26 April 2011

Black Tuesday

Tuesdays are notoriously "Depression" days

Why should my Tuesdays be any different?

Tuesdays were my long and lonely days last semester. Now they are still long and lonely days. Why are people always too busy on Tuesdays? Too busy for me. I need someone to think of me on Tuesdays because Tuesdays are turning out to be my "depression" days. I can't fight it off alone, I can't ask for help...because if they wanted me around they would call me. I don't want to be a bother, I don't want to be the person they complain about asking too much or being too needy. So I struggle through my Black Tuesdays alone, wishing someone would let me know they care. But maybe they don't say anything because they don't care.

It's nearly 11pm, so Tuesday is almost over. Wednesdays have always been better days...in fact, for a while, they were the best days. So I'll go to sleep now, and tomorrow will be better. Sorry for whining and complaining. It hurts too much to keep it inside and all to myself. So I'm sending it out into the void with the hope that the Universe will take pity and send a little sunshine and love my way.

love me, love me not

I miss you already, and you're not even gone. Your absence wraps around and through me in a crowded room. The numbness settles back in with every step you take away. For a few months I smiled. I felt safe, noticed, wanted, and happier than anytime in my memory. Now I'm back to feeling only the lonely cracks and bitter shards of another promise broken, another friendship shattered.

But I have to accept it. I knew from the start it would end; it always does. Friendships don't last forever, do they? I've been through it so many times before, I should be a pro at watching people I love walk away. I should be stronger by now, better able to let go with dignity and grace. But the tears still run at the thought of losing another significant companion. I know you don't love me, not in any lasting way. I'm nothing more than a transient cohort, a passing playmate. We bonded, but you held back. I mean very little to you; you mean the world to me.

Change is inevitable, I know. I just hoped we would be changing together, instead of the change providing an easy exit. I know that exit doors double as entrances, with every significant person who walks away, at least one more walks in...but it can't quite fill the hole you'll leave behind.

I dedicate Elizabeth Bishop's Villanelle to you.

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of losing door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joke voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

I know that losing you won't be a disaster, not like I feel it will be. Maybe I won't lose you at all; I may be simply paranoid over nothing...maybe you're not leaving at all.

When you're gone, will you miss me? Will you even notice my absence from your life? I wish you loved me at all, because then maybe you wouldn't leave...or at least maybe you'd miss me too. But I can't make you love me, not at all. I have no idea what I've been to you; I'm amazed you've stayed as long as you have; I don't understand the time you've spent with me...especially just me. I'm nothing; a substitute, a transition. I could be everything, or at least something, but that would require x-ray vision because my outside is ugly, doesn't match my inside. I wish you were blind, then maybe you'd see what you're losing in walking away from me. Maybe not.

Maybe it's no loss at all.

People walk away so easily; I've never created a void in someone else's heart.

Will anyone ever love me enough to stick around?

18 April 2011

I need a hugging machine

In an episode of Gray's Anatomy, Dr. Dixon, the heart surgeon with Aspergers syndrome has an anxiety attack and kind of freaks out. In order to calm her down, Dr. Bailey and Cristina Yang have to hold her, applying pressure to large areas of her body in order to soothe the sympathetic nervous system and slow her heart. She says that normally a hugging machine will take care of it, but since there wasn't one, this is what was required:

And this is what I need. When my heart aches and the anxiety is high, all I need is a hugging machine. Sadly, I don't have one, and I don't know where to find one.

It's been a long time. For quite a while after Bobpi and I broke up (and actually, for quite a while while we were together) physical contact heightened the anxiety instead of calming it. Now I can't seem to get enough of it. I guess I'm feeling the need to make up for lost time, but I haven't really had anyone. The Artist is getting better at hugging. Gonzo gives really good hugs, but only when I ask him to. Fozzy is a hugger, and he's like a big teddy bear...he could be a nice cuddle buddy, but he's so much younger than I am and I don't know that he would understand that I don't want to date him, I just want him to be my living hugging machine.

I wish I could find a new boyfriend (not the boys listed above). It's been too long.
I miss being held. More than anything else, I miss the conversation and the cuddling.
But it seem a boyfriend is not in the cards for me anytime soon.

