On the verge

On the verge.

I love that phrase. And I think that's where I live...always on the verge. Not quite here, definitely not there. Always somewhere inbetween. I should be living in PT (post-thesis), but instead, I'm in limbo, a dream-like purgatory where I'm treading water and make absolutely no progress.

Imagine that I am floating in a lazy boy cloud. That's how I feel today. On the verge of noon.

[Speaking of being on the verge, I have a recommendation for you. Voices on the Verge. It's simply beautiful. and, if you want, you can get one for me too.]

I've decided I cannot put off the adoption any longer. Yes, it will be hectic. Yes, it will be expensive. And yes, it might just get dirty.

But BioDad threatened me yesterday; reminded me that HE was the legal parent, not me. Someone is leading him to believe I can't eliminate him from the equation. A simple backspace. There's a voice in his head that has tricked him into believing that he holds the cards, has the power.

BUT. That's a fallacy. It's illogical. Therefore, I must right the situation. I must do what I have to to keep my son and keep him from being used as a pawn for a selfish child's whims.

And to do this...to liberate my little family, I must stop running in place. I must pull up my roots and move. Not in the literal sense. No, think figuratively, think of that rough beast "moving its slow thighs" towards birth.

Or re-birth. As is also the case here. I have no resolution other than that. I must re-birth my determination to live a life not like my mother's or my father's. And the longer you tread, the more numb you are, the closer you are to complacency.

I am not complacent. This is not what I want for my life. I must shake off this sluggish shroud, must unearth my roots, slice through the urge to settle (to be done with it all)...

I must do all this and live my life. For myself, for my son, for our future.

My noon is out there, waiting like fruit to be picked, ripe with the colors of flame.

I am coming.

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Kelly vs Pilar pt 2

Okay! Can I just say Kelly has a crush on Favian.

Now, it would be much much much better if Pilar had this crush cause she knows how to work it and can pick up guys while just chillin in her car waiting for a drunk Jane to use the bathroom...

But, Kelly? No, she's the one who hung with a guy almost everyday of her life for three months and never once told him she liked him, liked him liked him, even though they cuddled up together at night to sleep, even though he promised to build her a castle in New Mexico with a turret all her own, even after they wound up naked in his squeaky twin sized bed with Concrete Blonde in the background...

So, anyway, Kelly shouldn't be in charge of dating. That's all Pilar's territory. Kelly just screws things up. But, Pilar is in hibernation. I think Javi scared her away. I thought to myself, self, you need to help Kelly find Pilar before she goes up to see this boy, but nope. Pilar wouldn't wake up, so instead, Kelly had to go it alone.

And how do we think THAT turned out?

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Kelly vs Pilar pt 1

Kelly is a bitch.

She sits all day in front of her computer, endlessly reading internet diaries, working on internet crosswords, checking her email and telling stories to her co-workers.

Then she has the nerve to complain about how stifled she feels with her life right now, how ungratified she is, how she needs some sat-is-fac-tion (sung to the tune of Rolling Stones), how she needs to write more, how she needs to publish, how she needs sex, how she needs intelligent conversation, how crazy her family is, how needy her son is, how lonely her bed is.

And yet, day in and day out, she's basking in the electrode light of an EPA gateway, pointing and clicking and keying and generally allowing her brain to evaporate.

Now Pilar. She's a handful. When she's in control, nothing bad can happen. She writes about Strawberry and Nita and Chalo and Marise and Reetha and Gary and Lila and Rosa and Dixie and she sometimes takes a fresh white sheet of unlined paper from the printer and hacks out html for a website she will eventually post.

Pilar has undying commentary circling in her mind, she is constantly seeing past the shrouds of social construction and cultural myth, coming up with beautiful and majestic mountains of theory and logic. Sometimes she pulls out a book (this week's: Two Girls. Fat and Thin by Mary Gaitskill) and scribbles little notes in green ink along the margins, underlining passages significant to her concious development, significant to her burning desire to get behind the appearance of things.

Pilar is the one who uses NPR as her spring board, who wishes Kelly would go ahead and purchase the mini-recorder so that when Pilar emerged, her thoughts would be there for Kelly to transcribe. Beautiful and poignant lines of prose. A stanza to attach to the countless other lines of poetry Pilar has strung together.

Pilar has an astounding sense of entitlement. She knows that she deserves what she has and what she will eventually get. Kelly, on the other hand, second guesses herself, immerses herself in tv programs like Murder in Small Town X to avoid having to face her own stupidity and her fears of failure.

One day, Pilar will take over. Or, she will fade away, leaving only a brittle and leathered Kelly in her wake. A Kelly who can't decide if getting out of bed is worth the bother, a Kelly who knows no reason to breathe.

Missing someone? That would be Jezebel. She's a whole other story, but one day, she'll change the world.

