I've decided to keep an
ongoing diary/journal online. This is for all my (wired) friends back in
Indiana that I don't write enough, and for anyone who really wants to get
to know me better. If you're not sure who I'm talking about here, you may
find more info under Who's who.
As with
the "selected" journal, I'm not putting up anything overly personal
up here, so quit skimming for the juicy bits and check out my erotic poetry instead.
But living alone makes me bored. Saturday night I think I called every friend that I had the number for. Ian called me back and we chatted about not liking to be alone for long periods of time. Oh, I value alone time, don't get me wrong, but there are times when I just want to feel like there are others with me in this world. I also had this urge to get my life in order, and I needed to talk to some Franklin friends and figure out what I was doing there that I could also do here to make myself happier. See, I'm an external processor (which may or may not be evident in this journal), which means I like to figure things out by talking with close friends. I get lost in my head when I go there by myself sometimes.
Luckily, Mary Anne called me back and we had a 5 hour phone conversation. Not to get too personal, but Mary Anne and I haven't had a good girl talk like that in . . . too long. Our lives have some *major* stuff in common, writing, boy(s), an overlapping main group of friends . . . you'd think we'd chat like that more often. But we're both so damn busy that we don't make time for it. And even though I've known Mary Anne for only a year now (this month, I believe, though I don't remember the exact date I met her), she was indulgent enough that I went through and listed all the things that were good about life in Franklin that aren't good here. A small example are baths. I used to make an herbal infusion (after consulting my herb books, which are now packed up and inaccessible back in Indiana) of lavender, peppermint, echinachea . . . oh, whatever would help what ailed me at the time. I'd pack the herbs in a huge tea baller and boil it on the stove. Then I'd pour the concoction into my steaming bath water (I *love* bathing in hot hot water), light some candles and incense, put on some soft music, blow up my bath pillow and soak until the water got too cool. Hell, even then, I'd let enough water out so I could fill it up again with hot water from the tap, and soak even longer. I never do this out here, and I think it's a main way I kept myself sane back in Indiana.
As soon as I hung up the phone with Mary Anne it rang again, and it was my friend, Shel, who now lives in Oregon but used to be one of my best friends in Franklin. Well, she's still a best friend, even though we've both moved to the West coast. Anyhow, we talked for another 2 hours. Shel's in chef's school in Portland, and talking with her made me realize that I'd forgotten to eat. She always describes the most luscious dishes . . . Anyhow, she also helped me see that I haven't always been so negligent of myself (though in Franklin I worked in a restaurant, so it was much easier to feed myself).
And then, Sunday morning (far too early, but I've been having trouble staying asleep lately), I called David and we chatted for about 2 1/2 hours! My ears hurt and my head felt dizzy after we hung up. So much phone!
There's a phenomenon that occurs over the telephone where you can talk longer and about more things over the telephone than you can face to face. Perhaps it's the anonymity of the faceless voice over the phone, not having to look the other person in the eye . . . I personally think what happens is that the other person can't see your eyes wander around the room while you're listening to them, all they hear are the affirmative comments you make at appropriate moments, and they're encouraged to go on for longer (which is a good thing, because often the real dirt comes only with patience). I'm also more likely to interrupt, speak my mind and give honest reactions over the phone. Anyhow, whatever happens, it all adds up to a better conversation than would occur sitting side by side on the futon couch.
Ugh. I'm not feeling well these days. I've got a chronic headache, it seems, and occasional nausea. So I'll leave you with a couple excerpts from my "personal" journal:
This time of year back home in Indiana you can buy fresh tomatoes and beans and sweet corn along the sides of the road. Now, sometimes along this road it's a farm, but even along the highways and busy streets you know that the farm this stuff came from "ain't all that fer uh-way". The corn is best boiled and rolled in salt and butter, but the tomatoes . . . ah, the tomatoes are best right out of the garden, when their skins are still warm and you can taste the sun's heat as you bite into them.
Homesick much?