So, does anyone know where I can find that hugging machine? I could really use it tonight.

14 April 2011


I submitted some poems to my school's literary journal this semester and they accepted two for publication! This counts as an official publication, but I reserve all rights for future publication.
Last week the English department hosted an Author's Gala in which they gave out copies of the literary journal, Metaphor, and had some of the people published in it share their art. They asked me to read one of my poems.

A Moment Between Two Artists

He steps through an invisible wall
Into his music
And weaves disjointed tunes
Accenting chatter

Five feet away on a worn red couch
She's confined in her own
Groping words
Fragmented symbols, unformed mosaics

His fingers along the keys
He names them all

"I call this one, Beautiful Girl is Writing"

Blushed lips, timid
She thinks the tone is fitting
Somber and serene
A weeping willow swaying through a storm
He knows her very well

"Your turn," he grins
"What is that you're writing?"

She whispers
"Handsome Man, Keep Playing"

Besides poetry, the journal contains excerpts or short fiction and non-fiction, music, and visual art. A few other writers read their poems or excerpts from stories, a couple of the musicians played their songs, and an artist or two explained their work.

Now that it's over, it was fun! My American Lit teacher had me read my poems in class on Wednesday too, slowly I'm becoming accustomed to reading my poems aloud, though it still makes me nervous and shaky, not to mention rambly to do so.

When you read a poem in front of a group of poets, they like for you to take a minute to set the scene. So, I stood up and started explaining my poem (above). "This poem comes from a moment between my friend and me. We were hanging out one night and he was playing the piano as I sat writing on a couch close by. The moment in reality wasn't anywhere near as romantic as the poem turned out to be. In fact, until I wrote the poem, I had never thought of him as anything more than a friend. But then, as the poem took it's final formation, I thought, 'Oh my! Really? I had no idea I felt that way! Hmm, maybe.' (that made people laugh). Sometimes poems have a way of revealing things about ourselves that we didn't consciously recognize before. But, no matter what the poem says, he and I will only ever be good friends."

I don't understand why this particular friend has such a creative affect on me, but I am very grateful to him for allowing me to absorb some of his artistry. I am also grateful to him for indulging my requests for his time and attention so often these days. He has helped me in so many ways, far beyond demolishing my writer's block. Between him, Fozzy, and The Artist, I'm becoming more comfortable and trusting of men. They are kind and caring and without even knowing they were doing anything at all, they have helped to bring me back to life and I'm even beginning to believe in love again...meaning, I'm beginning to believe I can be loved by someone I love.

Sorry for that tangent. My other poem that was published is an imitative poem I wrote for my poetry class last semester. It's influenced by the contemporary poet, Dean Young. The assignment was to read a book of poems by a living poet and then analyze their technique and write a poem incorporating this technique. One thing I noticed in Young's poetry is that most of his poems have a really strong and gripping first line, something odd that catches your attention right at first. He also has a tendency to sound a little like he's rambling and some of what he adds in his poem doesn't seem to make sense, but it feels right in the poem. Anyway, here is my attempt to imitate his style.

Where The Go

Kleptomania was not my intention.
I only collect the luggage and the socks
that airlines and dryers misplace.
You thought it was goblins or trolls
wreaking havoc just to make you late
for school or work or your important date.
But it was me, taunting your sanity.
Stealing t-shirts, shampoo, underwear,
and extra shoes thickens the blood.
My own socks aren't enough, I have to
mismatch them with yours for my
feet to feel free to wander from
Texas to Chicago with connections
in Paris and Tokyo. I only wear your
socks, never your trousers or the
stolen hotel bathrobe, because socks
can be hidden inside shoes and beneath
long jeans so no one knows they
once belonged to someone else.
The suitcases are homes for the sock
people made from the too small or
too large cotton sheaves; they need
someplace to hide. Everything else
goes to the people on the streets;
those you forget to look at
as you hurry to catch your flight.
So when you see a bum wearing your
Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, or
Armani, think of me...
I'm wearing your socks.

