Magenta

Getting up at 5 a.m. for the gym rarely has its immediate rewards, but on Monday as I was flipping through the channels of hideous morning TV, I caught an episode of the Golden Girls.

If there is one thing you haven't learned from my blog of reflections and rambles... It might be my love for these ladies. The death of each Golden "Girl" felt personal, for example. I grew up watching them, but I also own every season (along with the Lifetime Intimate Portrait of each actress). It sounds like I'm bragging. Kind of. 

Anyhow, it was the episode where Blanche began being friendly with Dorothy's ex, Stan, and in turn, she and Dorothy had a bit of a blowout. At the end, the two made up in their cheesy sitcom way, but then Blanche said something pretty spot on.

I'm always using colors to describe how I'm feeling. Not sure if it's a painter thing or just the inability to give words to emotions. 

"Magenta…that’s what I call it when I get that way. All kinds of feelings tumbling all over themselves. Well you know, you’re not quite blue, because you’re not really sad. And although you’re a little bit jealous, you wouldn’t say you’re green with envy. And every now and then you realize you’re kind of scared but you’d hardly call yourself yellow…I hate that feeling. Just hate it. And I hate the color magenta. That’s why I named it that. Magenta. No way to really explain it, but fortunately between friends you don’t have to.”

 
I suppose today I'm feeling "magenta." But not so much in a bad way as a confused way. A little hot, a little loud, a little chaotic. I don't know.

What color are you feeling today? Do you ever feel magenta?

Just wondering if I'm the only goofball (along with Blanche) that puts colors to feelings.

mt

Feeling lightning

You ever just look at something, a scene or an object, or maybe just the colors of light crawling through your window and get a feeling? A big feeling?

I can't really explain it, but in an attempt to capture what it is I'm feeling, I write poetry. Sometimes poetry doesn't make sense, people may think. It's "obscure," or "cryptic," or "hard to follow." For me, though, poetry is a way to conjure a feeling in me and in others... And sometimes those feelings are neither logical nor linear. 

A good part of my academic writing career was spent trying to untangle it all, to make phrases and terms more everyday, to put a story or narrative to it (the feelings), but what I have allowed myself (post-college) is to just... write. I have silenced the committee, somewhat, and learned to trust what I write. But this isn't just poems. 

A couple years ago, a barista friend of mine from Starbucks asked to use my friend and I as her thesis project. She came over, made us doodle or color or paint, all the while allowing us to just be, just emote. Before that moment, I had rarely given myself the chance to draw or paint from me—instead I copied and mimicked the world around me. 

Now don't get me wrong, I have loads of respect for those who can paint as detailed and realistic as a photograph, but this is the very thing that kept me from painting and doodling more. I wasn't pressured to create an exact replica, but permitted to explore my own creativity. Wow! 

I can only assume this is what happened with my writing. Once I was able to transcend the lines of reality (along with my own version of it) words became completely unfettered for me. It seemed boundless. 

Today as I left my office, that 8 to 5 home-away-from-home, I caught a feeling. It was something in the way the sun, lower than usual, hit the glass door, the golden-orange of it. I don't know how to explain the feeling. A cup of nostalgia. It took me somewhere. It reminded me that the world isn't so linear, isn't so black and white.

I can trace the world around me with a sharp pencil, memorize inches and hues, or I can take all that lightning in my chest and use it to shake the world, make it my own. 

I hope you do too. I hope you wrangle your own storms and stop trying to chase everyone else's. 

mt

Without

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Two-grief kind of day, maybe?

Sometimes it feels like someone pulled the bones from my body. Like a walking (somehow?) jellyfish. Sometimes I don't know how to stand up, don't know how to breathe. I forget what beautiful looks like. Isn't that horrible? Sun or rain, I don't care to be outside. I don't care to be a part of anything.

I guess it is that finite. Death. And that world doesn't interest me, permanence, black and white. It's forever that we all want, right? For everything to exist in a higher plane, for a better reason. And I think... for that year and a half it did. Finally. I had the feeling of "more." And I'm not ready to go back to what this is. This is no substitute or alternative. Not after the knowing.

It sounds dead-ended. It sounds desperate and depressed. I'm ok. I'm living, doing that thing everyone else is doing. Yes, sometimes feeling like a zombie, sometimes a human shed of its skeleton.

