A Riddle

I am silly, I am stupid. I have no control over my emotions. I cry over minute irritations, like a broken nail, or a mean glare. I am overly dramatic, and love bad television. I am bitchy, I am petty, I am insecure. I don't talk about anything important, and I'm usually saying something mean about someone else. I am a spendthrift and compulsive shopper. I empty my pockets to embrace meaningless things like clothes and shoes. I have too much stuff, and it's all replaceable. I take five hours to get ready in the morning. I don't earn my own money. I am mature, reasonable, and organized. I am impractical and incredibly shallow. I can cook, I clean clean, but I can't do math, and I can't be President of the United States (but I can be Secretary of State). I love chocolate. If I love sex too much with too many people, I am a whore. If I don't love it enough with one person, I am a prude or a lesbian. I have psychological issues when it comes to enjoying a good fuck, and will most likely cry when I lose my virginity. I should enjoy a threesome, but I'm unadventurous and boring when it comes to sex, and don't understand my own sexuality. I hate porn. I don't get raped, I just have regret sex. I am always fat. I am always wrong. If I'm a feminist, I'm probably a lesbian. If I'm mad at you, it's PMS. I act drunker than I am. I can ask for directions, but I can't drive. I am good at asking for help. I want to settle down now. I want marriage. I want children. I am nurturing. I don't pay on dates. I sit at the phone waiting for a call; I never dial the numbers first. I am scared of everything. I need protection. I am always afraid. I don't like to camp. I hate getting dirty. I can't make quick decisions. I wouldn't make a good soldier. I don't understand sports; if I do, I'm probably a lesbian. I whine. I cry. I bitch. I clean vigorously: myself, my home, and you. I am moody, I am evil. I am unpredictable and I fly off the handle at any given moment. And above all, I am unquestionably and absolutely fucking crazy.

oui, je casse le français.

Mon français est plus belle que toi
Non--ça, c'est pas vrai.
Mon français est pas mal;
Un peu brisé
Comme un fenêtre qui a été frappé
Par un batte de baseball
Ou quelque chose comme ça.
Je parle cette langue de mon gorge.
Le 'r' monte vers haute
Vers ma bouche
Je peux sentir ses lettres
Sur mes lèvres
Elles goûtent douces.
J'aime la Francais.
Ce sent bien.

1 A.M.

"Have you ever noticed how people look perfect in the dark?"
The dark is forgiving, mysterious, beautiful. It makes me forget my own body. I can only see the good curves; the crook of my hipbone, the round of my shoulder, the meniscus of my calf. Sharpness and soft are balanced in shadows; in dark sweeping lines, night's charcoal draws me confidently. The stillness of everything makes me forget how heavy and fearful I am, and I look down and see my toes, perfect toes, perched atop graceful feet--even my feet are perfect. And so are yours, and yours. And your ear slopes delicately, your chin sits strongly, your forehead is a crescent. Even your fingers are perfect; plush, lithe. And your eyes. And I can barely stand it. Because everything is beautiful, and its hard to keep from crying because the sun rises and we are human again.
"Yeah. I have noticed that."
Beautiful black, come again, give my body back to me.

Studying Society Bullshit

Sociology class is a breeding grounds for narcissism. People take the class to tell their own stories, state their own opinions, and voice their own concerns about society. We all think that what we have to say is so important, when in reality it’s everything that’s been said before—and in probably more eloquent ways. It’s a class that promotes discussing provocative and controversial issues, and yet we all end up drawing the same conclusions. Sociology on a mainly liberal campus strikes me as silly; so far, all I can see is a bunch of bleeding heart white people who all agree that racism is bad, sexism sucks, and we should all just try to judge less. I don’t need to go to a class to figure that out. Maybe if we all spent more time experiencing shit in the real world of just sitting around talking about our feelings, we wouldn’t really need Sociology at all.

I'm SO SICK of writing up meaningless answers to stupid fucking questions about discrimination, and ethnicity, and I just feel like I can waste my time so much more effectively. No. Look, here's something about Society. SOCIETY mandates that I do my homework to do well in school to get a great job to support my family to be able to retire to go to Florida to die alone. And while I sound so pathetically like an existential and idealistic 18 year old, I just don't want to spend time answering irrelevant questions when I could be doing something real that actually means something to me.

And tomorrow I'll be back in class listening to that girl from Saudi Arabia who never offers any new perspective on anything but likes to talk a lot.

Tell me something new. Please.

Isolated Incident

So today, whilst on my way to a vinyl fair at the Black Cat today...okay, yeah, I'm a total white poseur. I basically accompanied Ryan, a true(r) vinyl connoisseur and collector, to a new/used record sale at this cool club on U-Street where Ian Mackaye was casually DJ-ing this afternoon. Bought one record while he cruised through, clearly experienced, and bought a bunch of stuff that all the musical Philistines have never heard of. It was actually a really interesting scene: all the basic music genres were accounted for, and with that brought a lot of different types of people (judging on face-value of course). I really dug it, and of course it was kind of sweet how Ian was sort of just doing his thing on a slightly elevated stage while everyone milled around looking at records.

But that's not what this blog post was actually supposed to be about; unfortunately I couldn't quite help but wax poetic at the incredible coolness that was this club on this day. It made me feel cool which in turn made me feel kind of fake. But again--not the point.

