Little Constellation Face

"If I connected the beauty marks on your face, I bet I could make Cassiopeia." Chad stated out of the blue, his words cutting into my ramble about lunch ideas.

"What?" I was having trouble shifting subject gears.

"You have a lot of beauty marks on your face. If I took your eyeliner and connected the dots, I'm pretty sure there's a constellation there."

"I just asked you if you wanted Thai food, where did Cassiopeia come from?" I asked as the questioning lines began to form on the space between my eyebrows. "And I don't have that many beauty marks on my face."

"I'm not saying you have the Big Dipper going on over there. It's more like one of the little ones, where all the stars are mostly clustered together with one out-stretched star, to make a tail of sorts." His index finger trailed across the prominent beauty marks forming a triangle under my eye and the one lonely one below my lip.

I stood silent and hungry, still trying to follow his A.D.D. moment.

"It's adorable. I think I'll call you my little constellation face. Whattya think?"

"Yea uhm... that's cute. So, does this mean that you don't want Thai food?"

Awake and Dreaming

At night I lay with my limbs intertwined with his. I can feel him breathing hot minty air on my neck and cheek. His face is so close to mine that I can feel the tips of his long eyelashes resting against my skin. It seems so peaceful where he is. Asleep.

"I want to be where you are baby. I miss it there."

I could fall into you
the affectionate inviting heart of you
cradled snug in the levels of your existence
cuddled up with quiet longing persistence
I could fall, but you wouldn't catch me
I could fall, but you turn from me, passively

I miss everything regarding what you do
still trying to fall into you
but I can't even imagine where you are
running out of sheep and counting stars
and as I lay me down, awake and dreaming of sleeping
the insomniac hours are mine for the keeping

Sleeping pills contemptuously resting on the shelf
I reach for the container to save me from myself
I close my eyes for a minute
I'm lucid but slowly fading in it
back through the folds and my mind is free
I'm falling -sleep, come rescue me

Haunted By a Thought

(a repost from my myspace)

I complained today, as I sat at the edge of my bed, waiting for the numbers on the alarm clock to sober up and straighten out. It was a blurry 5:12 in the morning on Saturday. I rubbed my eyes and cursed under my breath. I complained about having to wake up, about having to work early on a Saturday morning and about my life in general.

I complained while at work, as I sat and listened to my co-worker behind me express himself with words that would make your mother blush. I complained about his complaining.

When my shift was over, I complained about the traffic that was standing in the way of me getting to my pizza. I should have been happy that work was over, I should have been happy that I was on my way to get pizza, I should have been happy just to feel the sunshine on my face and the cold breeze blowing through a typically hot town.

I rolled my car into the gas station next to Straw Hat pizza, when I realized that the police had roped off the entrance of Straw Hat with yellow tape.

The man that took my order over the phone never mentioned that there was an issue and the restaurant was closed, so I approached one of the police officers outside.

"I ordered a pizza, is it ok to go inside?"

"Yes, but we are asking everyone to exit through the back door. We had a gentleman pass away in the parking lot and we're trying to handle this in a way to allow him some dignity." He responded as he lifted the yellow tape to allow me passage.

I could see the outline of a body laying underneath the police blanket and I instantly felt my heart sink. I complained today. I complained all morning about nothing. I was complaining about my life, while this man was losing his.

This man appeared to be at the restaurant by himself. There was no other person in the parking lot, crying over the loss of this mans life. I had wondered if he was reassured that he was loved today before leaving the house. If he was happy or sad. Was he content with life? Or had he complained all morning about dumb stuff ?

It's hard to appreciate every hour or minute of your life, until you realize that you can lose it. I complained today, I complained about nothing at all and the idea that it could end unexpectedly with not having really enjoyed any part of the morning, bothered me. I would hate for everything to come to an end after being unnecessarily irritated that I arrived at my destination two seconds later than I wanted to because some " idiot," in a green Honda cut me off and drove 2 mph slower than I wanted him to.