If I could only be empowered by this, take the lessons and the love and build on that to go forward, but those moments are fleeting. Minutes. Until the memories take over. And I can be in mid-sentence or mid-laugh and my guts fill up my brain and then... fuzz cloud.

How can I live now? How do I live now? How do I hold up everything, keep it together? I just haven't got a clue. And this writing, only here...

This is me trying to figure everything out.

xo
mt

Screaming

I wish she were alive. I wish it every moment I get to think. It's exhausting.

I guess it isn't wishing. It's more like pining. It's more like the grief that everyone keeps telling me about like it's a fucking diagnosis boiled down to atoms and gravity. Listen. I'm angry a little. I'm angry because I know everyone is just waiting for me to get over this. I'm supposed to take comfort in the fact that people die and I was lucky to have her for the time I did, blah blah. You know. Canned stuff. 

When I open my mouth, I have to be careful I don't let her name out. Sometimes it slips because, even when she was alive, her name was always on my tongue. We had adventures together. Big talks. Epic breakdowns. Vulnerability. Starry nights. Just me, her and the fish. And the moon always watching. 

But I know it gets old. I know because I've watched people grieve. I've grieved myself. And with the same silly expectations I place on others, I place on myself: move on already. Right. I'm going between logic and heartache like it's a fucking tennis match. And my brain, like I said, is tired. 

I will hear everyone's words. I will appreciate people thinking of me, the hugs, the text-message checkups. But it will stop. It will be a few months down the line. And that stuff stops and you feel like you're supposed to stop too. 

I remember when my dad died, over 10 years ago, everyone was pretty forthcoming with the support. Father's Day was a big one. Year after year, I regrieved. And friends who thought of it would text. My mom would check in. It was nice. Not necessary but kind. After a while, I came to expect it. Because, just like all those kids out there remembering their dads, someone was remembering me. It was like celebrating no dad, the void that was always licking at my heels. 

But then it stopped, slowly. And you know, this year. No one said a word to me. And when people did talk, they didn't mention it. Like somehow he evaporated and time has "healed" me. I always want to scream, though, like a selfish asshole... "Hey! IT STILL HURTS! IT STILL MATTERS JUST AS MUCH AS BEFORE!"

The screaming never makes it out. 

And now. I guess, I'm still screaming. Because of a loss, but also a lifetime of reliving it. Maybe that's why I'm angry. Over and over. Grief. 

The big of it

"You never felt love so big? I love so hard..."

"I guess I just don't understand. I'm sorry," she said.

"Let me see. You know how you feel when you look up at the sky? All those stars, the moon, the planets?" I asked.

"Yeah, it's just beyond words. Amazing," she looked up again in the dark, sighing.

"That's how I feel when I see you. Every time."

You just...

Yeah. You just... keep going?

You just... wake up, get out of bed, take a shower, get dressed, get in the car, go to work, work, go home... and this cycle continues. It continues because this is what you do. And this is how you stay alive. The bare minimum. 

Since she died: I got a chapbook published. I rode in an airplane. I downloaded A Fine Frenzy's album. I finished four paintings. I wrote two poems. I learned a new song on the ukulele. I had a birthday. 

And everything before—the old receipts, pay stubs, shoes I bought—are reminders that labels themselves as such in my head. Like. Anything before July 22nd was safe. I was ok. No matter what I was doing, you know. Even if I didn't get sleep or I had a bad day at work, my life was x58027 better. I long to go back there. I mean, it hasn't even been a month yet. 

People keep saying how I just have to go on, "move forward," that this is life and it will hurt less with time. And this sympathy in a can, as my roommate so aptly puts it, is nothing I don't know. I've been through this, remember? That is why I don't want to do it again. I know. I know. I know. 

Then, there are moments where I catch a big wind and my lungs fill deep and I am grateful. We had one of the most amazing friendships that I've ever known. We saw the beauty in things—like sunsets and songs—but we also saw the beauty in one another. I said: "We are two mirrors facing each other." That kind of forever. And I mean it. 

Don't think I don't know how dramatic this sounds. But imagine it. Now imagine it better than that. And this isn't some realization I'm having now. I had it all along. If I can take comfort in anything, it's that I always told her. All the things. All the time. And she agreed. Fate. 

And so now is where I accept, allow her to get farther and farther away. "You're getting smaller, getting smaller, but I still see you" (Jimmy Eat World). 

