operator, (thats not the way it feels).

for some reason I decided to pop in an old jim croce CD that I stole from my mom ages ago, and I just found myself listening to this song over and over again. I’ve heard it about a million times, but for some reason today I heard it differently.

I was thinking about the story in the song, which I’ll give you the reader’s digest version of, in case you are unfamiliar with it. actually, in the case that you’ve never heard it, you should probably stop reading this now, and youtube it, or google it, or fuck that, in the spirit of this entry, go buy the CD.

fuck, go buy the vinyl…

Anyway, this man, the narrator, loved this woman, and shes run away with his best friend to L.A….and probably drunk, one night, (perhaps with his breath smelling of mustard gas and roses?), he dials the operator, and asks her to help him find the number to call her. Just to prove to himself that he can. Just to make him feel like he can move on.

All I can think about is a time, that wasn’t that long ago, when their were no cell phones for people to be reached at any given moment, and there was no facebook to find those you somehow lost along the way, and if you dialed 0 on the phone, you actually got an operator, and you could make a call for a dime. And that thought, to me, is so beautiful that I’m currently crying.

And then there is this verse:

There’s something in my eyes,
you know it happens every time
I think about the love
that I thought would save me.

Amen Jim, amen.

It’s just an average day, a normal mundane conversation, a polite request, and then, that realization. That everything is not normal, and even though I can nod and smile and play whatever part I need to, that that’s not the way it feels.

revelation 18

the city sat
empty
handed that gray night
drunk and unknowing

behind the smoke
rising from the
weighed and wanting
wreckage

you and your
selfish scar
left like a lark
at the first sign of fall

and boy, although
that city was walled
and meshed and moated
it might as well have been Babylon

and I know
I bowed
and obliged
to this defeat

but take me back
to that night
no, wait
take me back

time, you fickle mistress, you.

When I was younger, I remember very distinctly looking upon women in their late 20′s and early 30′s who were settling for something less than ideal- a man who was okay, a career that didn’t move them, a lifestyle that was boring, an idea that was inferior, a feeling that was less than everything it should be, and I remember complacently snickering to myself, that I was so much smarter and wiser than them. That, I, would never in a million years, settle for anything less than exactly what I wanted. I was so self-assured in so many ways, and so broken with insecurities at the same time.   Fast forward ten years, and I find myself, well, thinking these thoughts- that I am getting older, my biological clock is ticking, and that very soon I will be closer to thirty than to twenty. And while I am by no means husband hunting, or thinking about adopting a baby from Africa, I really am starting to get it.

I used to paint a lot when I was younger too. And to be honest, I’m pretty sure it was all just mediocre. I can’t remember exactly when I stopped, although I know it was sometime after I graduated community college. At some point, my life was moving too fast, and the emotional roller coaster that was my very early twenties needed a medium that could keep up with the ups and downs and twists and turns. So I started writing. If I felt like garbage, I could write a poem and 20 minutes later feel free. If I felt great and wanted the whole world to know it, then I could write a bad poem at best, and feel okay.

And now that I am almost 25, today I decided that it is time to return to my previous love.  I pulled out all of my brushes and paints and everything from storage this afternoon and I was overwhelmed with a feeling of coming home. Not that I will by any means stop writing, but, I’m okay with returning to a medium of expression that requires a single sustained emotion for more than 20 minutes.

Time is so scary. I think it’s because it is so hard to wrap your mind around something that is everything. Some days fly by, and on others one tick to one tock feels like an entire eternity. The winter always drags on, and somehow the summer is a blink of an eye.  Our bodies change and grow and shrink, and our minds develop. It controls the strange and sometimes mysterious ways in which all of our paths intertwine and connect and fall apart and realign. It is the shifting of the tides, the rotation of the planets, the all powerful cosmic force that controls everything. And we can not control it in the slightest. We can track it, and we can, in our own feeble ways attempt to stop it, and we can live as slaves to it dwelling on past failures, or in planning only for future happinesses, or we can accept the here and the now. and none of those are easy to come to terms with.

where is the balance? where is the happy medium between remembering the good times, thinking back to mistakes not to make them twice, and reminiscing with old friends versus living in the present? at what one point do you give it all you’ve got, and at what point do you just relax and let a day go by? how much planning for the future is enough, and how much is too much? how do me and time become homeboys so that I don’t just wake up at 50 one day and go what the fuck have I been doing my entire life? how do I fit it all in?

phew. the above is exactly what I mean. it is so scary because it so hard to understand and there are too many unanswerable questions and anxieties.

