Patience.

Sometimes it's the small victories. For sure. For me. I find it hardest to be completely calm, especially when I'm frustrated or annoyed.

I always relate myself to this one Post Secret post card. I think of it often. It's a picture of a dog, jaws nearly unhinged revealing its teeth, jumping out of the water, which dramatically splashes all around its face. The caption is something like:

I'm envious of those who can hide how they feel.

It's one of those things I've wished on stars for... since I was old enough to realize that playing the "cool" routine would keep people off my back. Still, to this day, I can't get away with much. Whether it's the tone of my voice or the wrinkling of my eyebrow, my state is hardly opaque.

Now, don't get me wrong. It makes me honest, and I've grown to be a bit more in-control than say... my 6th grade self. I've also learned to embrace it most often. Both the excitement and the stormy me.

But today! I realized how much more patient I've been. Especially over the last few months, when shit has really hit the fan. I know it's a small step, a small victory, but I'm proud of it. Even just in this moment.

Less impulsive. Less reactive. More careful.

mt

Betrayal.

Some days are more beautiful than others for having your guts ripped out. You know?

National Poetry Month Loser

SLACKER!

Ah, I must say, I've been slacking on keeping up with so many poems. I'd like to blame it on the barrage of death, illness and the end of the term. Also, my newly rabid ukulele addiction. Any down time seems to be devoted to strumming and singing and pretending I know what I'm doing. Still, I'm not giving up on the poems. I think this bout of "Writer's Block" has come at a lame time, but I continue to push on.

Bukowski said: "Writing about writer's block is better than not writing at all."

Not sure if I agree... but I thought in honor of the month, I'd share a poem I've written during this mission. This was Day 12: A Broken Poem.

THE BILLIONTH BREAK-UP POEM

Clicking copy/paste

back-brain replaying how

she left me, left

the zipper down on us             too much

this deep-space kind of silence. Maybe

we didn’t need the finale, or

sitcom-grief of all those years

not-saying        counts, maybe,

for something. The same curtains

hang neon in windows where we

don’t sleep now. I don’t know

why I drive by, but some nights

it’s easier than trying to get

around it.

In the meantime, my assignment to all y'all poets and writers: write a poem today. Even if you aren't doing the challenge. My prompt to you, if you care to play...

Write a sonnet, or simply a 14-line poem, with the theme of "something you love too much." We all have one of those things—whether it's a person or a video game or a imported red wine. Go!

<3 p="">mt

Short. Sweet. But alive.

So after some nutty health issues and loss, I'm alive. Just sayin'. Through the events of the last few days, I've still been keeping up with this poem-a-day extravaganza.

Today's poetry prompt was to write a "tentative poem." I got hit with this image, you know. Sometimes I do that. I get a clear picture. It doesn't often make sense, but it's something. Like shadow puppets in my brain.

"Somewhere someone dreams of ellipses..."

I couldn't get it out of my head. I guess it's about fighting the routine, the mundane... keeping one eye out for a detour. Something jarring. Because if you catch a sip, even, of those sparks in between the layers of "filler"—days and days of work and obligation—it just might be enough to make it worthwhile.

I spent my whole life waiting impatiently for the next page, something to look forward to. I needed it to stay sane, to motivate me to fight. I needed that reason, remember?

Sometimes people fight the daily. Sometimes vanilla isn't enough. It's ok to need a detour. But. Patience.

That's what I need. That's what it's about.

Sleep now.
mt

The sky might, indeed, be falling...

Yesterday, I told D: "I think the world is trying to kill me."

It's nearly the end of March and besides meeting someone lovely, 2013 hasn't been so kind. I have come to realize, perhaps just admit aloud, that this year is just the lame sequel of 2012—and it's getting old. An extension of the shit storm, as it stands.

I could depress myself with the tally, the list of nasties I've encountered thus far, but I'll spare us all. But first, not without dump-trucking on you poor folk a brief synopsis of my weekend:

It began Friday with my work computer crashing, finding out that all is lost hard-drive-wise, and then my Gram's passing. The weekend ended with me pulling something in my back and becoming a near-invalid, twinging on the floor.