This is me. Being big. Grieving. Not knowing how much longer it'll hurt like this... 

Breathing. 

A certain grief

"I'm not smart. I just know a lot of words," said the me in my dream. 

I come back to this quote so often. It's rare that I remember direct quotes from my dreams, but when I do, they usually stick for a while. For instance, a dream quote from a few years back that had me scared and paranoid for months. A little boy jumped on my bed in the dark [in Dream Land, of course]: "The devil will be asking for your soul soon." Whaaaaaa?! I bought my Scion a month later, so I equated this to my Toyota loan. Eek!

But when it comes to smarts and all, I agree with my unconscious admission: I'm not. Some things just don't sink in, you know? Like that paragraph I have to read three times before I get it. 

There are moments, of course, when I feel intelligent—confident about what I'm saying or doing. Mostly it's in my language or the way I can [sometimes] articulate myself. What I'm saying is: speaking/writing is the only mode in which I feel like I may have an IQ higher than 65. Real talk. 

And we can call this moment Exhibit 94, 509. This not sinking in.

As you all might know, life has the tendency—especially as of late—to shit all over me. You, like I, may be thinking: Another bad spot? Really?

I say "spot," because I hope it'll pass. I say "hope," because I'm not certain. I was certain a week and a half ago that my best friend [mother, "favorite" and soul sister] was too busy to text me. I was certain she was wrapped up in work and the everyday bustle of her world, which had become rather stressful as of late. I was certain she'd text her usual "G'nite, madam" or at least send me the Sun and Moon emoji. But she didn't. For two nights in a row. I was starting to get a little frustrated.

But then I got a call last Thursday at work, 4:12 p.m. She had a heart attack and had been unconscious since late Monday night. With her full heart, childlike curiosity and hard-assed grip on the world, I was certain she would outlive us all. I was certain that with my carelessness, my clumsiness, my incessant need for productivity and the way it outdoes my need to be healthy, my rollercoaster of melancholy and triumph, I'd be the one in the hospital bed prematurely. But it wasn't me.

After the call, I found myself in the car—rushing and crying and screaming and navigating through Pittsburgh traffic to Allegheny General Hospital. I sat on the Parkway, a standstill, sobbing to the million memories that hit me, a slideshow:

Remember the time you sat by the bay in Cape Cod and watched the sky until early morning, where you cut limes for her rum and refused her another drink at 4 a.m.

The color teal.

Standing atop Mt. Washington at sunset and dancing in the orange light, puffed up by winter coats, knitted scarves and gloves without fingers. 

Singing "You're so Vain." 

Remember the glass bottle full of tiny shells from the Dead Sea. 

Watching her watch her Koi swim below. 

The time you mocked her easy lifestyle and told her you'd come visit her even if she lived in a trailer park—even if the time you spent together was playing 500 Rum and eating Chef Boyardee. And to prove it? You brought her a can the next time you came over.

My brain gets the best of me. And since this moment, it hasn't stopped with the snapshots, the words, the smell of plastic and death in her hospital room. I smell it everywhere. I realize now, more than before, she is everywhere. Maybe it is the fear of forgetting. Like with my dad. The years have come quick and with it, the memories have faded.

For a week, everything was underwater. With the amount of crying I did [both angry-at-the-world and end-of-the-world tears], my eyes were swollen to half-visibility. I was certain I had been emptied of tears. I was certain there was nothing left. I was certain she'd wake up now that her heart was fixed. It was only a matter of time. 

For days, her family and I watched her lifeless, but warm, body. We smiled; we cried; we laughed; we prayed; we hushed her grandchildren as they ran around the ICU Waiting Room in an oblivious boredom with Twizzlers. The doctors gave terrible news. The doctors told everyone it "wasn't looking good." The doctor told me personally: "She's very sick."

So we prayed harder. I painted the picture of all the light in my body leaving mine and entering her. I was certain this would make her wake up, like in a movie.

But she was showing more signs of regression. Her pupils ceased to dilate; she stopped reacting to pain. And her brain, they said, was swelling and there was nothing they could do. She went too long without oxygen causing "irreparable damage" [a phrase I still cannot get out of my head, the way the doctor said it with brown protruding eyes, head down.] I was certain they were mistaken and that the Universe wouldn't let this happen. It couldn't. Not to any of us that stood by her bed sobbing and holding her limp hands, to the us that needed her, that could still hear her laughter ringing in our ears, could find pieces of her—like evidence—everywhere.