10 April 2011

a week and a half

Tomorrow is the beginning of the end. This is the last week of classes before finals, then I'm done with classes until Fall semester. I'm so ready to not have to go to Ogden every day for a while. This semester has been rough. I've driven a lot more often than I should have and I'm just praying my car holds out until the end of next week before breaking down.

My goal for the summer is to find a full-time job. I at least need a second part-time job so I can build up my finances and cut my debt. I'm thinking of applying at some credit unions, and this time I'll stick to being a teller instead of letting them talk me into doing loans. Loans are just too stressful for me, but I do like playing with money and talking with the members. For the most part, tellering was a lot of fun.

On the other hand, if I could find a job doing something where I don't have to work with the public, something more like I did working in the mailroom, that would be nice. I'd like to find something I can do while listening to music or books on tape. Although, I've never read so many books as when I worked at the credit union. Right now, it doesn't really matter much what I do, so long as it's not in a call center or in sales. I don't know. I haven't really had much chance to look, but once this week is over I'll have more time to search.

Wish me luck on finals! After next week I'll have more time to write. I started a post about being published in my school's literary journal, so I'll post that asap.

03 April 2011


Sometimes your words make me feel not-so-good; and sometimes your lack of words makes me feel even worse.

I know I'm just being sensitive, but I'm starting to lose my ability to smile through when my guy friends start talking about other girls they're interested in. It's not that I'm interested in any of my guy friends either, I think the trouble is that I'm starting to fear that no one will ever talk like that about me again. I wasted so much time with the wrong guys, not realizing that I deserved and could have someone better who actually treated me well, someone who actually loved me...and now I've lost my appeal and all I'm good for is to be a friend who listens about all the other girls who are better and more attractive than me. Why don't they know that it hurts? Why don't they know that it makes me feel bad to hear about how great she is, when no one is telling me how great I am? Because I don't tell them. I want them to talk to me. I want to be a good friend and be there for them; I'm the one who picks up the pieces when they come back disappointed and heartbroken...but I also want someone to feel that way about me. And I want to feel that way about someone. I don't know where to find men that I'm attracted to. There is absolutely no one appealing in my life and it's getting really discouraging. I know, it happens when you least expect; he'll come out of nowhere...la la la, whatever...but I'm getting really tired of waiting.

Most of the time it's really great and I'm so grateful to have such good guy friends in my life. They fill that gaping void a little, at least make it more bearable while I'm waiting. They're a good distraction and they are a lot of fun. It's just those moments when they start talking about the other girls...the ones who I am nothing like. I think I'm pretty darn spectacular and any guy would be lucky to have me...but they don't seem to see it that way. I'm good enough to spend hours with every day in the week, and yet, I'm not good for more? Not fair.

Ok, so there's my little tantrum. Now I'll go back to the faith. I know that somewhere out there is a man who will see all the spectacular in me. Someday I'll be the one who consumes his every waking (and dreaming) thought. I'll be the one he can't wait to talk to, can't wait to see and hold in his arms. I'll be the most beautiful and amazing woman he's ever known. Someday I'll be loved.

Until then, I'm happy with my friends (girls and guys). I'm content to just have people around who like to be around me. Tonight Fozzy said my house is like the "clubhouse; the place to be". I've been told that my house is comfortable, cozy, inviting, fun, and generally a place where people like to just come and chill. People like to be around me because I'm content, happy, fun, kind, interested in them, loving, understanding, and relaxed. I don't get offended easily. I don't show when I'm hurt or upset (most of the time). And I just let things roll off because I finally came to understand that life is too short to worry about stuff. It hurts when I don't get invited to stuff...it's been happening a lot with certain people and I don't know why. But hey, whatever, I have other people who do love me and who do invite me to things. And, they are the ones who come when I call. I guess I should be comforted in that fact. Maybe they aren't saying how wonderful I am with their words...but they do say it in their actions: they keep coming around and then they stay until 1am, 2am, 3am. They wouldn't do that if they didn't like me. They'd find somewhere else to be. They wouldn't come when I call. So there, non-verbals screaming at me, I guess I'll pay attention and stop the pity party over feeling undesired.

Eventually it'll all work out and things will fall into place and someone will love me and the friends worth having will stick around and I'll stop fretting about it. Eventually I'll get it.