'I'm not the same girl who wears pig-tails, and says 'I love you."'

Thank goodness dogs do not have the capacity to cognitively exaggerate. 

(Woe to my children, with their bruised shins and subterranean splinters!) 

As far as I am concerned, actions are instinctual when it comes to this particular species (canine). And so, when I scratch Maya's abdomen, I am assured that she is indeed experiencing near-euphoia (how would a dog know how to manufacture such pleasure?) At least I am able to trust my dog. 

That is something, right?

"Why is it white girls don't ever have any ideas?"

Let's just keep entertaining separate Sundays.

Me on my knees, tilling soil. 

You, 

root fingers reach up. 

I keep plucking.

Nothing but weeds.

On the Road Again, Rebuilding my Home.

This building, in a matter of two weeks has tattooed many-a-memory onto my spongy cortex. 

Contraband shopping carts layered in the stairwell; angry Eastern-Europeans; my 3 A.M. smoking neighbor who donates his backwash vapors to my bedroom; exploding plumbing pipes; gulping frogs; pumpkin walls.

Anecdote #1:

I was balancing about five bags on my shrunken shoulders (compliments of stress) and an overweight box on my lovely woman-hip (still intact). When the elevator stopped at the first floor, there he stood: one piercing in the left lobe which adequately screamed "I am not gay! Left lobe! Left lobe!"; oversized cobalt team-T; and bald with a two-day stubble. 

"Going up?" He avoided my eyes and addressed the unoccupied space in the elevator. I assumed that since I was the only one in there, he must have been talking to me.

"No. I am going to the bottom."

"Uuugh." He turned away as the door slid closed and muttered to himself, "Slacker...! Total Slacker.'

Anecdote #2:

I was laden with more bags and a gnome-stool. Two strangers were in the elevator with me. As the elevator descended, one asked, "Are you an artist? Have we met?"

I have never declared myself an artist, but at 2 P.M. on November 5th, 2008 I said, "Yes," without thinking.

"I paint, but am specifically studying Interior Design, right now. How could you tell?" 

I ran my eyes over the labels on the bags and boxes hanging from my body.  Toilet paper and dryer sheets were stuffed into a particular black bag. "Utrecht" was my Judas. 

"No, we haven't met. I just moved in, but I'm moving out this weekend, which is wild, but if I ever see you again, my name is Marie," I said while struggling out of the elevator.

"My name is John. You are a very beautiful woman. I hope to see you again."

I often feel violated by such comments, but his was not a come-on. It was a platonic statement. I want to see him again. I imagine that his apartment is layered with seven years of smudgy vellum, bristol, whispers of gouache, and mountains of acrylic. 

Queen Anne is my home.  Good-bye temporary Northgate. 

Leaving at 8 A.M., Returning at 9 P.M.

I was lucky enough to wear a muumuu today. It was vintage which automatically counteracted its inherent horridness, but not really. In addition, coiled atop my head was a fake lei which was pinned to my hair with a large plastic clothes-pin. I was a vision. N-, the famous painter, looked lovely in her colonial gown, and G-, the famous pianist, beamed in her white wedding dress. I was a famous fisherwoman. As I mentioned in a few posts back, ego must be banished when I am at work.

My favorite part of the game was when N- informed us, in character, "Oh, you two will actually have to leave early today because I have to paint a map and bring it to Africa." 

Other highlights of my day: 

1. Walked into the men's bathroom. "Why is there such a big gap between these stalls?... Why isn't there a door? Where is the toilet seat?...Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, etc." Running.

2. Barista at school gave me a discount, looked at my "torso" and said, "That is very sexy. That is art. Rock on sista." "What? Oh, wow...uh...thanks."

3. Another blushing chat with he who shall not be named. 

Deconstruction, Reconstruction

Are we really to love who we are? What about self-exploration and renovation? I have been learning endless things about myself lately and was wondering tonight if I should venture to love who I am, nuts and all, or try to change the quirks and flaws. 

I am a tempest of emotion, more so than ever. For a long time I have stuffed my feelings and only recently have I allowed them to blow and push me around. There is no need to contain them any longer, but sometimes I wonder if I am crazy and if there is any person in the world who would actually want to come home to me, this strange mess.

My therapist told me, "Maybe that is just who you are. Creative types feel many things at the same time. Someone will come into your life who will be able to love that too."

Is that so, or am I truly mad? 

Change has been the theme for the past few months, but am I willing to change who I am? I suppose that I can love myself and seek to better who I am at the same time, but how do we find the balance? When is it going too far? Is it possible to allow the process to spin out of control? How can we tell if it does? 

I suppose that in order to advance towards change, one must have an idea about who he/she wants to be, but that seems contrived. I like the idea of becoming rather than forcing change. Granted, there are situations, such as breaking additions and habits which call for immediate overhauls, but I am talking about character, about growing. 

The evolution of the individual is a beautiful thing. Just look at Prince.

Well, I feel just like a child

A grown man called me stupid last night. All I could do was laugh.

He was sitting in the lobby and Maya ran up to him and jumped up to the arm of his chair. He coiled back, glared at me with a lazy eye and dealt his low blow. Usually I have more control of the pooch, but I was struggling with her, a handle-less grocery bag, my purse, and a locked door. 

Stupid? 

Stupid.

Really?

At least he gave me a laugh.

"It's Involuntary"

This is what my Playmobil woman, Maggie, did tonight: 

Following a long yoga class, she headed home after rejecting a date with Eric, a man in her class who wore his grandfather's hat (frankly, she was not ready to be dating). When she got home she took a long, quiet bath and thought about her class, her small home, and her life. She liked being alone, or accepted it, and didn't mind curling up on her couch with a cup (of something), her pet and a book. 

"she was consumed by 3 simple things:

drink, despair, loneliness; and 2 more:

youth and beauty." -Bukowski.

G-, N-, and I --as spying giants-- hunched over her with bare knees digging into the carpet. There she was, stiff and vacant and we decided that we envied Maggie. I imagined her to be reading Chagall's "My Life." G-probably thought that she was reading "The Bad Beginning." N- just appreciated the fact that Maggie's cat was not trying to bite her, as Hyacinth (N-'s cat) does.

When Eric came to her door to ask once again for a date, she gave another kind decline. G- decided that he ought to bring her flowers because that would be romantic. Yes, I agreed it would.

 

"It would, wouldn't it?" I smiled and G- said, "you never know Marie, that might happen to you one day." 

"Well, let's hope so. Not yet."

As for now, I have all of the above-- void the cat.

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