I picked at beige colored cafeteria food for days trying to imagine tomorrow.

Thank you for reading this. I know it's "too soon" to write about—a writing instructor would say. But I have to. I want to remember all of it. Even this fresh grief.

I don't know. I think I'm stupid, maybe. Because it's been a week since she passed and I'm still waiting to wake up. I'm still trying to bargain with the world like a trade-off. I just don't want to go on. Maybe I'm stupid. Because I still don't get it. I'm certain now that I don't want to.

Technology: Making it easier to break your heart

It makes sense, right? Now with the forever-reach of the interwebs, breaking your own heart is not only easier, but more efficient. 

Have you ever Internet-stalked your ex? Re-read your own blog from years ago? How about plotted horrendous events on your Facebook timeline?

Listen. I'm pretty good at snapping my black heart to bits all on my own. I don't need visuals. Or the aid of some Internet spiders spinning the web of my life into a tragedy. 

The gossip train just gained some ground. And practically everyone I know has a story about it. 

Apparently this post has no real point. Maybe a lesson somewhere. Such as: what if we extended all of our energy only on the things in our lives that give back: jobs, friends, family, hobbies. Enough with the soul-sucking white screen of the Internet. Namely, the entranced way we end up on pages and profiles we needn't be. 

Talk about epiphanies. 

mt

Doctor's office blues

Ah. Is there anything more obnoxious than waiting in the lobby of the doc, only to be taken into a room by a nurse, cuffed up, poked at, questioned... and then left for like 20 minutes in the small, sterile, plasticky-smelling room waiting for the doctor (i.e. your fate)?

Listen. I'm not expert on home decor or medical solace, but these posters haven't changed since I was 18. There's nothing glaring at me but the see-through jar of oversized Popsicle sticks, a "Cover Your Cough" poster printed out on an 8.5 x 11 and the ugly, scribbled on "What Is Your BMI?" chart reminding me, disappointingly, that I am "overweight. 

So. With all of this in mind, by the time doc gets here, I'm ready to jump ship. Fuck. 

To add to the glamour of this visit, coming here to switch anti-depression meds, I get asked if I want my "living will." Hahaha. Talk about being faced with my own mortality. I say. Do not recessitate! 

How much does a hipster weigh?

Yesterday's Photo-A-Day May prompt was: Someone who inspires you...

My first reaction is always: ATWOOD! So I was creepin' (as usual) on the great interwebs and found this stellar interview with her. I like it. I like the questions and her short, quirky responses. She's loveable in most every way.

Not only was I inspired by her answers, but I was inspired by the questions, and so... like in the old days when questionnaire-type blog posts were socially acceptable, I decided to answer for myself. See what the lovely Atwood and I have in common. (:

This interview first appeared in The Guardian on October 28th, 2011. The author: Rosanna Greenstreet.

MY INTERVIEW

When were you happiest?
Who's to say? Life just keeps getting harder, and so life always seems best or happiest in the past. Maybe.

What is your greatest fear?
Losing the marbles I have left.

What is your earliest memory?
Waddling about with a cast up to my hip, trying to get on the couch.

What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
My restlessness. Not the productive kind, the other.

What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Contagious, jealousy-laden self-loathing.

What is your most treasured possession?
Just one? I suppose my jump drive (with all my writing!)

What would your super power be?
Saving all the people. Or invisibility. I'd love to watch people. Creepy.

What makes you unhappy?
Being bombarded.

Image thanks to: blogs.discovery.com

What do you most dislike about your appearance?
Chubs.

If you could bring something extinct back to life, what would you choose?
Woolly Mammoth. Hell yeah.

Who would play you in the film of your life?
Someone sassy. And awkwardly cute... until she opens her mouth. Can it be a cartoon? Daria.

What is your favourite word?
"And/&"—which is oddly enough, Atwood's favorite word. CRAZY! It's nearly infinite.

What would you wear to a fancy dress party?
A tux, duh. With a bowtie. Black. 

Is it better to give or to receive?
To give. I'm bad at receiving. In all ways.

Which living person do you most despise?
I don't know, actually. I suppose I'm annoyed primarily by conservatives and their ignorant hatred. But a single person? Nah.