I don't want this to sound like some insincere lecture, about how you should be grateful for every minute of your life; like some kind of cliche, presented as "profound wisdom," forwarded via e-mail with some chain-mail type of note on the bottom instructing you to pass this on or you'll have a year of bad luck. Shit gets tough and it's hard to love every thing about what goes on in your world every day.

Really, I just can't seem to let it go. I've had lingering anxiety about this and I can't figure out why. What I do know is, I was consumed with the idea that this man left his house, just to get pizza without any idea that he was coming to the end of his minutes. I was bothered by that thought, but talked myself out of posting this. Then hours later I saw this section from the novel I started reading:

"It's a stark thought that when we die most of us will leave behind uneaten biscuits, unused coffee, half toilet rolls, half cartons of milk in the fridge to go sour; that everyday functional things will outlive us and prove that we weren't ready to go; that we weren't smart or knowing or heroic; that we were just animals whose animal bodies stopped working without any sort of schedule or any consent from us."

~Steven Hall The Raw Shark Texts~

Greeting Card Obsession

Squibknocket Cards: Brilliantly simple, wonderfully cute and memorably funny, but unfortunately no longer being made.

Another card, under Apologies, reads like this:

You Can't Squeeze The Toothpaste...

back into the tube.

What's said was said, and I deeply regret many of the things that came out of my mouth. Especially the part where I said you were only the second generation in your family to walk upright. Or wait, maybe that was another argument. Anyway, the point is that I was wrong. And I do apologize. I really don't much like being at odds with you.

This is a strange little thing to dwell on and I know this, but I think it might be because I thought I could easily get more and when I couldn't... well, obsess much? At first, I figured I couldn't find them because I wasn't trying hard enough. You can find anything on the web nowadays, right?

Surprisingly, I did find a few and a nice little update from the maker himself.

10/25/2007 Lane F. says: Sincere apologies for the winnowing supply of Squibnocket Cards. I've been a bit occupied over the past two years with a couple kids and an unexpected return to the advertising/design world. However, I'm not one to stand in the way of those who are Holy Grailing after a particular card. So if you were to let me know what card(s) you wanted, I suspect I could help you out. Send me an email at: lane.foard@mac.com. Oh, and thanks for doing your part to help further the Squibnocket Revolution there in your part of the world. -LANE FOARD, Squibnocket

Shattered in my hands

I'm a clumsy girl. On a normal day, you may find me stumbling over my own feet and then promptly scanning every direction to make sure no one saw me. I also may trip over words, drop items or slam unsuspecting body parts into doors. My fingers, hands, arms or feet carry the purplish blue battle wounds often.

This past week was rough and gravity was testing me. A few stumbles here and there, some dropped trinkets, followed by a miss aim of the doorway. I'm pretty sure the tall glass window next to the sliding glass door still has my face print on it.

Now mind you, the majority of these are sober moments. I don't fall this much when I'm intoxicated. Odd, I know.

So, the climax of the week was Sunday, when I was trying to take some dainty wine glasses back to their home on the wine shelf. Again, I was sober when this took place. Really, It's a short walk from the sink to the wine shelf and about two steps in, a glass begins to slip from my hand. I tried to make a quick gesture to prevent a tumble and when I did, the bulbous ends of the glasses met and shattered. They shattered in my hands.

It was a few cuts and stabs, nothing a couple of glow-in-the-dark Casper band-aids couldn't handle. Nothing to really complain about, but I'm excellent at complaining, even about minor boo-boos.

The walls are not very tall at all, my friend

The walls are not very tall and I can hear you.

Yes, I can hear you, you little potty-mouthed rooster. Fuck-a-doodle-doing from your cubicle at six in the a.m., almost daily.

It's a bit early and somewhat inappropriate for your dive-bar type of language. Your "Fuck this bitch," desktop cocktail with a "Sonofabitch," chaser.