so I’m trying to slow it down. I’m trying to enjoy some simple moments. I’m trying to be more like McGoots. He doesn’t ask why the grass is green, he just rolls around in it.  And let’s face it , I’ll never stop asking “why ?”, I’m still a writer, but maybe I can stop asking “when?”

pearls and swine. oh ten.

when I was 21, after I broke up with possibly the only man I’ve ever really loved, I was in a rut. a routine.

to me a routine implies sameness. predictability. habit.

we are creatures of habit.

and I was perfectly capable and content moving from relationship to relationship. never really needing anyone or anything. I was too afraid, that if I let anyone in, they would let me down. so I spent several years in purely superficial relationships that really meant nothing to me, and rightly so. because I pretty much suffered through the previous 20 years of disappointing relationships, with men… and so-called friends… and family.

and if we want to be perfectly honest about it, the same thing still happens to me on a regular basis. maybe I am just genuinely an idiot. I think I guess you could say that I’m probably the biggest argument against Darwinism. because I haven’t adapted and I’m still here. still alive and kicking. according to the survival of the fittest theory I should’ve become the most emotionally hardened person on the planet in order to survive.

but at some point something changed.  and I’m pretty much the opposite. I’m constantly giving someone the benefit of the doubt, to find that they really are just as selfish, inconsiderate, or apathetic as the last. I give more of my heart to people than they realize or appreciate.  I trust too fast, let go too easily, let it ride too often…

and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

because I have a few things I’ve gained on this path. and they haven’t come easy.  but I mean, what is there in life that is really worth something that comes easy???

I’ve come to the conclusion that the only way that you can find people that understand you on the deepest level, that love you unconditionally, in a way that family is supposed to, but without obligation… I mean get you, really get you, is by sorting through all of the crap.

you have to take in all the people that don’t want to take the time to see your worth as a person because they are too busy, or too selfish, or too preoccupied with meaninglessness. the people that don’t believe in you. the haters. the jealous bitches. the dudes that thought you were arm candy, or a thing that made them look better because they never took 30 seconds to listen to the words that were coming out of your mouth. the girls that used you for your money. the “friends” that dropped you like a bad habit as soon as they found a significant other.

and sometimes you can spot the fucking loser right out the gate. and I don’t waste my time with those people, but most often I’m not that good of a judge of character right out of the box. usually, I have to let it play out and let the true colors come out in the end.

and in the end… I ended up with a best friend, that I love dearly. he is my family. somedays, I feel like it’s me and him against the world. and he takes care of me when I need it. which isn’t often, but when it happens I know it isn’t easy.

I have a few girlfriends finally. for those of you that have known me for a long time, you know that my relationships with the fairer sex have always been rocky ones.  and not for a lack of trying on my part. and they are all so different in their own ways…

one is just like me, in that we both, drink too much, love love too much, and bottle our emotions up until they come spilling out on the page. and if you ask us how we are, we’ll give you a convincing “fine”, mostly because we don’t think you deserve to really know the multi-faceted monologue going on in our head.

one is an amazing wife, and mother, at a younger age than me. and I can’t even begin to understand how she bears her own burdens and those of her family on her tiny shoulders without toppling over. I am in awe of this woman’s bravery and I am scared that I will never be able to do what she does, let alone with the grace she does it.

one is a old soul, in a young body. a woman who has the best and brightest and most generous heart I can think of. she has taught me what it means to be strong and feminine. in a world that is so obsessed with outer appearances, she has taught me how to drop 10 pounds in a week, but more importantly, she’s taught me that none of that means shit if you can’t do unto others as you want done to yourself, and love deeply, and laugh often, and live your life like it’s the only one you’ve got.

then there’s my cynical counterpart. he believes in nothing, while I believe in everything. and even though we are both stubborn and we butt heads and fight, we make up, and all is well. and we are so different, and yet somehow, still the same.

and then there’s my little studmuffin. so far away, but still in my thoughts and prayers often. whose physical strength, disguises so much of who he really is. but, it’s good. I like it. it’s like he’s a secret that only the diligent get to see and keep.

and there are a few more. and they know who they are. and I deserve them, because I put up with a lot of shit for a long time.

and I am different now, thanks to a few of the good ones. I am braver. and more reckless with my heart. bring on the pain. I am not alone to bear it. they have taught me first hand that he who knows great victory, must first know great defeat.

the hardest part about the (early) twenties is the schizophrenia.

I’m not a psychiatrist, but I’m pretty sure I don’t need to be to realize that I am mentally unstable…and that might just be putting it nicely.  I was trying to verbalize this entire predicament, or maybe syndrome, if you will, to an old friend tonight.