Who would you invite to your dream dinner party?
Shakespeare, Margaret Atwood, Tina Fey, Hilary Clinton, Maura Tierney, Tori Amos... shit, I gotta stop somewhere.

hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com —best EVAR!!1

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

Um... "all the things." As in: "Yes, I do all the things." Or... "Have you cleaned all the things?" And... "I want to buy all the things!"

If you could go back in time, where would you go?
Civil War era. The Underground Railroad fascinates me. Go, Harriet!


How do you relax?
If you knew me, you'd know this is nearly impossible. But the ocean does it sometimes.

What is the closest you've come to death?
Geez, I don't know. When you're sensitive, near-death experiences are a weekly occurrence. Hm. A wheelbarrow flying at my car on a back road, 2009.

What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Probably becoming a professor. Mostly because I was absolutely terrified and had planned on spending my life just dreaming of teaching. Otherwise, losing 70 pounds. Maintaining a mostly healthy diet/exercise routine.

How would you like to be remembered?
Clearly I'm not famous, but I'd like to remembered for being passionate, funny, selfless and determined. That's kind of generous, huh? Ok. Someone just remember I liked ice cream.

What is the most important lesson life has taught you?
To swim. Every struggle is a wave. Just keep remembering that it'll pass. Oh, and CoCo Wheats—no matter how catchy the ditty—does not taste as amazing. Hardly. Cocoa.

Where would you most like to be right now?
Nags Head, NC. Familiar but foreign. The Atlantic always sounds good.

Tell us a joke
How much does a hipster weigh? An Instagram.

Feel free to post and respond. Would love to hear some responses!
mt

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

Are we there yet?

I decided to splurge.

Chinese food, in particular the Chinese food buffet, is a horrible idea for someone like me. Not only do I have issues with indulging in tasty food until my stomach feels like it's housing a village of overweight ninjas, but eating anything fried and delicious tends to kill me—no matter the amount.

But on Sunday, for the hell of it, I decided it was time to partake. The point of my story, leaving out the proceeding belly rumbles and loosening of my belt [and food coma], is that I received this fortune:

Thanks to Instagram!

You are almost there.

At any other point in my life, thus far, I might have tucked the greasy scrap into my wallet and called it a day [I collect fortunes], but I think maybe this Asian voodoo is onto something.

Last year, as I've spoken about before, was a helluva roller-coaster ride, mostly stemming from my lack of sleep and sustenance. Still. There are down days and broken moments—shit, I wish I could say I've completely "recovered." But you know what? I think I need those days; we all do, maybe. It makes the sun brighter on the flip. I got it. Cliche or not.

I've been thinking a lot about balance and "getting there," so it comes as no surprise that this fortune hit me. Almost. The punchline of my life lately: while most of my friends and coworkers consciously work on trying to be more organized, more on top of things, more responsible, less sleepy and less lazy... I'm trying to do the opposite. What do I mean?

• I see a piece of lint or two on the floor. My gut reaction is to fall to my knees and begin a 10-minute journey across my bedroom floor, with an eye at floor-level, picking up fuzz and hair until I acquire a mass large enough to be a tumbleweed. And now? I try to ignore it. I pretend it isn't there, reminding myself I can run the vacuum cleaner when I am not in a rush to get somewhere or do something. Take that, OCD!
• My roommate asks me to watch a movie. While I typically decline or say "yes," but gather up 900 things for me to do as the movie plays... I've been trying to do it. You know. Watch TV, just watch... not attempt to do 19 other things simultaneously. This is still in the works. I've noticed, though, that I have been actually attentive enough to understand the gist of movies lately. So there's that. Suck it, Oppressing Need for Productivity!
• It's 10:00 p.m. and I'm yawning. No! This is, perhaps, my worst fear! Becoming one of those people who go to work, go home, eat dinner, watch TV and go to bed...at 9:00! The typical me might have brewed up some coffee began a late-night regime of caffeine and cigs, but instead, I've been trying to listen to my body; you know, get more than four hours of sleep per night. See, there are things I like to do in the eve, namely creative ventures. Now, I haven't been closing my eyes at 10, but I have been settling in before midnight. This is a start! Go fly a kite, Self-Induced Insomnia!

So I'm almost there, huh? I like it. I really do. I feel like a freak for trying to relax, trying to be lazy sometimes... but. It's nice [and necessary!]

