LIT2930 Final Project pt2

Text for the Map of My Head

As described by my essay, these are the phrases that would comprise the “noodles” of my map. My intent was to cut each line into a strip, tape all of the strips together, and weave the resulting strand through the grid of chicken wire; all of this was to be contained within the cardboard box.

Where is the snooze button… I need to be sleeping more. I can’t believe I let you keep me up that long talking about such bullshit. I can’t believe I’m still talking to you. I might still love you, but not enough to try to stay with you. Don’t ask me what I think, you really don’t want to know. Gran would’ve known just how to answer that. I miss Gran. I wonder if she’s actually in heaven, or hell, or Elysium, or whatever. I wonder if she got reborn as some German librarian—she would have like that, I think. Is that even real? Is God even real? Is it time for lunch yet? Why are the kids never ready for lunch, even if it’s this late? Thank God it’s nap time. Okay, there might be a God. God, I need to get a new job. How am I going to afford next semester and still pay for the car? I hate how sleepy nap time makes me, especially with all this rain—wait, did I put the car windows up? Shit. I wonder if Karen can let me go check—of course not. God I hate working here. I hope one of those last applications goes through. I should send out a few more tonight, after I finish that calculus test. Jason, take the toy out of your mouth and go rinse it off. That’s yucky, dude, don’t do it again. Antiderivatives add one to the exponent, right? I think so. Sammy would know, I should text her. We should really hang—stupid phone, “hang,” not“gang”—out again soon. She is such a great friend. I need more friends. I wonder how Powell’s doing today. God, I miss her. I hope she’s happy. She has such a great opportunity down there, I wish she and Nick didn’t have to be so far apart right now, they’re both so crazy without each other. I wonder if she can come up for my birthday. We can make cookies and drink and get crazy giggly like last time… and I should not be thinking about that at work. I wonder where I should get lunch. Micky D’s is cheaper, and their drive-thru is always faster. Burger King takes foreeeever to get through the line, but it’s easier to get to and I like their food better. Going into the cafeteria always makes me feel weird. I should be used to feeling weird by now. I always thought that was just something you dealt with in high school and then grew out of, like acne and braces and wearing way-too-big t-shirts tucked into belted jeans. Small wonder I didn’t date until college, not until Barry came along and ohgodidoNotwanttogodownthatroadrightnow. Mrs. Langdon? This is Megan from the daycare. I’m sorry, but Kaleigh’s really not feeling well, she’s got a bad fever, she needs to be taken home. We’ll see you in an hour. Thanks. Should I start taking self-defense classes again? Or maybe just go to the gym more. PT should be coming up here soon, my score is going to suck this time around. I really need to be doing more sit-ups. What time did I start my break again? I think I’m late. Lori probably won’t even look up from her computer… I wonder what her malfunction is, why does she hate me? I should never have taken this job. God, I need to get a new job. Kent campus should be hiring tutors soon. I’d be able to get home earlier. Mom would like that. Wonder what she’s up to, should be about time to go pick up the boys from school. I can’t believe they have AP exams next week and they aren’t even studying. They’re going to fail, the knuckleheads. Drew at least knows better; Justin’s just being an idiot. Mommy’s coming, Max, don’t cry honey. Mommy will be here soon, she’s just running…about an hour late. It’s okay, she’ll be here soon. I wonder if David’s finished his math stuff yet. Did he understand synthetic division after his last class? Maybe I should help him study… but we’d probably end up on his couch again… Not at work. Just two more hours of this, and I can take off these shoes, and sit down, and it’ll be quiet, and I can relax. And do integrations—well, at least it will be quiet. AJ, that is not a nice word. We don’t call our friends that name, they have their own names, and that’s what we call them.Did I remember to sign out that last kid? How can corporate honestly expect me to watch this many kids, and do this much paperwork, and still teach the curriculum? When was the last time they tried working in a classroom—seriously?! No, Abby, no piggyback rides today, Ms Megan’s back still hurts from the last time you jumped on me. I have to go, it’s time for me to go home, would you please let go of my leg, goodbyeIloveyouseeyoutomorrow—Gone! Why won’t this guy do the speed limit? Nope, wait, he is—I’m the one speeding. I can’t wait to get home and put on my pjs. This song is awesome! I hope David gets out early tonight so we can watch a movie. Tonight is a good night for Moulin Rouge, I think. He’s supposed to be home soon. Do I have time to go home and change? Not really, but he’s too sweet to say anything about it. I wish I were better for him. He deserves someone nicer. I should stop picking on him—red light. Egads, but I’m tired. Maybe no movie tonight, just a quick dinner and snuggling in the car on the way back. I should be getting home soon, I need to get some sleep tonight. I should really be sleeping more.