My office is a typical Corporate American office. Grey fabric walls snapped together like Lego’s, placing desks back-to-back and side-by-side. The walls are tall enough to make you feel like you're in your own office, until someone walks by. If you are one of the lucky ones, who's cubicle resides in an area where there is minimal traffic, you can almost forget that other people are here. My cube is situated in one of those areas. I can see two other co-workers from my cubicle, but I'd have to turn around to do that. The other two co-workers can only be seen if I stand up. I rarely ever turn around or stand up, so I forget that they are there. I forget, until they make noise.

It's six a.m. and our system goes down, followed by a deep, elongated sigh and then foul language from the man sitting behind me. Mind you, our system goes down daily, so I can feel his frustration. Usually, he takes the words right out of my head, but I had always thought it was in bad taste to use such language in the workplace.

"We can hear you," grumbles the girl directly behind me, sharing the wall next to his.

"I'm sure you can, but this fucking thing never works!" Was his reply.

"I know you're frustrated, but try using your big boy words." I add to the conversation. He brushes me off with a wave of his had, without ever turning around.

Don't get me wrong I'm not offended. I've been known to throw a few colorful four-letter words around, but I do it outside of the office. Mostly in my car.

So, when did it become acceptable for corporate America to use curse words? Now, I'm not talking about curse words being exchanged in conversation between friends on break-time and it's not just this guy that sits behind me, it's being used in general work conversations on the floor. Outside of this small area that I sit in, I've heard others drop an S-bomb here or there and someone referred to themselves as a bitch during a meeting.

Did I just happen to get the most relaxed office in the world or do other offices work this way? I mean, why bother having us dress up and look uncomfortably professional, if we're going to talk as if we're waiting for our rounds at the bar.

Speak first, no time for thinking

Happiness is a warm cup, read the words on my coffee cup sleeve.

"Happiness is a warm cup, indeed," I agreed, out-loud.

"Pardon?" A quiet voice questioned over the gray, fabric, cubicle wall. Sometimes I forget that my desk doesn't have real walls.

"Oh, sorry, I was talking to my coffee." I said before thinking about how it would sound.

I tend to do this a lot. Speak first, think later. No harm has come of it yet, just minor embarrassing moments. Like, answering yes to my waiter when he asks "Soup or Salad?" After some thought my face flushes red as I realize there is no Super Salad, just my vague answer to a either or question.

Then there are the random moments where I plan to say one simple sentence and somehow the words get fused together. "Hey, same here," fumbles out of my mouth as “Hey'smear." There's no smooth way to play off an incoherent word jumble of a sentence. You just back that jumble train up and say it again, clearly, then wait for your friends to stop laughing at you.

Let us not forget the best of all: this bad little habit I have of repeating what I though I heard someone say, no matter how much it doesn't make sense.

Case in point.

I arrived at my friends’ apartment and she was on the phone, in the middle of what seemed to be an intense conversation. She motioned for me to come in and suddenly directed me to a jar of candy that she had sitting on her kitchen counter. Then she left the room.

I'm a bit of a sugar-junkie and knowing this, my friend kept a jar of candy in her apartment that she'd often use to lure me over, or in this case, keep me entertained while she was busy. I grabbed the jar and created a carpet-picnic of Smarties and Gobstoppers on her living-room floor.

Let me tell you, this was no brief conversation. She eventually ended the phone call and walked into the living room to find me sitting Indian-style, jar of candy tucked up against my body and a flock of candy wrappers circling my body.

"Christ-Almighty!" She exclaimed. She underestimated what I can do with a jar of candy in a matter of an hour.

"Crystal Nightie?" It didn't make sense, but I asked for clarification anyways.

"Crystal Nightie? What does that even mean? I said Christ-Almighty, you dork!" She said with a laugh.

We moved on past the incident, but "Crystal Nightie," still gets used in jest from time to time. That and the slew of other phrases I've blurted out, without thinking about how it sounded first.