Any resolutions/goals for you all coming to fruition in 2013? Tell me I'm not the only one who picks lint off of my carpeting!

Best,
mt

Art-drunk & Inspired: Local artist Gabe Felice makes memories at Headkeeper

Last eve, at Headkeeper in Greensburg, Gabe Felice had his gallery opening. Sweetness! This kid has it going on as an artist, man. No joke. Sometimes I wonder if he's been peeking in at my brain and painting it. His art is bold, intricate and nearly intoxicating: lines, colors and distinct faces that peek at you from everywhere. Go Gabe!

Along with the surreal nature of Gabe's abstract musings, the night seemed just as fantastical with an interesting mash-up of banjo and electric guitar—that you couldn't take your eyes from—and a man giving free tarot card readings.

Cuban-inspired pizza with diced pickles! Swoon-worthy!

Headkeeper, located in downtown Greensburg, PA, is a local tapas bar with a tasty, ever-changing gourmet menu and a wall of over 600 kinds of beer, both imports and domestics. I won't lie, the wall of beer is what had me hooked since the dawn of its inception. Hey, I like options: buffets, a plethora of Pandora radio stations, t-shirts in every color, a draw spilling over with pens. It's true!

Since its inception, this dreamy hangout with its industrial decor, colorful culinary creations and all-around sweet vibe has really given Greensburg a shove in the right direction. To think, just a few years ago, my friends and I were stopping by the same locale [the adjacent six-pack shop] to pick up 40's of Mickey's. These days, Headkeeper hosts art shows, live entertainment and even beer-tasting events. We really got lucky with this one, fellow Greensburgers.


On a more personal note, one of the highlights of the night for me was getting my cards read.

Image from the Rider-Waite deck.

I've read cards since high school, so I mean, I'm no newb to such things. But! To have someone else read them is always much more beneficial. Besides, we all have different energies, right?

I am the moon! Mister tarot reader tells me it's my "super power." I've been telling my friends this for, like, a year, at least. Even if I've got the fire of the sun, Leo, in me, I'm mostly moon. I think Atwood's poem, "Tricks with Mirrors," is a great way of highlighting some of the negativity I feel about being "the moon." 

"Don't assume it is passive/ or easy, this clarity/ with which I give you yourself." —Atwood

He made some good points, though: the phases; the fact that the moon is great at observing patterns—a helpful way to learn from the cycles of life and myself. Still, the moon's secretive otherworldly darkness and ability to reflect the brightness of others is where my real truth lies.

So what?

A little nugget of validation is all. That and lots of "truths" that eve. I suppose that was the most lively Sunday night in a long time: mystical insight, gabs with friends, colorful art staring back at you and a boy beating sounds from a banjo.

mt

Inspired on a drive

It's where all my big thoughts happen. The car. For some, it's the shower. For others, it's right before sleep. Either way, it's always inconvenient. Am I right? Tonight, as I drive, my brain fills up like a birthday balloon. Don't worry. I'm being safe. Talk-to-text helps.

A former professor, dear friend and [now] collegue—what an honor!—Lori Jakiela asked me to talk to

her blogging class about my job. During my full-mouthed spiel, I realized how incredible we are. Writers. Or: people who spend their time gushing, thinking about what people need/want/wish for. I know. Crazy to articulate, but just... some of the most incredible creatures I know are writers. Why? Because they have a greater understanding of things: the subtleties of culture, the depth of our interactions, colors and light and all the while, a meticulous eye on themselves.

Writers take big gulps of the world and hiccup beauty. Simply put. And seeing these young ones so open and excited about writing—well, that's not something I get from my Comp gig. Most of my students are finding ways to dodge my two-and-a-half-hour night class. It's obligatory, a required course, and so one might expect that they'd run flailing in the other direction.

But what is it about the aspiring that is so damn... inspiring? I'm by no means an expert; I mean, I've got oodles of experience now, writing and editing. But I never feel "complete." Is that a writer thing? Maybe it's like when I write the best poem in the whole-wide world, and then the next day, I read it again only to find it might be the worst poem in the world. Ha! It's frustrating. To never be all-the-way good. But that's why we keep going, right? It's become some sort of a catalyst.

But that's just it. You can never be too good at writing. Hell, you can never be too good at anything when it comes down to it. But since I was going on about lists and how to simplify for the reader, catch their attention, I thought I'd make one of my own.