Imagine the worst commitment phobe you’ve ever dated.  You know, they were way too scared they were going to meet someone better, or got bored super easily, or just plain ran at the mere thought of settling down. It’s like that, except with EVERYTHING. Not just relationships.

I have moved 5 times in the last 5 years. My current living situation is without a lease. This makes me feel pretty comfortable. Knowing that I don’t have to be in any specific place for any specific amount of time. Knowing that if I decided I wanted to I could be on my way to wherever, whenever.

There are days when I wake up and I find myself googling real estate for sale in McHenry County, and contemplating setting down some roots where my family has had roots, literally and metaphorically, for the last century. Then there are days when I begin making Craigslist ads to sell all of my earthly possessions and trade them in for an Airstream, or a cabin in some remote part of Montana, or a shack on a beach somewhere south of the equator, or a loft apartment in a bustling city, or a double wide in Tulsa. And then, there are the mornings where I wake up in the comfort of my own bed, with my Shoots McGoots warming my feet, and I think, “man, this is alright.”

I have held 7 jobs in the last 5 years. Granted some of them were longer term than others, and some of them overlapped in places, and some of them have been good and some of them have been awful, but they’ve all had one thing in common…with the exception of my current position, I’ve quit all of them. I’ve never been fired.  At some point in time, they all just felt too comfortable. Too…natural. And I don’t think that there is anything natural about losing your entire sense of smell because of the olfactory overload that is a candle store, or lifting and moving large pieces of furniture on a daily basis, or coming home smelling like fish, or orange spandex in general, or working 70 plus hours a week.

I distinctly remember writing a previous blog, probably two years ago, expressing my desire for some sort of a job that indulged my restless spirit, while still allowing me to remain rooted where my friends and family and the things I love most are. And it would seem that, that is EXACTLY what I got. While still residing in my hometown, I’ve managed to travel to 7 states in the last two months, which should be more than ample for even the biggest wanderlust. But, somehow, not only am I exhausted and unsatisfied, but also find myself imagining the grass greener on the other side. I wonder what would happen if I pursued my passion of writing, and ran away to explore the south and write a book while getting lost in the jungle of swampland, blues music, and barbeque smoke. Other days it seems like re-applying to a university for the hundreth time, and finally just settling on a major, like broadcasting or journalism could be my first step towards aquiring my own Bourdain-esque travel series.  Then there are the times when I fantascize even crazier, perhaps just baking pies and making jams and selling them at roadside stands, or maybe selling flowers; that might be nice.

Then there is that one lingering thought, that is still more constant than the others. Even that isn’t safe.  There are moments when I am, well, wherever I am, usually in a hotel bed that is cold on one side, and I am just helpless to missing you. Missing how easy we were, missing how much one half-cocked smile from you could make a shit day a little better, or how waking up next to you in the morning somehow guaranteed everything would go downhill, but somehow I didn’t mind. And I think to myself, or maybe say out loud after sighing, with no one around to hear my words to the imaginary you, “Can’t you just figure it out? That regardless of distance, space, or time, you are it for me.  There is no moving on, or walking away, so let’s stop wasting time and make it work. Let’s make some memories while we are young and pretty and dumb, so that when we are old and gray and wise we have some snapshots in our photo album, some things to reminisce about. That might be nice. That might be worth looking into. Don’t you think? I think about giving it all up. everything but you. my job. this town that pulls me in the way the moon pulls the tide. these people that I love dearly. the place I lived out my childhood. the place every memory, good and bad, I have is linked to.  I mean pretty much my whole life that I’ve built for myself. I mean don’t let it go to your head or anything. I think about giving it all up for me too.  but you are the only other one. So that means something, doesn’t it?”

Then there are days when I keep the company of other men. And I don’t compare them to you anymore. I am just with them, and it settles just fine with me. There are days that I resent you for being immature and foolish, and blind and dumb, and too emotionally unavailable and too crazy. There are days that I curse you. There are days that I think I might’ve been better off if we’d never have met, or maybe if you would have just kept your mouth shut.