LIT2930 Final Project: A Map of My Head

Are You Here?: An impressionistic map of the inside of my head

Let me start by saying that this is one of the most interesting and creative assignments I've had outside of an art class. I loved the idea behind this essay--until I had to make it personal. Then it was not so fun. Both I and the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator consider me an introspective person. I like to think, to get lost in thoughts big and wide; I traverse the corridors of my mind with all the alacrity of a child on her favorite playground. But while I've always considered my headspace as a more-directly-than-metaphors-usually-are place, I never before tried or even thought to map it out as a place (partly because of the constant changing of the terrain, partly because of its intangible nature, and partly because I get slightly dyslexic when trying to navigate maps). The idea of mapping something so intangible, while intriguing, seemed a daunting task.

But what is life without a little challenge every once in a while?

I like things to make sense. Even as a child, I was quick to dismiss many of the typical myths fed to me by adults on the simple grounds of illogic, and have always been intrusively and irritatingly fond of the 'why' of things. (This might just explain the odd, objective fascination I have with people as a whole. In a world that requires order and patterns and cycles, we stick out like the sorest of left thumbs. I have always been astounded and confused and bewildered by people.) While I had the misfortune of going through puberty, and the awakening to self and society that goes with the coming of age, I tried to make people--and their inevitable social interactions--make sense. As with all queries, I turned first to books. I came across the book Men are like Waffles, Women are like Spaghetti, (Bill & Pam Farrel. I don't recommend it unles you're one of those people who derive pleasure/amusement from rampant sexism supported by Westernized Christianity. Which I don't suppose you would.) which claims that the key to making relationships across the gender-lines work is understanding that each sex has a distinct way of thinking and organizing thoughts: that men are prone to compartmentalize thoughts into "boxes," like waffles; and that women tend to preserve the organic, interconnected-ness of their thoughts, the way spaghetti noodles all twine together. At first, this simple classification seemed to work. Everyone knows that women are more emotional than men, and more apt to express those emotions in all aspects of their life, right? Isn't this something we're conditioned to Know from childhood, that girls can cry over playground politics but boys have to "keep a stiff upper lip, suck it up, and run along"? So the book was right. Right?

And then--heaven help me--I started to think. What about me? I'm a woman--definitely. I am an emotional being--of course. My emotions affect every area of my life--hang on a second. That's not quite true. I'm a fairly well-contained individual. I've been told often enough (usually by some irate would-be love interest) that I'm incredibly difficult to read, to connect with emotionally when I don't want to. If I'm so obviously, uncontrollably emotional as the Farrels' book suggests, how can so many of my peers call me "closed-off" and "unreadable"? And how often have I gone to work right after some horrible argument and carried on, with my customers and coworkers none the wiser? More than enough to discredit this as a viable theory, for sure. And so out the window it went. But the image was one that has stayed with me, enough for me to rework it into the physical 'map' required for this project.

The entirety of the actual 'map' of my head would be contained in a cardboard box. You can't see through cardboard, but it can be broken through or, over time, worn thin enough to get into. Cardboard isn't fancy or showy, but it's still pretty durable; it also changes, when you get it wet or kick it or leave it in te sun too long. The bottom of the box would be taped tightly shut, but the top would be folded closed. Inside would be a piece of chicken wire, cut square to fit through the middle of the box, parallel to the ground, symbolizzing the way I (try to) make sense of my self and my thoughts. (I also have a healthy respect for chicken wire after spending most of a semester of an art class trying to bend it into the shape I wanted without tearing my hands to pieces. Chicken wire  holds its shape well, but getting it to move is by no means an easy operation. I still have scars.)  Threaded through thewire grid in no particular pattern would be one long, continuous loop of paper; printed on it would be the thoughts I'd recorded from a particular day, representing the stream of consciousness that follows its own rganic pattern, sometimes defying the rigid logic I try to impose on it but not always.

No matter how much you try to understand and predict them, people make little quantifiable sense. Even the most logical people are affected by their emotions. This balance of reason and emotion, of control and uncontrollable, of defying expectations and conforming, is a big part of what makes us human, and what separates us from every other living thing. It's how I interpret myself.

 

Playlist for Final Project: Inside My Head Landscape

1. "In My Head" Anna Nalick
2. "Bigger than My Body" John Mayer
3. "Her Name Is Alice" Shinedown
4.  That reflection song from Mulan
5. "Nathaniel Falls" from the soundtrack of The Soloist
6. "Wuthering Heights" Hayley Westenra
7. "Iris" The Goo Goo Dolls
8. "What I am is what I am, are you what you are or what?"
9. "City Symphony" from the soundtrack of The Soloist
10. "What I've Done" Linkin Park
11. "Map of My Head" Muse
12. "All the Lonely People [Eleanor Rigby]"The Beatles
13. "These R the Thoughts" Alanis Morissette
14. "This Is Who We Are" Hawthorne Heights
15. "Adia" Sarah McLachlan
16. "In Between" Linkin Park
17. "Everything" Alanis Morissette
18. "I'm Still Here [Jim's Theme]" John Rzeznik
19. "Misguided Ghosts" Paramore
20. "The Song that Never Ends" Nick Dunlop

There are things deeper than eyes can see at work here.

