It was only a dream...

...entries that are really angry.

They're saved as drafts. I'm sparing you....you can thank me later :)

Instead, I'll keep up the funny.

You see, I got my hair cut on Saturday. I walked in, looked at Dina, and said, "I'm SICK of it! Do something. I don't care what. Just something."

She's never steered me wrong before.

As a bit of background, it's been getting harder and harder to keep up the sleek, straight look lately. All of those curls that plagued me when I was younger have decided to start making a comeback, and it had gotten to the point where I was spending 20 minutes on my hair every morning.

We all know that is not something that could ever make me happy.

And it still wouldn't come out straight.

Hence the plea for change.

So she cut my hair. Not terribly much off the length, but she added layers. Lots and lots of layers.

And now, all of a sudden, I have big hair again.

1988 called. It wants its hair back.

This is going to take some getting used to.

Oh, and the worst part?

Stephan, my salon eye-candy boytoy, got fired. No more porn-shampoos for our dear heroine.

Boo.

Christine is a Giant Squid that was Constructed in a Laboratory, shoots Electricity from its Eyes, has Heavy Metal Armour, and carries a Ray Gun and a Samurai Sword. Strength: 6 Agility: 3 Intelligence: 8 To see if your Giant Battle Monster can defeat Christine, enter your name and choose an attack: fights Christine using Strength Agility Intelligence

The Union Station Parking Garage Elevator Lobby*



*Luckily, only one of the two elevators was working.

Comic relief has been necessary as of late, don't you think? Just in case you haven't had enough, I'll share mine with you. I've been compensating for the times by being really, really funny, just so you know. I'm sure you won't find that terribly surprising....I'm funny, damn it! (at least that's what I keep telling myself)

• This morning, as I was driving into South Bend, Indiana, it occurred to me that something smelled really good. As a matter of fact, it smelled downright tasty - like someone was cooking delicious sausage. I looked around to see where the savory aroma could be coming from...and saw it was the hospital. I honked and waved.
  
• Our junior high school does special classes on the trimester - A had Home Ec for the first session, and just finished the second, which was music. The teacher's name was Mr. Schmidt. My understanding is that he's an odd gay man in his late 40's who often used phrases like, "You kids know what frosts my cookies?!" Now that they are out of his class, I'm finding out more than I wanted to know. Like..."I am so glad we don't have to go to that piece of Schmidt's class anymore!" or, "Holy Schmidt, that class sucked." I don't know whether to smack him or give him a high five.
• Yesterday was a bad day at work (not a shock) so I came home and drank a lot of rum (slightly more shocking). As I tried to go to bed around 8:30, A came in to my room in a more-chatty-than-normal mood. For some reason, the night's lecture involved my dear old teddy bear, Herman. "You know, Herman is a koala bear," he said. "Technically speaking koalas aren't bears. They are marsupials." I stared blankly at the boy, having heard this speech repeatedly in the past. "You should also know that Herman is obviously not a girl bear, because he has no pouch. All female marsupials have pouches." It was at this point that my rum kicked in. I replied, "Well, yeah. But he doesn't have any boy parts, either. I think he's technically androgenous." A had the nerve to look shocked, and hold Herman up to my face in a piteous way. "Herman, did you hear that? She just called you a he-she!" I started to laugh. First it was a slow giggle, but it built into hysterical sobs as I choked out the words. "I most certainly did not call him a he-she. I called him a Her-man!" A left.
  
• Tonight is the school band concert. A dressed up all nice in his black pants, white button-down shirt, green sweater, black socks, and the dreaded black dress shoes. He just came down the stairs complaining about how his shoes hurt his feet, because the tongue keeps getting stuck. I looked up at him and said, "I Hae whe dat happas!" He stopped, looked at me in a perplexed fashion, frowned, and then got it. He hung his head and headed back upstairs. I suppose I should go get him now so we can leave :)
  

The house was quiet this evening. A was in the basement with friends, working on a school project. I was restless.

I found myself turning on every light in the living room, hoping to ward off the threatening dusk. Spring can't come soon enough to take away the chill that still lingers in the corners and creeps under the doors, it seems. My obsessive search for green things poking up in the flower beds remains fruitless, but today's warm afternoon was enough to sprout a semblance of hope.

