousel ponies of my mind, they
need to be true, and beneficial to all the things that come in
contact with my brain and all things produced by brain.
Where you find such words with such affects, you might ask. Well I
have found them in the first couple of verses of Isaiah 43. I
squished down the main themes into 3 simple lines that are easy to
memorize. As I think about writing them down, I kind a feel
embarrassed, like I am opening up my mouth to let you see in after I
have just eaten a spoonful of peanut butter.
I am precious in God's eyes
I will not be afraid.
He created me for his glory.
This mantra helps me answer the phones at work, overshadows the gum
commercials that tell me I am not socially acceptable until I chew
Minty-Fresh. It negates the lies of my old mantras. It is sometimes
hard to believe. My brain is a stubborn instrument, rusted into
certain movements.
3. At the gym they show music videos, not all of them are MTV quality. Sweaty people run on treadmills and elyptical trainers toward these unattainable bodies of the 16 year olds prancing around in thier skin tight clothes singing about how love has wronged them. The singers and the runners never meet. But its like cheese held at the end of maze we hope to get to some day. Then RuPual comes on the screen. THe runners keep running, but in confusion.
4. The setting sun silhouettes the view from the middle of my street.
The palm trees are at their proudest, tall, lean and above all the
houses, streets, cars and people. All the cars look shiny. Its
recently rained, everything is appears cleaner than it really is,
including the sky. The fading sun leaves its residue thickly on
windows, in the expanding clouds, and in my abandoned breath. Pinks,
Orange, Yellows, even Lilacs appear as the evening walks down our
street.
This beauty is as much a part of South Central LA as all the other
words you've been taught to think of when you hear South Central on the news.
5. Men are what they can hold in thier hands. Women are what they can possess when their hands are empty.
6. Sometimes you just need a stranger to say, "I am glad you made it here tonight." Perhaps this stranger will hold thier arms out in the motion a bowl makes when it sits on the shelf. Perhaps this stranger will wear gaudy jewewlry and stalkings. Perhaps this stranger will listen as you unfold darker and darker mysteries you wish you had just read about in a fiction novel you picked up in the grocery store.
Perhaps.
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