One of the reasons I enjoy writing so much is because I really, truly suck at saying stuff. [Most] Anyone can talk--open your mouth, make the sounds that make the words--but actually conveying meaning and thought and emotion--that is hard. I can tell you what happened to me today. I can tell you what I saw and did and said, and that's easy enough. But don't ask me what I thought. Do not look me in the eye, with your back to a brick wall, and ask me to say feelings, to admit to holding such huge, dangerous, volatile things inside myself and turn them loose in the air between us.

"Don't ask," I said, still exhaling the end notes of that not-at-all-funny laugh, the one the borders hysteria on three sides. "You open that door, you never know what will come through. And I'm not responsible for all the thoughts that come into my head." Especially lately, but I don't need to mention that. And hearing myself be this honest, even behind the thinner half of a bad joke, makes me want to cry and laugh and sing and scream and fall to all the little pieces, to show you how guilty and broken I feel and how much that hurts. I want to tell you that I'm not sleeping well again, that I'm eating too much and not enough, that I cried yesterday because I just felt so lonely. I want to ask you why my friendship wasn't enough, why he didn't just call me, or anyone, or just stop for a second and ask someone to hold him. I want to ask. You don't know.

I have resolved never to smoke anything ever again. I haven't had a drink since it happened--I am afraid I will find the bottle's end and never come back. I have had sex since it happened, but only once and I felt so guilty afterward, so shamefully alive, that I spent the rest of the night on the couch. I could not tell you why. I don't think I can even tell you now, even though your back is to the brick wall and you might be just as broken as I am, maybe. I can't tell you that your steady gaze is pulling all my broken parts up through the thin thin shell of my composure, and that is why I am shifting impatient, waiting to be gone.I am falling apart and I can't tell you that. I can't tell you. I can't tell you goodbye.

Updates

I am currently experiencing a, shall we say, lapse in employment. This means I've been spending a lot more time on the internet. Possibly too much. But still. For those who have not already noticed, I have recently installed links to some of my more interesting finds. (They're off to the left, where the Bookshelf used to be. I remodel things when I get bored.) For those of you who already noticed this, congratulations: you guys definitely spend too much time web surfing.

Personal past-times aside, I hope you guys enjoy some of the fruits of my boredom. Also, if anyone knows of any sites or more corporeal publications seeking freelance writers, please let me know. I'm in danger of having my skin biologically fuse with my computer chair, and that's just a really nasty business, and nobody wants to deal with it--least of all me.

Thank you, dear reader(s), wherever you are.

Resume

Name:    Twenty-something
 

Age:   See previous answer

Address:     Suburbia, USA, somewhere south of all cold weather.

Position Applying For:   Personal Blogger

Qualifications:

·        20+ years of continued existence

·        Diploma from uppity prep school

·        Two creative writing classes

·        Too many literature classes

·        Nearly 4 years working in service industries

·        Rapier-sharp wit

·        Continuous internal commentary and dialogue

·        Highly skilled at introspection, as well as advice-giving

·        60+ hours of college credit

·        Eclectic and passionate love of music, movies, literature, etc

·        Excessive boredom during occasional spare time
-    Wonderful Personality

Will This Be Your Primary Employment:   I view this more as a reflection on all of my employments, lucrative and otherwise. Besides, I've got to actually do stuff to blog about.

Briefly explain why you think you would suit this position:   I hope that this will prove an outlet for my own creativity, and a useful tool for self-improvement through introspection.  I also hope to inspire others through relating the elations and tribulations of my highly relate-able life.  As though there weren’t enough of these floating out in the interwebs.

Seriously though, enough of that trite garbage.

One of the wisest men I’ve ever met teaches a humanities class on Rome.  During the course of that… course, he showed us so many wondrous things.  Statues larger than life, strewn liberally throughout the city.  The bustle of modern society set amongst the majestic remains of unremembered grandeur.  Paintings of such quality that they make even an atheist wonder.  And so many, many more treasures, most of which I can no longer recall.  [Professor K, if you’re reading this, I’m sure you’ll forgive me.  I’ll make it up to both of us by going to Rome one of these days.] 

But one of the things that’s still burned into my brain is the image of this huge, ancient Roman building, magnificent in its decay—with some dead guy’s name carved in huge letters across the top of it.  I can’t even remember what the name was. [Maximillian. Maybe?]  All I remember was thinking, ‘Why on earth would you cut your name into something so perfectly beautiful?  You don’t put your name on art, not the kind that lasts.  What you create should outlast yourself.’  My, wasn’t I an idealist?

It’s been a few years since I took that class, but I think I get it now.  Dead Guy [Augustus?] might have known that his buildings weren’t going to make it, that they would probably only last a bit longer than himself.  Maybe he didn’t care.  Maybe he just wanted to prove that he could do something with his life, and leave something behind for everyone else.

Or maybe he was an extravagant narcissist.  Who knows?

My point is, I want to do that.  I want to leave my own mark on others, to make  this life I’m living every day mean something to somebody, somewhere, somehow.  I’m not looking for fame or a movie deal.  I probably wouldn’t even know what to do with myself if I got more than a few followers on here.  This blog is by me, about me—for me.   

And, just this once, that is enough for me. 