Loss isn't something I yet know how to process. I thought... maybe since I was hit with it early on that I'd have learned the ropes or something. But I haven't. I wish I could describe the way it feels in a way that makes it tangible, easier to choke down in the night when it hovers above me like a wet memory. But I don't have anything to strangle. Not yet.

There are bright things to look for—one of which being April, National Poetry Month. And guess what time it is again? Poem-a-Day Contest. I'm gearing up to get busy.

I thought it might be cool to share some poems on my blog, each day. We'll see! Maybe form poems [not mine.]

Anyone else doing anything for National Poetry Month? If not, try it out? It'd be a great way to start writing something. Even if they're haikus!

Wednesdays feel like hope,
sweltering and nondescript—
get over the hump.

There's my Wednesday poem. Enjoy! hahah.. feel free to share your haiku!
mt

Duke: Nothing to See Here

So, though I've exclusively bitched about this sort of thing in past posts, I've once again acquired a new hobby-slash-obsession. What's wrong with me? Typically, I can avoid such excitement by sprinting unobtrusively to the Fine Arts section of Michael's, eyes fixed straight ahead with no wandering glances. Maybe the Clearance aisle, if I'm tapping into a rare superhuman sort of self-restraint that day. Still. I have to be careful. It's not that I'm some Overachiever Bandit—it's just that I am "passionately curious," as Albert Einstein is said to have remarked [according to various pins on Pinterest that I've recently repinned.]

Anyhow, what black-hole ravenous activity has now peaked my interest? The ukulele, of course.

Who would've thunk it? After all these years, 27 to be exact, I have yet to pick up an instrument. You can count singing, I suppose. But since my highschool days, my vocals have disrupted only few venues: the shower; my car; the kitchen, from where Dexter runs with ears bent at the first note; somebody's house where I become overtaken with drunken nostalgia for my "Musical Years." You know. Never, really.

It's only going on the second week here of learning—I've had a cold ever since. But I've been pissing around and thought I'd put my guts on display for the world. Why not?

As an aside, it's a pretty accessible instrument. If you were looking for a new toy, I'd suggest it. I learned the chords on my own and have been downloading songs from the interwebs.



Please, make fun of me as you wish. Ha!
mt

Viva la Furby

Yes, I know this news is about a week-or-so old, but I can't for the life of me figure out why it was news at all. For several reasons.

On February 21st, 2013, The Tribune Review reported that a local Pittsburgh woman was arrested for hitting her boyfriend with a Furby. Yes, kids, you heard me: a Furby. And if it's not bad enough that this big-eyed, fuzzy-bodied robot made the news, it seems the suspect threw said toy at her boyfriend because of "a negative post he made about her on Facebook." Not only is this laughable on its own, but please, please, please click the link and check out this woman's mug shot. PLEASE.

I don't know about you, but there are SO many questions I have:

A. WHY would this man find it necessary to report his girlfriend for a flying Furby?
B. WHO in the hell still owns a Furby?
C. DID the Furby actually hurt the man?
and...
D. WHAT could the Furby possibly have done to deserve this?

The Trib article tells us that when police arrived at ONE IN THE MORNING, the man had some red marks on his face and a small, bleeding cut that didn't require medical attention.

Furby - 1    Stupid boyfriend - 0

I recall sitting in the waiting room for a dentist appointment when this tidbit came over the airwaves—followed closely by a disgruntled granddaughter. Apparently she was angry that her 104-year-old grandmother had to "lie" on Facebook about her age, since the digits only go up to 99, pressing Facebook founders to change this little nugget.

Once again, more questions. But I'm not even going there. What's the world coming to?

As a side note, Furbys have always creeped me the fuck out. I don't know if it was the fact that it often had drowzy drugged up eyelids, or that it spoke some demonic, sing-songy language, or maybe just that it used to wake me in the middle of the night while I was trying to sleep: dee du li da.


Nobody's safe anymore...

mt