 Those days are the hardest. Those days are the days I want to run the most.

armorless (previously titled “For all the Virgos I thought I Loved” (and there have been quite a few of you, haven’t there?))

sometimes things just need to be said. regardless of the appropriate time, or place, or surroundings. it’s like they are bottled up inside you for so long that suddenly they are ready to spew. projectile. like a volcano, moved by forces deep within so much greater and stronger than anything understandable. plate tectonics and shit, you know.

but its like as soon as they come out you want to take them back.  you see the slow destruction, the unforgettable, unforgivable consequences, and you want to pretend like it never happened. and I’m horrible at that. I think we all are.

guys, if you’re reading this, let me let you in on a little secret.

all a girl wants is for a guy to fight for her. for her attention. for her heart. to prove that its not just a bunch of bullshit that he wants her. to prove thats its not for all the wrong reasons. to defend her. to make her feel safe, and like it’s okay to put everything that shes learned for so long to protect, out in the open, vulnerable and naked.

that’s it. ha.

she doesnt give a shit what you have to say about that. no. when it comes down to this, to this critical juncture, she doesn’t give a shit about words. she wants action. she wants you to act like a man. she wants you to dominate. in the most archaic and medieval sense.  she wants you to take the lead, and she wants to follow it. I don’t care what Betty-Friedan-reading-non-armpit-shaving-bra-burning-feminist kind of girl it is…that’s all a bunch of bullshit. it is chemically, biologically, biblically ingrained into females to want a man. a man who knows what he wants and takes it, fights for it, and protects it. it is hands down the sexiest thing imaginable.

so when you sit there and tell me you’re sorry, that you fucked up, that you were honest about the fact that you acted like an asshole, that you don’t understand how I can be upset with you, that you can’t put yourself in my shoes, that you can’t sympathize with me (?!!?!), I have to wonder, what the fuck is wrong with me?

who in their right mind still has some sort of feeling (other than complete disgust) for a guy, that by traditional standards, doesn’t act like a man (AND gets insulted by me calling him out on it)?

who? me. this girl. this smart (spelling bee champion), attractive (semi), good head on her shoulders (most days), compassionate, big hearted (too much for her own good) , sometimes too small-tempered, but nearly always genuine (at least when it counts) girl.

and I want to pretend like I would never in a million years entertain the thought of sacrifing anything to make you happy. but the truth is I still do, everytime you walk in the room. and it half makes me sick to my stomach, and half just makes me mad. like fightin’ words angry.

so I blow up at you. looking for a reaction. looking to feel the blood letting. and it’s not fair, and I’m sorry. but deep down I’m just hoping that someday you’ll figure it out. that someday maybe you’ll prove that there’s not something wrong with me, and that all the chances I gave you, and all the heart strings I left tied to your crappy virgo stars, weren’t in vain. that I did my due diligence, that I suffered for a cause, an end result.  a man.

but when it all comes down, the more I realize that day will never come. and my words, and my tears, and my thoughts are all just wasted on a little boy too afraid to try. to afraid to fail. too afraid to let go. too afraid to grow.

so I’m left just standing here. armorless. waiting for another move.

black tie affair

these words are just letters
strung together,
some beads on a string,
some bones in the cold,
some things
without souls.

I’ve tried to defy this undefinable fascination
but I’ve found no reasons,
no rhymes, 
no love songs,
no ties to tie,
only the back of my mind.

a necklace fastened with a tiny clasp,
a collar starched and ironed.

a hand with a sure grasp
knows the way, back
to the place we first met.
to the place they all go
in the middle of the road,
the place that we left.
 
although vision is  
faded and failing
and the path is distant,
it searches in darkness by touch,
smoothly and quietly,
knowingly guided by memory.   

a dress button buttoned,
a small of the back zipper,

just out of reach.

march in a strange town.

somedays when the air is this cold
all I can do is laugh
to keep from crying.

it’s half of a breath and a deep hurt
away from where I’d like to be.

I know that I am sick again.
same place, same time, same tune,
driving with the top down,
struggling for air,
floating in this effervescent haze
that pops like pink champagne.

somedays I can sing that song
at the top of my lungs and
let it resonate in my chest like a drum.

a soundtrack from some year before my time,
but the lyrics I’ve known too well.

I know another day the same
as last, just ending a little sooner,
at last. but today the drum is too taut
to make a full beat.
the note falls flat, even concave,
an umbrella in the bruised, gypsy wind.

somedays are shaking hands,
and some are just hand-shaking,
head-shaking.

but either way I hold the rope the same,
and tie the knot like a boy scout.

I know the pattern and the rhythm,
and if I lose them, the routine.
the red bicycle riding down Main Street
sidewalks on the hottest noon, sweltering.
scorching away the symptoms,
leaving me, bittersweet.

the words to describe something indescribable.

I drink too much for my own good. I know that for sure.

I know this when I begin to try to recall events of recent and everything is a little hazy. A few sharp, quick moments. Synapses connecting…then falling short and reaching, probing into the blackness for a face, a voice, a tactile comparison, a frame of reference…all coming up empty.