Separation happens in circles

It is late, but not
so late that I should be in bed.
Except I should.
Sleep might help.
My eyes are too dry, and painful
like lids sliding over
shattered glass. I might be drunk.
I remember:
     I did what any
     good boy would
    do. I had a few
      drinks.
I remember what those words did to me.
 I remember how
they terrified me
  at the time
enough to hang up on you more
    completely
than on anyone before or since.

i dislike leaving people.
You never know when they'll need you again,
or you them. Even more,
 i hate when
people leave. It rips me to pieces.
I have a hard enough time
dealing with torn stockings.
But it's so funny--
    in the almost-ironic,
    slightly sick sort of way--
how you pulling away,
and then just leaving
  like you did
  tonight,
makes me want to pull away from
my lovers, from Hispanic hugs,
people wanting to be here.
You make me want to curl
snail-like into my shell
   hidden tight
only seemingly safe.

But mama didn't raise no sissy.
My mama raised a tough girl,
pretty enough, smart,
    stronger as whiskey straight.
Mama taught me that, yes,
misery loves company. It's
too damn weak
to be on its lonesome.

      Emotion     is  not   a  weakness.

         Crying     is  not  a  weakness.

    Vulnerability is  not  a  weakness.

Loneliness is weakness.

Sharing grief is what makes us strong.

Brent, who died 3April2013

I'd only known you for this year, only started to see the kind of person you were. I never thought you were bad--I'm no one to condemn you--but the scars of your past enchanted me, mystified and intrigued me, who has no more than a few scratches by comparison. Your scars were wide, wide gulfs left by a flood of poor choices, a knotwork of lines I could almost see patterns in, if I stared hard enough.I think my staring stung you.

I think we never really understood each other: the first time we spoke and you asked me my name, I didn't hear you. I said, "Nice ink. I've never been to Egypt." You looked at me oddly and put a knife in the question--or was that a dagger I saw before me? You would text me, out of the blue-black of nights that stars could not shine through, and ask me what I was reading, and tell me I should lighten up, smoke weed or watch TV or something. You made me feel foolish, just a tight-lipped, tight-assed child who didn't know how to be human for all the rules she was raised on and couldn't think for herself hard enough to let go. But you drove me through downtown until I found my car and wouldn't let me pay you for the gas. You tried, I think, to connect, and keep connecting after class was dismissed.

I saw you on Tuesday, but the last text you had sent hurt so much that I never did reply. I should have replied. I have since come to realize that you hurting me might have been the only way you showed that you were hurting, too. And I missed it. I am trying every day not to blame myself for that, and some days--most days--I fail spectacularly.

I want to show you all of my scars and scream and howl to the dark parts of the moon. I want to crawl into the Evergreen crypt you broke into, and pretend it is yours, and that I am somehow with you again. I want to walk to the end of the streetcar line and try, try to remember more of the conversation we had there, the one I paid less attention to than I ever will again. I want to reach up, place my small hand on those wide scars and tell you that you are a beautiful person, and that I am glad to know you, and that we all hurt but that's why we are given each other to connect with. I know you would look at me oddly for that, brush me off & ask me what the hell I'd been smoking, but I want to see that look. I want you to live again.

Warning

Just so's you can't say I didn't warn you.  I'm taking a religion class this semester, and spending a lot more time with a philosopher friend. Hence, my mind will be wandering along those lines. My next post (at least) will be dealing with these topics.

Let me say this now: I am not going to try to convert anyone to my way of thinking. The only thing I am trying to do is make you think. I'll be the first to admit that my way of thinking is no more right or true than anyone else's, and that I am still trying to figure out where I stand on a lot of issues. And as long as I am trying, I think that's really all that matters. So if you're interested, you'll get to read some of that figuring-out process; if you're not, ignore it, and I'll not know or care.

But don't let it surprise you when it does show up.

Seven (to be Read on an Otherwise Empty Stage)

One:
You were the first one.  You told me I was pretty without running away.  You asked for kisses without your friends jeering you on. You stood up to your brother for me, even though he was bigger than both of us. You held my hand, held my face, held my smiles and my laughter and all the late-night minutes on my phone in the warm, strong palms of your clumsy  too-big hands.  You are the first one I began to believe.  I was careful, raised to be cautious, knew I was not yet ready to fly on wet-with-their-newness wings and yet.  And yet.  You were the first one I began to believe, and you were the first one to scare me when you yelled and cursed and raged and showed me that love isn't always as stable as balanced equations.  Sometimes, it is a volatile thing, unbalanced and changing--and sometimes, it is dangerous.


Two:
I never thought to get close to you.  You were the thief, stealing my happiness and my peace before you even learned my name.  You were another's when I met you, your arms always reaching, your lips always toughing, your name always said next to hers.  But in high school, these things never last. A day passed, and suddenly my name was being breathed with yours. You appeared, like magic, from the thinness of the air behind me.  I saw your arms around me, around her, pulling us closer to you and away from each other, and our sisters-forever-and-always bond began to break then, wound scar-tight around your two wrists.  I had no love for your wrists.  I still can't remember if I had love for you, or if I only wanted the pain you doled out, so generous, as often as you touched the skin of my stomach, which you said reminded you of new paper and snowy days.