Still I paced, like a beast too long caged.

After straightening the coasters on the end table, adjusting the lamp shades, and wiping the thin layer of dust from the television screen, I stood staring at the bookshelves for far longer than could be considered rational. Concentration has been difficult lately, and I needed something both simple, but absorbing to hold my attention.

As so often is the case, I found myself standing before the shelf of poetry. Over the years, so many of those books have become old friends. Dog-eared and well loved, a few contain secrets that will never be told. Others followed passing fashions and simply look more impressive than I honestly believe them to be. Each, though, has its place.

I buy poetry when I crave connection. Vivid pictures crafted from perfect metaphors are sometimes the only ways I can find to bridge the gaps between myself and...just about anything, really. People, events, situations - when I struggle to find where I belong in the mix, poetry lends the perspective for which I long.

Tonight, as I stood pondering the row of titles, I debated which would best settle the day's commotion. I flipped through Nikki Giovanni, Margaret Atwood, and Kahlil Gibran. Nothing was jumping out at me. Poe, Williams, Piercy, Benton.

Bah.

But then, tucked between Sandra Cisneros and Mary Oliver, was a thin brown paperback with white letters on the binding too small to read without my glasses. Puzzled, I pulled it out.

I swear to God, I have never seen this book before in my life. I have no idea where it came from, or when it found its way onto my shelf. Exchanging Lives, poems and translations, by Susan Bassnett and Alejandra Pizarnik - the back cover said it cost £7.99, and it looked s if it had never even been opened.

Was it a gift? Did I grab it randomly at a corner bookstore with the forgotten intent to peruse it later?

Where?

When?

I opened to a random page, and read the first passage I saw.

Salta con la camisa en llamas
de estralla a estralla
de sombra en sombre.
Muere de muerte lejana
la que ama al viento.

_______

Leaping with her shirt in flames
from star to star
from shadow to shadow.
Dying a distant death
the woman in love with the wind.

Surely I'd not have set this idly on a shelf without a second thought.

I bent the corner and flipped to a new page.

"Shapes"

I don't know if I'm bird or cage
or murderous hand
a young woman dead amid candles
an amazon panting in the great dark gorge
a silent woman
but who sometimes flows with language
sometimes entertains
or a princess in the highest tower

Another bent corner.

And another.

And another.

It seems that out of mystery, I've made an unexpected new friend.

And spring is coming.

dawn strikes in the flowers
leaving me drunk with nothingness and lilac light
drunk with stillness and with certainty

Maybe tomorrow I'll check the garden again...

Me? Well....

• my son
• love
• music
• diversity, in the fact that we all have our own priorities, and that is a GOOD thing. If we were all worried about the same shit, the world wouldn't really work right, would it?
  
• beauty
• humor
• character
• peace
• striving towards perfection wherever possible
• giving back
• gaining perspective
• personal evolution
• naps
• did I mention love?
• maximizing strengths, and minimizing weaknesses
• acceptance
• grace
• knowing when to speak up for what one believes in
• knowing when to keep one's mouth shut
• humanity
• giving kids a fair shot
• giving adults a break now and then
• not giving anyone too many breaks
• occasional solitude
• ice cream
• friendship

Here's the thing (a somewhat related, but also tangential topic).

Life is too short to spend a lot of time criticizing others. Lead by example. Teach by doing what is right. Change what you can, in a positive manner where possible. Recognize what you can not change, and don't obsess over it.

I will not be cowed into believing that I am stupid or weak because I have values that are different from someone else's, whether it's professional or personal. I will choose not to fight battles that can't be won against people who refuse to consider any picture but their own. Choosing not to fight does not automatically make a person a loser. Unless you thing Gandhi was a puss, in which case you need serious help.

Life is hard enough, don't you think? Be compassionate. Have empathy. (These qualities are very different from pity and weakness)

I'm exhausted, and I'm hurting right now. My bet is that you there, reading this? You are, too. So do what you love. I'll try to do the same.

Doesn't that make the world a tiny bit better, in and of itself?

...people like me who are so easily influenced by their environment shouldn't be allowed to read "The Bell Jar" on the nearly two hour train commute home from a job at a bank during a financial meltdown on a freezing, dreary windy day at the end of a very long winter.

I'm just sayin'.