Saturday, February 6, 2010

It's not about failure; It's About Honesty

That's what Julia just said to me.

Today I have had two cigarettes.

Yesterday I had several. I didn't count.

The day before I had three.

I fell off the wagon, or got back on it... whichever one it is. And, I will tell you, I don't feel too good about myself. But, that comes along with my personality. I'm self-destructive and hate to love my self-pity. It's sick and twisted, and I'm working through it.

I just started reading this book about healing the addictive personality. As I stood in Borders staring at all the "How To Deal With Recovery" books on alcoholism, drug addiction, quittng smoking; this book caught my eye. I read through the table of contents and flipped through some of the Zen views the author doctor presented.

Self-help books make me laugh, usually. This one, though... this one has some truth in it, at least for me.

Essentially, it is all about love and the self. It is all about the void a human makes in themselves and then adapting the habits and addictions to try and fill that void.

It talks about working to remake the personality into a truth-based on, as opposed to an addictive one.

It is, literally, all about trust and love and changing one's perception about oneself.

It's about everything that Julia and so many other people in my life have been telling me about.

Simply love. Love simply.

It's such a foreign concept for me, and I have no idea why. And it's my responsibility to figure this out.

I have to take responsibility for my actions, my perception, and my addictions. To nicotine, to drama, to intensity, to misery.

My action plan for the cigarettes: Stop, eventually, and STOP binging RIGHT NOW!

There is no need for me to have a cigarette right now. There is no need for me to have a cigarette after I eat lunch today, after I eat dinner, before I go to bed.

We are snowed in. Two feet and it's still coming down. I have nothing to stress about. No worries. I'm in a house with a lot of love and a lot of laughter.

Here's a poem to keep you company for the day:

I wrote this a couple years ago when I first realized how stuck I really was.


I am homeless. A nomad in limbo. I walk into my parents’ house. I say, “Hello, Dog.” Mother is watching “Days of Our Lives” – taped from the afternoon. I do not know what she will do when VHS no longer exists. She’s only 53. There’s still a lot of time left. There’s still a lot of tape to use and reuse.

I drag my writer’s bag and my duffle bag through the narrow doorway, up narrow stairs and I find more silence before 10x10 walls. Fabricated with birdhouse border and paintings they only sell at craft shows on muggy August mornings in the middle of a street in some unmarked Midwest town.

And I have not been able to eat more than a couple pretzels or a bite or two of a dry pork chop in over 24 hours.

I started smoking a pack of cigarettes yesterday. I quit months ago.

This is the first thing I’ve written in months. And everyone is facing me. Always there in the mirror before me. The crowd. I’m losing this dodge ball game. They feed into my temples, my reconstructed knee, my acidic stomach, my empty chest cavity.

“50 Ways to Leave Your Lover” plays loudly through 10-year-old speakers. A muffler bellows, deafening every note for the dog walkers down a cobble-stoned street.

But that was earlier. That was before I spent three hours staring at dead trees. That was before I caved in and called the one person I know who gets it. They never get it when you are lying right next to them, but after, after it disappears—the clarity surfaces. That’s when they let you know how well they can see beneath your skin.

But it’s always too late and it’s never enough.

I am homeless. I have no one to blame.

I stand naked before you and show you absolute surface.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Crash and Burn

I have cramps coming outta my ass.

Today is obviously not the day to fuck with me. I'm pissy and ragging. I'm exhausted.

Gaia was a bitch last night. Ruke cried and scratched at her cage.

Fucking animals.

The kittens got fixed yesterday. We didn't go to the gym this morning.

I smoked a cigarette. A nasty, two-month old Jack. BLAH!

It tasted like shit and made me feel even more like shit.

I have no idea what I'm going to do about this whole job thing. I really am trying to be the good Zen student, but right now my uterus is in control of my brain.

I've applied to both the Baltimore City Teaching Residency program and the PG County Teaching Fellows program. Both, if selected, train you to become a certified teacher for publich schools in MD. Both, if selected, put you in high-need schools. Both, if selected, require the Praxis II exam. Both, if selected, require a 5 1/2 week training program of 12 hour days during the summer.

If I did this, it would mean two things: a total career change commitment and missing out on the Roundtable Conference.

Yea... I don't think I'll follow through with this.

I've applied to a few other admin jobs at some colleges, but who fucking knows if any of those will work out.

Ruke has been up my crampy ass all morning.

She is a doll baby, though. Chip is still acting weird. Gracie is hiding somewhere downstairs. Hawk keeps sleeping on Mason's bed.

Ok. I'm done bitching.

I think.

For now.

Shower time then grocery shopping and other honey-do-list items.

I need a nap.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Day Two, Listening to Vampire Weekend

I miss you. I do. Oh so very much right now.

My veins were so happy when I had you rushing through me.

It's day two day.

My veins are twisting and tightening.

I've been a thousand places today. The gym. The train station. Boy's Latin. 7-Eleven Bank Kiosk. Yahoo Mail. University of Phoenix online. ETS. The sunroom. The Baltimore City Teaching Residency website. Confirming my precense to the BCTR information session this evening.

Getting one of the little crying kittens inside the bedroom.

All the girls in the house at the moment are here with me: Goober, Gracie, and my Rukiebaby.

I'm the crazy cat lady. The crazy cat lady without her nicotine and sweet scent of tobacco.

Good thing is, my GRE scores are just high enough that I don't have to take the Praxis I exams. Nope... I only have to spend 400 dollars on Praxis II tests. Ok, I'm exaggerating. I'm only going to take two, which will be 180 bones, but fucking christ; why do I spend so much money on a test I will most likely do horribly on?

Side note: these cats are nuts. Gracie is staring at the wall with such inquisitive determination that I'm afraid she thinks she can somehow become one with it.

And my cat, Ruke, is an obssessive licker. She takes after her mommy quite well.

That's Ruke and me.

I was happy in this photo. I was an active smoker.

Ok... I'm done with the fucking rant bitching.

You want some poetry? Here's some poetry:

To Compose the Perfect Type of Poem at the Perfect Time in the Perfect Pace of Place

“all truth must conform to music” – Richard Hugo

she asks for words
that’ll show

no way to stray
no way to fall out


without the absence of solution

that beat
and beat

the muse changes, my dear
with every second spring

or fall
or winter
summer’s haze into words

medusa’s hair each strand a pair of eyes

needs words
words inside the muse that falls or fails
the internal
of me

the fingers that spit
the fingers that touch
in that space
only words know anything about

such is the beauty
as you know
of music