Three:
U: Hahaha.  Thanks.  =p
Me: No prob.
Me: You know, I meant that, though.
U: what?
Me: That I love you.
U: awww
U: <3 you too
Me: I have loved you almost since I knew you.  A lot.  And it killed me that you were so happy to be just friends, when you knew--I know you knew--that I almost needed more.
Me: But I have to thank you, now, for never telling me that you loved me too.  It killed me; I must have died twice a day for those three years.  but I think it was for the best.
Me: I'm glad we're such good friends still.  <3
U: me too.  like i said, i luv you.

I wish I had actually typed that at some point.

Four:
You were my brother, and I loved you while I hated you.  Your attention surprised me.  I cried for the pain in my arm, in the needle, in my hands, in my spirit aching inside of me--and for you.  I cried for the way you hated yourself, standing there with that lousy bit of poetry crumpled in your hand, hands that were always too big, too hot, too angry, too loud for me to hold easily.  You took your hat, warm and worn in and soft and reeking of your sweat, and tossed it on my head.  You shrugged off my annoyance when it fell over my eyes.  You were wounded every time I handed it back.

Five:
 You smoked.  That should have been my first hint. I fell in love with your photograph before I ever met you, all blue light and brick wall and so untouchably cool.  Two months later, I learned the ink in your skin, knew the taste of your piercings, had seen more indie films than I ever wanted to.  I knew I should never have touched you.  I should never have gone back to your place.  I should never have let you hold me.  I should never have stopped listening for what I didn't want to hear, because learning to listen is the hardest thing in the world.  I can prove that to you.  It took six months, three bruised ribs, two scars, and a knee that still bothers me sometimes late at night, before I could hear myself screaming again.  It took me four months of therapy to learn to walk away again.  And I have yet to learn to stop hating myself.

Six:
You were a mistake. I see that now. I am so, so sorry. I wish you were sorry, too. I think you knew I was your mistake, too.


Seven:
Of everything I've ever moved, you said, I moved you most.  You were beautiful when I found you, lovely and unformed.  I learned your mind and you learned mine, you knew my middle name before you saw the curve of my spine, the pale of my thigh, the hidden soft places that I had learned to keep so well-covered, because those places scar easiest. You left your mark there and for a time, that was love. You are the only one I have loved yet.  I don't know when I grew tired of it. I didn't realize the first time that I look into you, and your newness, and the tiredness and anger and doubt of my own reflection. When it was all I could see, I simply stopped looking.  Now, when we pass each other in moving masses, rushing to the next big idea, we smile. When we get coffee, and talk, we remember a little too often how the other one felt and sounded and tasted. We fall too often into your bed, shedding skin, looking for the closeness that we have only found with each other, and leaving new scars in old embraces.

This, too, shall come to pass.

Pieces of You

there's a hair,
long and curling like someone
tried to peel the sun.
it clings to my sleeve, in
a wrinkle left from last night,
one of many souveniers i
will carry with me today.

the scent of you
has worked its way into my hair,
but i only
smell you when
i turn away too fast.

my fingers keep tracing
gentle curls over
thin air, like i can
still feel
the soft smooth of your skin
warming at my touch
shifting, slipping
sweetest friction
as i worship the purest
perfection
i have ever found.

i lift your hair,
wrap it around my finger
tight enough to
make an impression
   (you press
my thighs, my breast,
   impressed my
   heart
)


Will edit later, had to get this up before I lost the words.

Applying Myself

[CAUTION. Work-related rant ahead. Reader discretion is advised.]



Due to a recent change in schedule, which prompted (or mostly just heightened) a certain disgust with my current workplace, I have recently begun seeking alternate employment. Which means that for the last three-or-so months, I'll go through mad bouts of spamming local businesses with my CV & resume, until I'm absolutely sick of it. See, I really, really hate feeling like I have to sell myself because, honestly, I don't feel like I'm anything special.* I work hard with very little motivation or confirmation required, I adapt pretty well, and try to do the best in any situation, sure.

But then again, shouldn't everyone?

My first job was pretty good about that. Sure, we were a little teeny tiny operation, where even the managers did the same work as the rest of us and everyone was more or less held to the same standards, and met them. I was shocked beyond belief when I took my current job, and was given for training to an able-bodied woman who spent most of her time sitting in one corner of the room, fiddling with her phone. More troubling still was when, at the end of my first day, the closing manager--the one who had told me to apply for the job in the first place--warned me to use my own discretion about listening to my lead trainer.

Now, this particular person had known me for at least the last ten years of my life. She knows my family well. She knows how I work, and how I operate. She knew that, at that point, I'd only had the one job, and that it hadn't even been close to this particular field. She knows that I'm respectful to a freaking fault, and that I essentially have no discretion in this context.

And she put all of that into professionally incompetent hands. Seriously. That should have been my first red flag.