I was starting to feel alone in this, because I am that one friend you know that does this. However, I was listening to the comedian Brian Regan, who had much to say about similar moments and felt the need to share:

Wanted: One Spacebaby Shirt and A Few Missing Friends

Some friends of late, I seem to have lost like an old favorite shirt. One day while folding laundry I stopped short and thought, "I haven't worn or even seen my black shirt that has the stylized fetus in space on the front. The one with the word Spacebaby strewn shamelessly across the breasts." Puzzled, I tried to recall the last time I saw the shirt, but my mind returned with blank memories. I lost you just like that.

I was unaware of the transition until it was well into months of silence between us. Two unreturned phone calls and a myspace message later, I realized that you had no desire to talk to me anymore. I thought back and remembered that we shared giggles over some cigarettes and red wine, last I saw you. I thought back and remembered that we had a heart to heart about love gone wrong during a 2 a.m. phone call. I thought back and remembered that I called to tell you that I made it home safely from your house and you promised to call back after your morning shower. That last one was four months ago. Still no phone call. That's a long shower. I lost you all just like that.

It's sad and unfortunate, but the optimist in me, somewhere, thinks that we can find our way back to friendship. It's the same optimist that thinks when I stop looking for my Spacebaby shirt; I'll serendipitously find it during a monthly hunt for my keys. I'm a hypersensitive girl, but I haven't cried, yet. Not yet. I do know, though, that if I get that Reason, Season or Lifetime, e-mail on it's yearly round through cyberspace, the denial will break, the heartache will swell and the tears will run free. I've lost you and I miss you all just like that.

Asking For It

I was heartbroken and almost accidentally drove off a cliff. I had a good friend sitting shotgun and scared as hell. Thelma and Louise ain't got nothing on me. The band Hole was spinning in the CD player, but was coming in low like a whisper in the back seat of my car. Turned down by my companion, Melissa, who urged me to concentrate.

Let me back up a bit. It was the beginning of summer and the day after being dropped by my first love. I was better off; he was an asshole who couldn't keep his eyes from wandering and his hands from traveling. The only problem was, I couldn't get my heart to follow my minds lead. I didn't feel better off. And my friend sitting shot gun, Mel? She had just nailed half of the guys in our circle of friends, trying to screw her memory-slate clean of the love she left back home, many states away. Apparently it wasn't working.

"I feel fine for a while and then all of a sudden, I get anxious and depressed for a full hour. One whole hour of feeling completely jacked up." Mel confesses.

"The hour of Jacked!" I repeated, feeling the twinges of anxiety myself.

"Let's just go for a drive and see where it takes us?" And that's how it began. One suggestion, followed by a winding road up through the back hills of San Juan Bautista, with angry chick music blaring from the car stereo. Two wayward travelers, trying to out-drive our thoughts.

Depression makes you adventurous and somewhat careless with your life. Not purposefully, the risks are just another means to distract yourself from your mind. So, when the opportunity to veer off the main road onto a graveled side road appeared, we took it. It was seemingly the road to a better view of the city lights.

We got halfway up the dirt road when I realized that the road was but merely a path and it narrowed the farther up we went. With the incline, at some point I couldn't see the road at all, just the front hood of my car. That's when the music got turned down. This was serious. I couldn't go forward anymore, because I couldn't even see if there was a forward, and the dust cloud I caused behind us made backing up a bit difficult.

"Ummm... I think I'm going to back-up. At least I'm positive that there's road there." I said, in a wavering, unsure tone.

"Take your time. I'll be here. . . pissing my pants."

Backing up when you can't see what your backing up on is tricky and straight is subjective, when you're on a winding dirt trail. When my back tire lost contact with the ground, I stopped short.

"Ok, new plan! I'm going forward..."

"Uh-huh." Mel's voice was seemingly calm, but her presence was panicked. She gripped onto the 'oh shit,' handle above the passenger side door and sat stiffly as the car began to roll forward.