The moment when I guessed that you were a Libra. I mean, it was obvious, the synergy was too strong, too easy. (Lys, you would’ve been so proud). Your ridiculous face, that was so…intrigued, so taken aback, so…mystified. I almost forgot what it felt like to hold every ounce of a man’s attention in the palm of my hand.

There is this stupid feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m not used to feeling stupid. I know that it is ridiculous, and it is only slight, but nagging nonetheless. The what ifs. The  maybes. The second before my messages load and I realize you still haven’t written, and you won’t. I knew you wouldn’t. We are too practical for this. For any of it. 

Standing in the rain, umbrella long gone, in middle of that gleaming cobblestone piazza, basking in the glow of the dim street lights, being held. I mean really held, by a man with no deficiencies in masculinity. Explaining myself, explaining exactly what I meant by the statement, “Rome is magic.” It’s like a fairytale. “The warmth in the air, and the warmth in the tones of the buildings, the lights, the winding roads, the getting lost, and not caring whether you ever get found, the fountains, and the piazzas, and the wine, and the laughter, and the overwhelming feeling everywhere you go that you are just free to live.”  It is history and mystery, and reverence and playfulness, and romance and intrigue, and love and lust.  

I loved the Pantheon. The structure, the rhythm of the ceiling, the coolness of the tile.   All the books I’d read, and words I’d been told about the beauty of The Sistine Chapel pale in comparison to standing beneath it, to feeling the weight of it, to beholding the color, and the movement, and the detail, and the breathtakingness of it all. The Colosseum is grand, and haunting. The view from the top of the cupola at St. Peter’s is like the closest thing to heaven I can imagine. But it all sort of pales in comparison.

The 3 a.m. moto rides around the city, you adjusting my helmet because I’d never worn one before. Turn after turn, hanging on tighter, becoming more coherent, and aware of the fact that although there were no video cameras anywhere, it certainly felt like my very own version of Roman Holiday, with my very own Gregory Peck…and then suddenly we were here, but we weren’t there. no, the Trevi Fountain. A sight I had previously taken in the day earlier, surrounded by a million tourists, and their ado, and camera flashes, and chatter.  Now, completely serene, the sound of the fountain so clearly heard, the marble statues radiating ghostlike in the glow of their prime meridian spotlights, on display for only our eyes to see.

I keep haniging onto all of this. Every shred that happens upon me, in dream of day or night, I revisit it over and over, dwelling on it, obsessing, ironing out the creases in the memory until it is clear and defined and real enough to live in.

the broken wine glass. secret rendevous. the peephole. according to you the one thing men don’t do enough of. mojitos. pesto pizza. the infamous shower scene. the sweater vest. shots of Jameson on Christmas. pictures with random drunken teenagers. kissing in the Piazza Navona.

the roman sky with my Roman Gladiator.

“see you in the funny papers”.

gramps.

oh, my Iowa farm boy,
how I’ve missed you.

I’ve seen you some times.
some nights floating,
an apparition in the space
above my head, dancing
like a firefly in the garden
next to the zinnias
on the first warm night of may.

and it is only for a moment.
just a bolt of lightning,
touching the land
and leaving.

oh, but it is beautiful.
you are there, clear
standing long and lean and tall
like the corn in the field,
or Clark Gable.
overalls, and rough hands
touching the land,
letting the dirt run through your fingers.
always singing it a song,
uplifting it with your hymn every morning,
and bedding it at dusk with your lullaby.

your pale skinned, dark haired
beauty by your side.
arm in arm, hand in hand
a faded apron and a floral cotton dress
that breathes on those days
in the middle of the prairie-desert.
children at it’s hem,
and love in her pure sparkling eyes.

in a lawn chair sipping a beer with a
wide brimmed hat to cover
your German skin on
your German nose. lazily
ambling down to the pier to fish
or back to the garden to pull some carrots.
it is spring, the peonies
are in full bloom
and haven’t been heavy
with rain yet.

tending the fire,
poking and coaxing the embers
to shine, and settling
back to your favorite plaid easy chair.
stew on the stove, and heat from the hearth
and the kitchen,
encircling, enveloping.

sunday sermon,
rows and order,
chapters and verse,
your deep voice crawling
along those words loyally,
“from dust we are,
and to dust we shall return”.
and for a moment, 
you the savior,
and I the forsaker, wish nothing
but for you to be kind to yourself. 

And I know you wouldn’t even if you could.

So, my Iowa farm boy,
slip into the sweetest afternoon nap,
in your big chair, white-haired,
and get back to those fields.
back to that wide open plain
of golden nothingness.