The second flag popped up at the end of my first ninety days. One of the things I initially liked about taking this job was that you got a ninety-day trial period, where you were still paid minimum wage, but didn't have to worry about getting all the other qualifying paperwork and whatnot. At the end of this trial period, I was supposed to sit down with my director and discuss whether I felt comfortable with filling the position they were hiring me for, or if I needed to be put elsewhere (in the center, or in another profession). Now, personally, I'm a very deliberate person and I haaaate having to make rush decisions; the idea of have three months to make up my mind, and to actually voice any concerns to a superior, appealed to me a lot.

But that's not what happened. The first three months went by, and a co-worker came by my work station one day to drop off the appropriate paperwork so I could sign it and turn it in at the end of my shift. Because the director more or less sets her own schedule, it wasn't unusual for a week to pass without the two of us seeing each other. So, after a couple of weeks go by and she's made no attempt to seek me out, I start leaving StickyNotes for her: "We should talk soon, have some questions for you. Thanks! (My Name)" I left one a week in her mailbox; after another month, I started leaving them everyday, sometimes on the door to her office.

I didn't sit down with my director until I'd been working at this place for half a year. And you know what the first thing she brings up to me is? My lack of availability (I was a full-time student at the time, and had to repeatedly refuse to take extra shifts because it would interfere with my classes), and how ineffectually I was communicating with my clients. Seriously.


Somehow or other I've managed to stick with this company for very nearly three years; the work itself has always been rewarding enough to overshadow my perpetual annoyance with the management. Not so much lately. I had to take a rather severe hour cut because of my schedule this semester, and because of it I'm stressing paying my car note. My manager claims she can't help me out any more than she is, and I get that. But that doesn't help me any, not with the car (which I can't really afford to refinance, and my credit can't afford for me to quit on), not with my studies, and certainly not with my deep-and-increasing dissatisfaction with my job.

And so back I go, auctioning myself to the highest (and hopefully the best) bidder, hating myself for every shining word on my resume and recommendation letters. Yes, I know I deserve to be treated better than this, that I am a good worker and a good person,** and that I my needs are not such that they couldn't easily be met by another employer. Still. I am just.
So.
Freaking.

Sick.

Of.

Applications.


@.@


*As an employee. As a person, I'm mostly freaking amazing. We know this by now, yes?
**I think. Whatever that actually means.

Ten Things I Want to Say to My Last Boyfriend

One.
The sight of you lying next to me, lean and muscled and gilded only in sunlight, your half-lidded eyes and well-sated smile, is a sight I may never forget. I keep praying that I will.

Two.
I was happy with you. Like, really, really happy, the kind you read about, the kind they show on the big screen on Saturday nights while we were making out in my car. Those fifteen months were the happiest I have almost ever been.And lately, you know, I'm beginning to realize something.  I;m beginning to realize that it might have had little to do with you.

Three.
I hate you. I hate that I can't stop thinking about you. Or calling you. Or walking ten minutes out of my way just to casually pass you by. I hate how almost every song on the radio reminds me of you. I hate that there are places I love, that I can't go anymore without thinking of you. I hate that I can't call you up to go get dinner after work, or kettle corn and fruit teas under the bridge, or coffee and bagels on Sunday morning. I hate that all of our phone calls lately involve guilt or sex, and more and more often it's both. I hate that my last three dates have been ruined by thoughts of you. I hate that every guy I meet has to live up to the standard of you. I hate that I can't even properly hate you.

Four.
Ironic how the most spine you showed in over a year was when you broke up with me. I'm still not done laughing about that over cosmos with my girlfriends.

Five.
There was One who came before you, who took more than I wanted to give. I have often told myself that, should I ever meet him in the dark, I will not be the weak one again. And since then, I have been outwardly strong.  You are the only one who looked inside, and saw that I was not. You showed me how to defend myself, to protect what little I had left. You made me really believe that I could be beautiful, even on days when my make-up was running and my shirt was too big and my pants didn't fit right.  Even on days when love was the last thing I wanted, you would hold me, and sway me, and tell me I was beautiful, and kiss me like mine was the only mouth you have ever wanted to kiss.  I could never thank you enough for that, but I think if I start now, and remember every day that I am something terrible and beautiful and strong--I think that might begin to repay you. Thank you.

Five.
I will never share your affinity for rooftops, but I am constantly amused by it. I might not let you haul me up there with you, but on the phone late at night, when you're up there, I can hear that particular peace in your voice, and that makes me smile.

Six.
Watching you work with your hands reminds me of what it might have been like to watch God forming the earth. Seeing you take something that I would have overlooked on the ground, and make it something intricate and articulate and just so beautiful, is closer to worship than I have come on so many Sunday mornings. I hope you never lose that sense of wonder, and that those stars in your eyes never burn out. Remember that you, too, are beautiful.

Seven.
Baby, it's not cold outside anymore, even though it's the middle of January.  Stop singing my lines for me, and pick a less skeezy song to sing at Christmastime.

Eight.
You crawl into my bed around 4am every night and wake me up. I feel the warmth of your chest, the strength of your arms, the slight scratch of your chin on my ear. I feel you breathing in the scent of my hair, and every line of each of your fingertips. I smell your breath pouring over me, feel your legs tucked over mine. I can still hear your heart, sleeping, murmur "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you."