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The first date

I'm craving portabello mushrooms, which takes me back two full and complicated years.

Grasshopper, a kick ass vegan dig in Allston-Brighton (Mass). that served the best portabello mushroom and lemongrass combo.

Sayid and I went there on our first date. We both ordered hot and sour soup made with wheat gluten and tofu. We sipped our broth with alabaster bowl-spoons. The room was dimly lit and soft orchestral music played in the background. Sayid made small castles out of the stones and chop sticks that decorated every table. He asked me to make a wish on that castle. Called it a Berber tradition.

We split the mushrooms and lemongrass. I used chop sticks. Be laughed at my precociousness and reminded me that he'd get more with a fork, so I was losing out. We laughed...a lot.
When we stepped back out on Brighton Ave, he grabbed my hand, pulled me toward him and kissed me. Hard. Right on the street. His mouth tasted like Morocco -- sweet with a hint of tobacco.

We dropped in at The Model for a beer. I introduced him to the 'crack machine' and taught him to beat me at Tri-Towers, he lost at soccer.

Then, we did what couple friends do. We met my roommate and her date (Sayid's best friend) at 'Our House' (pub in Brighton) for drinks and conversation. We all stumbled home together. Nicole and Matt sweet and gushy, me and Sayid trailing behind talking about spiced tea and Halloween.

He nuzzled my neck, kissed my open palm, held my hand under the table, pulled me against him, kissed me beneath tree branches heavy with autumn rain. He staked his interest in me for each and every person to see.

So, no matter how it turned out, no matter that he became obssessive, possessive, demanding. He gave me my first real date at the ripe age of 23. That meant more to me than he will ever know.

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I wrote my very first real plot-driven story sometime during my 6th grade year. I remember it because it made me sad, I remember that it had an orange aura and it made me sad.

It was called The Lost Raindrop:
This little raindrop landed on the window of a blue and white trailer in
Bunnlevel. She slowly zigged and zagged across the glass trying to find her
sisters and mother, joining and then leaving small groups, but they were gone.

Inside of the window, the lost raindrop saw a little girl. She had wild
curly hair and big brown eyes. She was cutting velvet into strips and was
surrounded by yellow paper triangles. The little girl looked out the window,
searching for something. The lost raindrop saw she was alone.

Then, the little girl went running to the window and smiled, revealing the
gap between her front two teeth. The lost raindrop saw an old blue pinto station
wagon pull up. A dark man with thick black hair and small hands was
driving. When the little girl saw him, she started to cry.

This helped the lost raindrop to forget her own sadness. But, she was
slowly streaking to the bottom of the window. She did not want to leave the
little girl alone. She knew that the little girl's happiness was not in that
blue pinto. She tried to open her mouth to the little girl, but she had no
mouth, no voice to yell with.

The little girl scooped up all her strips and triangles and crawled
under the kitchen table.

The lost raindrop slid off the glass, landing in the crease between the
window and the pleated wall of the trailer. There were other raindrops there...
lots of them... but not her sisters and mother. The lost raindrop swam to the
edge to fall out, but she kept getting pushed under by all the new

It was hard for the lost raindrop to understand her new home, but there
were lots of other raindrops to watch, so she didn't notice when the sun came
out. Slowly, the other raindrops began to disappear until she was the only
raindrop left. She looked up and noticed a rainbow of neon colors, then she
blacked out.

The next day, the sad little girl strung her velvet strips with bells and
then glued them to the paper triangles. She made her very own wind chime, one
that made soft jingles. She raised the window and hung this chime over the sill.
When the wind hit it, she would hear those tiny bells and smile.

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I once told you that I am an ocean,
swirling and pulling and pushing and straining
at the seams of this earth.

I am a cycle continually looping and falling back on myself,
discovering new cracks and fissures along the way.
I am seated in the space between inhale
and exhale,
deep in that core of being/not being
where your mind goes when it rests.
I am the dark gully under your tongue
where the words hide,
dragging your tongue into silence.

I once read the most beautiful poem.
It spoke to me in silver whistles,
asking me if I could untie
those knots and swing free.

And I drove until the sun
was a fat ball of orange and the river golden
and the tobacco and cotton fields seemed soft
beds of ripe fruit
and I sang your name to the sky,
giving it a new nature.

But then you spoke
moist words into my thighs,
used that soft hidden flesh
to absorb shock and guilt,
allowed my hair to grow as free
as my desire...

You ate persimmons and spit the seeds
into barren ground.
I looped around on myself,
I strained and pushed until I burst at the seams
and sent silver and gold whistles
into November air.

I collected those seeds and your name,
buried them beneath snap dragons
and copper pennies.

They still rest there.

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Sprite. Nymph. Goddess.

Just once in my life I would like to float on air, to feel that absolutely nothing can stop me. I want to feel invincible.

Just once.

Read more about "Goddess"...