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.

Making a List

It is with deep ignominy that I am deciding to divulge this, my secret shame, to you my dearest readers. In case you haven't noticed, I will tell you now:

I am a lister.

And since I haven't been able to properly polish up a post for you all lately (things have been crazy, and crazy busy), I've decided to start posting some of my more interesting lists. And that's what we're doing here today. So to kick this good thing off, we have

Five FavoriteMusicals

I know, not everyone's favorite thing. Not usually mine either, but I've got a few here that, if the genre is largely too hokey for your tastes, might just be weird enough to tickle your fancy.

1. REPO! The Genetic Opera I'll admit, I had to watch this one a couple of times before I could actually enjoy it. Definitely not what I expected from seeing the title: post-apocalyptic setting, Gothic angst, raging rock music with superb vocals. And Sarah Brightman.
2. Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street Not, necessarily, the newest version (Johnny Depp & Helena Bonham Carter). Not that that one wasn't any good, but it had it's not-so-good bits to it. My favorite starred Michael Cervais and Patti LuPone--she was a fantastic Mrs Lovett. Several layers of psychosis, cannibalism, and sociopathic homicide in the quest for revenge. Nothing like it.
3. Doctor Horrible's Sing-A-Long Blog  Every bit as nerdy as the title suggests, but with Neil Patrick Harris, Nathan Fillion, and Felicia Day, how could you expect anything less than awesome? Seriously? Also, some very deep, quite unexpected social commentary at the end, which in itself was quite a shock.
4. Avenue Q  Sesame Street muppets, but for adults. Need I say more?
5. A Very Potter Musical  If you like the Potter 'verse at all, you'll dig this. The first musical combines bits of the first four books (StarKid Potter also has A Vary Potter Sequel, which I've not yet watched, and therefore cannot recommend) in a humorous spoof/tribute. I've only ever found this one on YouTube, and alas, the A/V quality is pretty poor. Still, if you can overcome that irritation, it's worth a look.

These are not in any particular order. as with any (and every) thing else, my tendencies and preferences are ever-shifting. These are just five that are always on top, out of many more.  I'd love to hear your comments, opinions, and suggestions!

[I don't like thinking about you.]

I remember you the way
I remember a dream I had
several times.
It started when I was six.

I dreamed that a cartoon cat
chased me down a hall
wielding an axe.
It never occurred to me
to change the channel, or
wonder why I was outlined
in thick, black ink.

I had this dream
on and off
for the next ten years.
Then I stopped dreaming. No
pills, no hypnosis. Just stopped.
But years later I can
still remember
cat, axe, dream, chase
as if I'd dreamt it last night
with your arms close around me
and your breath in my hair.

Unfinished Business

Well. As you can see, I kind of missed the second half of that August challenge. I started writing one of them, and it evolved well beyond the length of my usual entries. As in, I might be sitting on the first (or possibly third) chapter of a full-length novel here. This never happens.

Needless to say, I got a mite bit distracted.

That's not to say I haven't been writing. I'm (finally) taking classes again, but no matter how busy I seem to get because of it, I still find myself scribbling random verses on bits of scrap paper--such is the way things seem to go. Anyway, I'm editing a few of those now, and plan to post a few for you. Also, I think I need to start doing book reviews on here; somebody's started asking me about some of the stuff on my shelves (look left). So that'll all be coming up soon.

But now? Now is time for a glass of something stronger than apple juice, and a little light reading before bed. I've earned it. Trust me. ;)

Fragile

When I was 5, I saw a kid fall off the monkeybars at school.I remember the sight of his arm bent one too many times, and how my deeply analytical child-self thought distinctly "Huh. That must hurt."

The memory is silent, like a dream of rabbits jumping through star-lit clouds, long since forgotten. I wonder if it actually happened. Memories, like monkeybars, can be tricky like that.

My mother loves to tell stories about me as a child. 'When you were small,' she'd say, 'smaller than you are now, we would go to the park every afternoon. You loved to go down the slide. It was so cute, you would climb the little ladder with the backs of your wrists, so you wouldn't get your hands dirty. And you would pitch a fit if I wasn't at the bottom, waiting to catch you. You were so cute, you were afraid you'd slide right off the end and land in the dirt and get your dress all dirty. So cute."

My dad was the one who taught me how to ride a bike. He tried to, anyways. See, he was always trying to let go too soon, pushing hard  and then backing off before I could compensate for the fact that he was even there. That, coupled with the fact that I've never had good balance anyways, meant that I formed a swift, abusive love-hate relationship with the concrete.  I outgrew the scars on my knees and elbows, and my blood is long-gone from that stretch of sidewalk, but I still carry the scars my father left on my heart, in my mind. They are realized and reopened in every boy I have ever dated and let touch me and promised me forever, until I learned to leave, like my father taught me.

[Update]

Sorry about all this, folks. I know I said a post a day, and I'm not following through on it--although I am, in fact, writing something for each day's topic. The trouble comes from transcribing said entries from my notebook to this site.  It's just that I've been busy with some family-stuff and some other projects, and (of course) new romantic interests. It's all great fun, but things are starting to slip away from me, things like time, and this blog. And sleep. X_X

So, while I do plan on catching everything up soon, I do apologize for the lapse in time between now and then. Best wishes, hugs and kisses!

Laziness

In keeping with the prompt, I decided not to write today. Thank you all for bearing my sense of irony. <3