On a more local note:
I watched the sunset behind the mountains of Marin the other night. I had been strolling through the Berkeley Rose Garden, sniffing blossoms and cupping their soft heads in my hands and collecting fallen petals. I'd finally wandered up to the top tier when I noticed what all the couples up there were gazing at. The sun was a brilliant/muted salmon-tinged orange, and it was sinking at a visible pace behind smoky gray mountains. The curve of the bay reflected the brilliant fire, but most of the setting was done in slate blues. Even the Golden Gate bridge was a dark grey, the ocean held back behind it in an ice-blue that bled into the horizon. But the sun sank and left yellow-peach streaks in the sky that looked like my favorite petals. There was soft applause as it vanished. A gray haired man put his arms more tightly around his wife, and spoke to her in a low tone with his lips pressed against her hair. It was so cozy. Another Berkeley is soft, making me soft about David. But I'll spare you that part of my journal. Heh.
Not to add insult to injury, but if you'll indulge me, I'm going to make a list of things to do soon:
Here's some mush to balance that frantic list:
how much I love October.
It hit me today, as we were
coming up my walk to
take me home, how much
crisper
it is. October is resting
between the party of
summer and the slumber
of winter. It always makes me
romantic, but this year,
I do not yearn so. This year,
October, sweet, crisp, cool
warning of October, makes me
feel sane again.
I only wish I could stroll
with you
down brilliantly leafed
lanes. Roll together
in piles of color, pick
stray dry leaves from your
curls . . . carve pumpkins,
build a fire, toast marshmallows . . .
October is a romantic, rustic month.
Heather Shaw
I got a letter from an old friend, what was it, just yesterday? Hi, Sean! I haven't seen him in, what, 7 years, . . no, more like 8. Oh, anyway, he was a very first boyfriend of sorts, so, when thinking about him, my main memories are suddenly 10 years old! Sean and I (and Mike and . . . John? What was that other guy's name?) used to sneak out of our respective parent's houses and drive around all night in Sean's old . . . damn. Well, I remember it was the same make as the car John Cusack drives in Say Anything. (You know, I still use the same peach comforter today that went on those night rides? I've been meaning to make myself a nice velvet/satin quilt (using the comforter for stuffing, since I really like the way I've got that blankie broken in ;-) for some time). I had a lot of fun with Sean, and you all can get your minds out of the gutter because I was really very well behaved for a lusty 15 year old. No, really! There was one night we drove up to Jordan Rd., where the big, mansion-like houses were, and snuck into one that was only half-built. The moon must have been full that night, because I can distinctly remember the crissed (but not crossed) dark shadows of the beams streaming over us as we lay next to each other in the warm Indiana night. I can still see the line of his cheekbone standing out in the contrast of shadow and moonlight, the shock of hair that flopped adorably down into his incomprehensible eyes. The smirk. The way he sometimes knew more about me than I intended him to know, just because he was observant. And smart. And sly. Anyhow, I give him credit for being very influential. I broke up with Mike, my first "real" boyfriend ever, earlier that same summer, mainly so I could date Sean. There's a tale out of school for ya. Poor Mike; he was a nice guy, which was, of course, terribly boring at 15. Thank gods I've gotten a taste for them (nice guys, that is) in my old age ;-P
Don't get me wrong, Sean wasn't terrible, just . . . exciting, with a bit of heart breaker thrown in. And hearing from him now, and hearing how different he is from that 16 year old boy I knew (when I was but 15) . . . and how similar. He has a web page now, too. (It's weird, but things like a passion for punk music and computers, remind me of Todd).
Hearing from Sean certainly brought back memories, and for some reason, I feel the need to muse over poetry written during that summer/fall. Do you mind terribly? See, I haven't been feeling, well . . . I haven't been feeling like myself recently. I feel as if I'm someone else entirely. Or perhaps a 55 year old version of myself reminiscing about being 25 (reflecting on age 15!). To quote Edgar Allan Poe:
"All that we see or seem,
Is but a dream within a dream"
Well, that's not really what I mean at all, which is exactly what I mean, if you get my meaning.
Whoo, sorry. Lost it there for a second. Ok, well, you were all warned.
(If you don't read this, I don't blame you; I'm not claiming any of it to be all that good). (David, not you, you have to read this. Just so you know).