At the top of the hill we both leaned forward and stretched our upper bodies in hopes of being able to see past the hood. There was a universe of dust surrounding my car now and the front headlights were superfluous. I hit the gas and my car thrust forward, back tires kicking up gravel, both of us clenching and cursing under breath. The car tipped and began rolling, then sliding downhill. With the headlights, highlighting the blanket of darkness in front of us and the speed at which my car jolted forward, it was hard to tell if we were still on a path or just going off the cliff side. I slammed on the brakes, gripped the steering wheel tight and my butt puckered, anticipating the worse. All of a sudden, the dust cleared and we were sitting on a rounded clearing of dirt, just off the main road. The car had made it to the other side.

We both exhaled deeply and when I turned to look at her, she had two cigarettes in her mouth and was rummaging around her purse for a lighter.

"Cut the engine for a minute." She suggested, in a mumble, cigarettes bobbing between her lips as she spoke. I turned the engine off, but left a bit of power running, so the low tunes could still be heard. She turned to me with a lit cigarette and I took it, I needed it.

We rolled the windows down and turned up the stereo to hear "Asking for it," coming in clear. Courtney Love was off-key and singing, " . . . if you live through this with me, I swear that I will die for you and if you live through this with me, I swear that I will die for you . . . "

"Ready to go -" I said, cutting Courtney off. The song following the situation made everything seem too surreal.

"More than ready." Mel was in agreement. "Somehow, I don't feel so jacked anymore."

"I would assume that near-death can do that to you." I mused.

"So, what do you want to do tomorrow?"

Get It Together, Girl

If you want to know what life was like without you,
it felt very drunk.

I spent a lot of mornings apologizing for the night before.
I'm still sorry for the mess I made on that car, in that house,
and the one I made of my life.

Life felt like an empty room in a very big house
like a churning stomach and a sleepless night,
like someone feeling very uncomfortable in her own skin.
The pain was cutting and the scars are deep.
Deep in my heart, in my memory, on my flesh.
I could still see the scars but when the pain was starting to fade,
it was a false recovery that I didn't realize, until now.

This all was due largely to the destructive distraction,
the boy I thought I was trying to save, but didn't need or want my saving.
How can I clean up someone elses mess,
when my very own mess was causing my head to spin.
Together we made one fantastic mess,
two people united by one subconscious downward spiral.

We were reckless . . .
no, wait, he was reckless and I went along for the ride.

He was a car crash into a train wreck
and I walked into his self-destructive behavior, like a bird aimlessly gliding into glass.

All I saw was clear skies -never the impending impact.

Tell me stories,
make promises out of lies,
feed me pills and fill me with false hope,
I was begging for it.

Please, save me from myself.

Sugary sweet hours of blissful zoning,
gave way for me to escape this world, myself,
my wreckless companion
and you.
Enough to make me think I was getting over you,
not just distracting myself from the hurt.

If you want to know what life was like without you,
it felt cheep and abusive.
It felt like I was looking for anyone to hurt me,
because I was tired of hurting myself.

It felt like bottom-shelf whiskey,
a dive-bar jukebox,
stripper dust and filth.
That dive of a place,
was starting to feel like home,
and the hazy drunkenness . . . comfortable,
as comfortable as a Pink Floyd song.
I wasn't thinking about you any more.
I didn't need you anymore, in that place.

If you want to know what life was like without you,
it felt like abandonment.
it felt like my distraction found solace
in the arms of someone with a warm bed and kind eyes.
It felt like alone would feel,
when your friends are tired of your drunken behavior.
It felt like a girl who wasn't even good enough
for a boy who's life is like a car crash into a train wreck.

Life felt like an empty room in a very big house
like a churning stomach and a sleepless night,
like someone feeling very uncomfortable in her own skin.
like a dive bar stool and 2am promises,
like tears in the bottom of a shot glass, crying "get it together girl."
get it together.
Get it together, girl.

If you want to know what life is like without you,
it feels like a cut of the flesh finally healing
and a sober morning.
It feels like a garage sale,
like the purging of all of your things.
It feels like an out of state move and a new apartment.
It feels like a new job and a fresh start.
Like a mess of a girl finally getting it together.