Nine.
"Can I bring you chocolate?" And I'm wondering, what the hell kind of question is that? Of course you can. Since when would I turn down free chocolate?

And then I realize that you're asking to come see me again. And I have to refuse.

And dammit, now I want chocolate.

Ten.
I loved you. When we were dating, I didn't always know how to deal with that.
I still love you. Now that we're 'just friends,' I don't know how to deal with it any better.

Obligatory New Year's Post.

It's been a rough holiday season. I refuse to apologize for not posting (or rather, for not finishing a post to put up). And I know it's sloppy of me to link someone else's article instead of writing my own. I get that.  But I just happened to remember to check this site, and read this post, and it's everything I espouse every freaking year. And he says it so well.

So enjoy. And have an amazing New Year.

Wishes

I wish I hadn't gone to see you, on that last day. I wish my last sight of you hadn't been as hopeless as it was. I wish I could better remember how you looked before we knew you were sick.

I wish I hadn't been so selfish. I wish I had known--really known-- that each and every moment I had with you was precious, was a gift. I wish I had remembered that for the last five years, and not the last five hours.

I wish I knew what your favorite song was. I wish I could sing myself to sleep with it.

I wish you hadn't thought I was my mother, or my aunt, or your sister. I wish you hadn't been going crazy.

I wish you would come back and tell me to quit moping. I wish you would pat my hand again, settle your hands (which were turning slowly into birds, all flutters and long bones and light touches) on my thin shoulders and kiss my cheek. I wish I had told you about how my day went more often. I wish I could tell you I loved you, just once more.

I wish I could stop listening to Death Cab for Cutie songs. They are starting to sound the same.

I wish I could stop listening to slam poetry. It seems like all my favorites make me cry when I listen.

I wish it had been more than just three days. I wish people weren't still trying to comfort me. I wish I could just shut them all out, curl up in a ball in my room wearing one of your sweatshirts, under your blankets, on sheets that are starting to smell like you because mom is using the rest of your laundry detergent. I wish you had given me your bracelet before you moved. I wish I had been strong enough to tell you to move before you started falling--maybe then I would have been more used to you staying in a strange new bed, not wanting to get up and go the way we used to.

I wish I could stop crying whenever someone mentions you. I wish I didn't have to go to work today. I wish this didn't hurt bad enough to make me keep writing about it.

I almost wish I could stop thinking about you. Almost.

Coping Mechanisms: Avoidance

Wake up.

Turn on coffee pot.

Boot up computer. Check email. Check Facebook. Check every web comic I've ever been interested in, and all of their suggested links.

Get coffee. Drink coffee. Contemplate eating something; internal deliberation will result in skipping meal entirely.  Finish coffee.

Take shower. Dry off. Notice that the bathroom needs a good scrub; begin doing so. Fight cleaning in severe humidity. Decide to resume cleaning when bathroom temperature has matched that of the rest of the house.

Enter closet. Deliberate over wardrobe. Intend not to wear black. Rummage through clothing. Rummage.  Rummage. Select ironic black shirt. Dress. Finish daily hygiene regimen.

Return to computer. Check Facebook. Check email. Update Goodreads account.

Work on PowerPoint outline to be used in memorial service for no more than 10 minutes. Follow with 30 minute bout of tears, no less than 12 tissues, and three squares of chocolate. Return to Facebook. Shortly thereafter, purge stomach of contents in bathroom trash can.

Retire to living room couch. Curl up under blanket and attempt to sleep. Procure long-time favorite movie. Play film. Repeat attempts at sleep.

Rise with intent to be somewhat productive. Wander through house looking for something to do. Begin sweeping floors. When finished sweeping bedroom, rearrange bedroom. When finished rearranging, put everything back where it was. Sweep bedroom again.

Lay out clothes for following day. Lay out clothes for remainder of week. Start laundry. Forget about laundry. Clean 2 pairs of sneakers. Polish boots. Reorganize contents of dresser.

Return to computer. Check Facebook. Rediscover mindless game; level up twice. Play different, equally mindless game. Check email.

Return to couch. Attempt sleep. Repeat. When attempts for sleep again prove futile, substitute 'sleep' for 'read.'

Get up.  Check Facebook. Clean and organize desk. Check Facebook. Check clock. Realize that, despite lack of desire for sleep, necessity of maintaining normal sleep cycle.

Complete nightly hygiene regimen. Put on pajamas. Get into bed. Check voicemail. Return missed call from best friend. Cry while relaying personal tragedy. Be comforted.

Sleep.

Ugh.

Dragged my lazy tail back to the gym tonight. It's been over a month. Did a 14-min mile (almost 4 min more than previous average. Crap.). My self-esteem is now shot to sparkly little bits. 

Recovery plan: finish trig homework, edit ~30 pgs, finish off bottle of brandy with cocoa. Then sleep. 

Big post coming up, but not up to introspection just now.

A-Hunting We Will Go...