No. The point of this particular post is an isolated incident that occurred while waiting for the Yellow line at Gallery Place. We were sitting on the bench, not really talking much, sort of staring out into space when I saw a sort of portly, generally genial looking older man out of the corner of my eye. He reminded me of a city Santa Claus. He came to sit next to me. He was a little messy: work boots, dirty jeans, dirty shirt/jacket. He grinned at us, and we smiled back.
"Where are you from?" He sort of slurred it--or maybe that was an accent. I couldn't tell.
"You all from the here?" he continued.
"Virginia," Ryan said.
"Chicago," I added.
"Chicago!" the man exclaimed. "Oh, I was there once. I'm gonna tell you somethin' else." He paused, staring at me. I stared back.
"I used to work there," he said finally.
"Oh yeah?" I asked, half out of politeness, half out of genuine interest.
"Yeah," he said. "I liked it. D'you think I should go back?" he garbled.
"Yeah. I think it's a great city," I replied.
"Mm." He was farther away now. "Maybe," he seemed to ponder. "I'll never forget the day they told us, 'Let's go, lets go'..." He trailed off.
Not knowing how to respond to this vague memory, I said nothing. Studied my hands, and then looked back up at him. I didn't want him to think his remembrance was irrelevant.
"Do you know where Beloit is?" he asked suddenly.
"Yeah, I know Beloit."
"You do?!" He was shocked. I couldn't help but grin.
"Yeah," I repeated. "I do."
"Oh..." Then he mentioned another city in Wisconsin. And for the life of me, I can't remember it.
I replied that I didn't know what city that was.
"It's in Wisconsin," he clarified. "Saralee lives there. D'you know Saralee?"
"No," I said gently.
"Her father invented frozen foods. Invented them! There's a bunch of those bakeries up there..."
"Oh," I realized, "Sara Lee. I know Sara Lee" He meant the food corporation, not some long lost woman as I had previously romanticized.
"Yeah!" he grinned and nodded in camaraderie now; not only did I know Beloit, I knew Sara Lee too. He leaned over me, to include Ryan in the discussion.
"I don't wanna...I'll talk to you too--you know, Sara Lee?"
"Yeah," Ryan said.
The train was coming now. We stood up.
"You get all sorts a things in those packages," he continued, smiling brightly. "Roast beef, potatoes." He grinned brilliantly at the thought, his Santa face round with happiness.
We weren't getting on the same train car.
He smiled resignedly at us, and waved. We waved back.
We couldn't continue this conversation any longer. It wouldn't be the same as it was in those moments. In that moment.

Ryan and I didn't talk about it. Whether or not it was inconsequential to him, I don't know. But it might have been the happiest moment of my day. And maybe the saddest I've felt in a while.

Eloquence on a mini-fridge

During the Snowpocalypse that hit D.C. this week, school was closed, leaving me with little motivation to do homework, and nowhere to go except my dorm. My roommate and I decided to make use of the refrigerator poetry she had with her, and composed some gut-wrenching stuff that I thought I might share.

Live laugh love tomato
warm blue sky above--
come up here to fly?
look another puddle melt-ing.
we did believe her dark morning beauty,
almost never.
why snow and cold weather
no promise of spring,
always winter;
bring on the sun shine,
green garden in bloom--
eternal summer together
say my name:
flower month
happy birthday,
between
some
more.
man make a cake
eat me out.
hot goddess full of dreams.
that by is a monster. (note: our resident fabulous gay, Chris, was trying to quote Lady Gaga...but we didn't have a "boy" magnet [fuck] so while the lyrics are "that boy is a monster," unfortunately-- or fortunately?-- we've translated it to "that by is a monster.")

There's beauty in boredom.

honeyFreckles

My boyfriend calls me honeyFreckles, babycakes, claireBear, Clarita
He likes to look at the curve of my back and
Sleep next to me.
We can play guitar and sing singalongs all night long
or forget what we started and
talk
or look at les facettes de petits morts.
Sometimes we go out to dinner
I like greek Food
he's partial to indian but
we both like a good
Burger--
Wagshal's makes the best.
sometimes we fight about
Feminism and
ART.
sometimes we fight about things that are more important.
But we don't stay mad too long.
Someday in a hot summer we'll drive around and listen to Jawbreaker
Loud.
It doesn't really matter where we are.
only if i can see sunlight trace the
honeyFreckles on his shoulders.

Cutting the Cord

Proactivity is something I've been trying lately. Got a job lined up that's part babysitting (gotta pay some dues, I guess) part P.R. assisting work. Which rocks. Then, upon spying an flier for BleakHouse Publishing's Tacenda Magazine Spring 2010 edition submission deadline, I decided to write something and send it in. I don't know if it's any good--I didn't really have anyone look at it, which wasn't really a smart move. I did a lot of rewriting and editing though, and I'm actually a little curious to see if what I think is a decent piece can actually stand on its own among other respectable literary works.
This feels good. Feels like I'm actually moving towards being a real person. Because while my floor-mates have been drawing up plans for NGOs and working at the Newseum, or applying for various volunteer positions with cache here at AU, I've felt like I've been lazily floundering. People here are so ambitious and it's extremely intimidating. Everyone seems to have their shit together, packed neatly and compactly in a brown leather briefcase that they carry with them on their paths of promising futures. My shit is somewhere around me, loosely organized, but whenever I try to take it anywhere, the fragile structure I've built implodes.

My subtle toilet humor is not only hilarious at 2:55 in the morning, but also quite applicable to my life--which might as well be in the toilet given my chosen career path.

But going back to my optimistic opening, things are looking up. I could make one more shit reference, but I don't think I'm going to. Because you get the point.