New Nothing's really new, you know - The earth is old in years. When you stop and think; New comes from people's fears. The fear of no progress, Of never going on, Of staying where are today, A stationary pawn. Heather Shaw 1987
That was one of my favorites at the time, and yes, I knew it needed more verses.
Ok, ok, here's a romantic one:
Moon's Veil We know not wherest we stand our heart's rhythm tells the tale Friendship will it always be? living lives through moon's veil. A love that holds too defiant pure . . 3:01am July 23, 1988
I stopped that one because the rest of it isn't even cute in it's own contrived way, and this one has more "sex" in it:
The Endless Ball The children of the moons hearts are aching Yearning of their souls is music making Hands do want to do the taking. Eyes are open but hearts aren't waking. A whirl of stardust his body's turning Eyes are following her stellar churning Lunations glitter his spirit is burning Together dancing their souls are yearning. 11:57PM July 25, 1988
Unsurprisingly, I keep typing 1998 by mistake. Anyhow, most of the mushiest stuff was about Will, on whom I had an amazingly thorough crush. And as with crushes when you're 15, I desperately didn't want him to know at the time, but I always thought he did. I just assumed that he was exceptionally mature for his age (17) and handled my pathetic adoration with an easy, affirming grace. He made me feel pretty good about myself, aside from my miserable crush on him that didn't let me breathe quite properly. He could dance, see, and he was smart and athletic, and musical and he had long, dark brown hair and was funny and creative and was just a killer member of our Speech Team (which, yes I was a part of and very much enjoyed, thank you very much).
Now, here's one about Will that I wrote after driving back from Kentucky on a class field trip. It was an event that Mr. Wright, the IDEA history teacher, did every year; he drove all honor students (in caravaning cars and vans) to Civil War battle fields, metal detectors in tow, to hunt for leftover bullets and metal bits that had fallen there some hundred and twenty years earlier. It was raining, as you'll see, and I'll never forget the way the split-rail fences (how reminiscent of Lincoln! How fitting!) turned a slick, glossy black from the rain - and the contrast of those waving black tracks over the smooth, round hills of shiny, bright green. Too bad this imagery isn't in the poem. Ok, well, welcome to the seething heart of my crush:
Embrace We drove silent through the rain Barely touching in the night. As I longed for him in pain - Useless was my misty view, For my heart ruled my soul And made it think it true, For though our love was none but all, That for him my heart would fall. And at our journey's quiet end - He held his favored few. The special many longed to be, The scarce, he loved, his friends, The sacred he'd love forever true - There were but two, just she and me. Sept. 7, 1988 7:42P.M.
Well! I get a little presumptuous at the end there, don't I? I think he happened to hug both me and Karrie, and I really dug it and made it mean much more to me (though of course I was as nonchalant as possible). (This poem reminds me of now for completely different reasons, which is weird).
Will used to polka with me between the cafeteria tables at Speech meets, and I can still invoke the dizzy feeling of the florescent lights and gleaming silver bars of the dining tables whizzing past as he swung me round and round, literally laughing in his arms, delirious from being so close to him. Listen to me go on about him even now!
Ok, well, you are all officially saved from all night ranting by the RSI demons shooting down my right arm. Say hi to my readers, demons!
high!
Lessee, well, the Halloween party at Mary Anne's went well enough. I spent all Friday night ('till 2am) and all Saturday frantically sewing my costume, which just turned out superb. I'm quite pleased with it. I decided to be a butterfly this year (barely fighting off my continuous urge to be a fairy every time a costume is needed). Mary Anne and I visited some Sari shops earlier this month and I bought some brilliantly colored silk remnants. Friday night I taped together some newspaper, and drew a wing that was slightly longer than my arm. Then I divvied it up into nice, curvy sections. Then I cut them out and pinned them to my fabric. I had to fudge and change them up a bit, as my remnants were only so big, so the colors sorta ended up where they may. I'll spare you the details. I was pleased that I didn't have any major setbacks and pretty much figured everything out right. I ended up with vibrant purple/blue/turquoise/aqua/green wings that strapped onto my arms. It looked like a colorful shawl until I raised my arms to show my wings. I also made bouncy antennae, which were too much fun and sometimes knocked together when I nodded emphatically. Anyhow, the costume was a hit and restored a great deal of my sense of self worth. Yay, I *can* accomplish things! I *am* still creative! (I should sew/craft more often; this weekend's been emotionally one of my best yet).