It's been too long again. Blame it on my classes picking up, or my few sociable friends getting extra busy this time of year, and dragging me along, or the alcohol I've been consuming lately. Or the cold weather slowing my metabolism down. Or my inability to focus on writing for all the other stuff going on in my head.

Or that I'm a slacker, plain and simple, and can't figure anything worth posting about.  I've been reading through a few other blogs lately.  (It's amazing the stuff you find when you hit the 'Next Blog' button. Not that you should stop reading mine right now, but try that sometime.) And I'm starting to notice something of a pattern. I swear I'm not expecting anybody to blog some big, paradigm-shifting revelations; even I, picky as I am, can see that that's a thoroughly unrealistic expectation to set for anyone, present company included. But it seems to me like most everybody is posting about the same couple of topics. And it's really, really starting to get to me.

All opinion-fluff and no thoughtful posts make Maggi go crazy...

So let me tell you what this post--or any subsequent posts--will not be about:

• how wonderful my husband is
• how adooorrrable our kids are
• moping about how I have no husband or children yet
• politics and/or the presidential debates (with the exception of the occasional snark about how ridiculous the debates were, how ridiculous the system is, or how ridiculous people are being when they get worked up over it all
• how awesome my diet is 
• how awful my diet is
• how awful I feel because I want to diet, but still go for those cookies every single time
• how much my family sucks 
• how much I suck
• boasting about how smashed I got last weekend
• boasting about how high I got last weekend
• boasting about stupid stuff of questionable legality that I do while drunk/high
• bemoaning my crap-tastic job (ALTHOUGH. If anyone is willing to hire a highly intelligent worker of good character, strong ethics, and limited but steady experience, call me. Please.)
• bemoaning my voluntary status as a Singleton
• going elitist-hipster-snob on the recent trends of tween culture (no matter how strongly I feel that they lack the brain development to properly appreciate the original Doctor Who. Must... resist... tween-bashing urges...)

Like I said, if that's what you're into, there are entirely too many op-ed-style blogs out there for you.  I'm trying not to be one of them. I'm not looking down my nose at their stuff--it's not all awful, truly--I'm just trying to be something else, something different.

And I will (try to) post more frequently than last month. So much for best laid plans, huh?

Stacked

Sometimes
the cards just don't
fall
like you want.
  Your left hand shakes
as you cut
the deck.
One falls. It is
the the Empress,
her face
judging, rests on
your shoe.

Re-stack.
Shuffle.
Left-hand
cuts the deck:
three piles.
  The top card sticks
to your thumb,
three swords
draw it's blood.
Something wicked
this way comes.

Re-stack.
Shuffle.
Left-hand
cuts the deck.
Nothing falls.
Nothing flies.
Past: the Fool.
Present: Eight
   of wands.
Nothing falls,
nothing flies.
One left.
Future slides,
slips
to the floor.
The card beneath
grins, beckons,
dances:
the Hanged
Man.


Sometimes
the cards just don't
fall
like you want.

Melancholia

I would say that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but since there's a lot of metal and, you know, a wall on the other side, there might not have been a right side on which to wake.  I feel like some shattered thing, and someone's shaken all my little shards so that the edges scratch each other and they'll never fit together again quite the same.


Try reading that with a smile. (Honestly, it's not nearly as bad--or freaking emo--as that sounds. I've been reading too much poetry again, and it's showing.  No more Baudelaire in the mornings, I swear...)


And knowing--or at least, having a darn good guess--the problem isn't helping, because the problem is one of those things you kind of can't help.

See, I've had a lot of changes going on lately. Some of them are for the better, and that helps, but only so much.  I just don't deal well with change. At all.  As in, I ran out of my favorite tea yesterday, forgot about it, and was stressed all through class about not having it. As in, I don't like people coming in my room because they might move something. As in, I left my day planner in my other purse last week and panicked, not because I might forget the homework assignment (I am that nerd, yes), but just because it wasn't where I thought it was, and that was just plain wrong.

For the record, it isn't OCD. Not quite. I've asked.

Yes, I know that humans, in general, react poorly to changes in their environment. I know that it's entirely normal for change to cause stress. Normally, I can deal with it fairly well: I meditate (almost) every day, spend time outside, eat fairly well, allow quiet time for my introverted self, and get a regular amount of sleep. Lately though, two and a half of those have flown out the window because of what-all is going on. Which makes me feel worse and stress more. And creates a cyclical problem. (Not a circular problem, though. I suck at drawing circles.)

And so it becomes time for drastic measures, involving two days off of work, a reappearance of the structured sleep-schedule, several dozen bottles of good red wine  , and seeing a few of the people who are good for me. And cold-turkey quitting with the ODing on rom-coms and flowery, romantic fanfics. (Seriously this time. I mean it. For the month, at least.) I will make myself breathe deeply the next time I find myself getting worked up. I will remind myself that not everything is my responsibility, nor is it my fault. I will refrain from verbally bashing my coworkers. I will refrain from verbally bashing the idiot driver in front of me. I will (try to) refrain from verbally bashing my boss. The human mind and body are capable of recovering from some amazing things. Not everything is a big deal. I don't have to save the world. 

I just have to remind myself of this.