Unfortunately, I ended up getting rather ill at the end of the party (1am, the first one, as that was the night the clocks "fell back". Ugh. I'll never get used to time changing like that. We don't change up our clocks like that in Indiana). I'd only had 4 alcoholic beverages (hard cider, a Heineken and 2 glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon), which is usually nothing for me. Well, I suppose I don't drink all that much these days. Oh, well, I honestly don't care if I can no longer drink men under the table; I'd just like to be able to drink socially, as it really helps me deal with party stress (all these people, all these mandatory conversations - usually about things I don't know or care about). With a few drinks, I can relax and talk and enjoy the colorful crowd around me. I can get people to talk on subjects *I* like (instead of computers - it's a California curse, computer chat!). Then I don't want to leave the party. Which is why I'm annoyed I got sick Saturday night. I was having fun.
On a completely different note, I quit my job last Friday. I'll be working for a temp agency for almost twice what I was making at Homefinders. I'm giving up some cool coworkers to do this, but I'm also giving up a lot of stress.
Let's see, there's a poetry slam this Wednesday at the Starry Plough. I have to be there to defend my title (I won 2 months ago, and have maintained my "reigning champ" status so far). I'm kinda nervous, as I have yet to write a new slam poem. At least I have a pretty good idea of what I'd like to write about. I also have a killer idea/plot outline for a new water story, which I continue writing.
Ok, today I buy tickets home for Xmas, swing by Kmart and buy a new phone (my buttons are sticking and I can't use the 2 or 3, because they'll hit 2 or 3 times instead of just one - ugh!), stop by the Post Office and stock up on ballet stamps . . .
Did I scream sexual harassment? Of course not. I laughed with them. But I was amazed at her moxie. What if I'd been terribly offended by this? I could have reported her and gotten her in a heap of trouble. And if she'd been a man . . . well, I doubt it would have happened. Men are much more sensitive (now) to work place issues and sexual harassment charges. There's almost a double standard going the other way now. Women have a much broader range of behavior that's acceptable, at least when it comes to sexual matters and discussing them with other women. I don't even think men would show that picture among themselves at work, for fear of a woman overhearing/seeing and being offended. Would I have reported a man? No.
Damn! I'd like to go on, but I'm gonna be late for work. Anyhow, there's a poetry slam at the Starry Plough tonight at 8:30, which I'll be reading at. Not that I have any new material really.
Sigh.
Have a lovely day, my dears.
He leaned in, near my right ear. I could feel the vibrations of his words and his breath blew a strand of hair carressingly over my cheek. He has intricate control over his voice, and in one part of the poem he sings in a sort of R&B, descending notes. And it was suggestive. Even more seductive. I closed my eyes (it was a nice long poem) and tried not to sink to the floor in the puddle I was becoming.
Afterwards, I probably sounded like an eager puppy. I think I grabbed his arm (lightly) and asked, "Are you local?" Yes. "Would you mind recording that for us so we could have it for download on our page?" He'd love to. Whoo-hoo! See, it's a brilliant poem, but I want everyone who reads it to be able to hear that velvet voice working them over like it did me. In my opinion, it would be a boon for our magazine.
Then . . . THEN he gives me his email address (so I can remind him to send me the written form) and he writes it on a card that advertises the West African Dance class he teaches in the City. He DANCES? Hey, I'm a dancer (or have been). I'm always interested in learned new forms of dance. I've even wanted to learn African Dance for some time (I used to imitate it at Lothlorien . . . that and belly dancing and even some Hindustani dancing . . . I need to take more dance classes, that's for sure). And, I have this new job, so now I can AFFORD to take dance classes.
Just goes to show you what kind of groovy people one can meet in the Bay Area.