Orwell gave me some of the greatest advice, and so this list is a mash-up of that and my own experience. While all of these tips aren't relevant to every type of writing, I compiled a more encompassing list—one that I feel covers the basics, you know? I hope you enjoy! [And if you have any to add, leave me some words!]

TIPS FROM A SOMEWHAT SUCCESSFUL WRITER:

1. Read. This is something I can say and say and say, have had profs say and say and say, and still... one must discover for his or herself—reading will inspire. But moreover, reading will help you to understand your own thoughts, style, voice more aptly. Good books or bad books, they will help. So just do it. Don't argue!
2. Find your big league. This kind of  goes along with the last one. Find the writer(s) that makes the hairs on your arm stand up. For me, Margaret Atwood embodies the very style that I'd hope to someday achieve; even her prose is poetic. Sometimes I carry her around with me in my pack for inspiration.
3. Invent your own language. Don't re-run tired words and phrases, those you hear every day. Make it new. Need a metaphor? An analogy? An image? Make up your own. This is an especially great way to introduce humor, but it isn't necessary to be funny. Fresh words. Fresh thoughts. Uniqueness is key.
4. Short & sweet. Don't we all love to show off a little? Some of us have great honkin' vocabularies, where we make sport of words like "loquacious" or "parsimonious"; no matter how seamless, words like these are off-putting to the average reader—use as few of them as possible. Keep things succinct, in general. Sentences, paragraphs, all of it. The world is impatient, but more than that—it will make you use more powerful words and constructions.
5. Revisit aloud. Self-editing isn't easy. My advice? Don't just re-read your work, but read it OUT LOUD. That's it. Open your mouth, say the words... does it sound right? Hide in a closet or a bathroom if you have to [but watch for that dastardly echo!] It also helps to give yourself a day or two in-between, an intermission. Like I told Jakiela's class: imagine that mindset you have when you invite someone to your house for the first time. Make that an important "someone." You know that feeling when they walk in for the first time and you sort of envision your home as he or she is seeing it, for the first time. Suddenly, every little spot on the carpet and every book covered in dust stands out like it's been spotlighted. Get there.
6. What you see is what you get. Let's face it—the public has turned into a lusty-eyed pack of big cats, hungry for aesthetically pleasing visuals. It's like we've suddenly snapped back to that age where we more apt to flip through a picture book than read. Look at how violently Pinterest has taken off! No one has to get TOO involved. Just play with pictures! The lesson in this: clean up your blogs; clean up your webpages; clean up your form on the page. People are more likely to read something that LOOKS good. Sad, but true. Inserting funny pictures helps. Ha!
7. Stop. Drop. & Write. This little nugget is more like lifestyle advice. As I was saying above, inspiration isn't always convenient. Because of this, I find myself jotting things down in parking lots, at stop signs and in coffeeshop queues. Keep paper and a pen handy at all times—stash some in your car if you have to—but don't shut that thing up inside you that is urging you to expel. Even if it means being late to your friend's wedding. [Oops!]

I'm going to end there. I could go on and on, but... [:

mt

Verse-fil & "Things"

Ever since the dawning, or near-dawning of Livejournal [y'all remember that one?] I've been following a Poem-A-Day blogger by the name of exceptindreams. While I don't check-in every day, I catch myself going there for inspiration often. It's always good to get a mix of words—words you might not find sifting through your typical venues. Get outside of your little world, you know?

What I love about this particular poetry blog is that most posted poems seem more modern than not, which, for a hep cat like myself, is sort of a breath of fresh air. It's not that I don't dig the classics, but it's like music, you know? You want someone to show you something fresh, new. After you've had the same song on repeat for lifetimes, you want a new beat to dance to.

What prompted this post is my coming across a poem there. For my love of Mars and this simple, yet stunning, idea of looking from the outside in—I'm posting this nugget by Wyn Cooper. I've been fascinated with space for forever, but only within the last 5 years have I been so... consumed? Mars is one of my favorites. I fell in-love with Mars after happening upon a National Geographic photo: a tiny white sun setting in blue hues. How small the sun was! I promptly taped it to my wall, rising and falling near it for years.

But those aren't the only reasons for this post. That poem stirred something in me for other reasons. About a week or more ago, I was having quite the conversation with a friend's husband. We were all out to dinner waiting to stuff our yaps at Max & Erma's when I asked:

"So, let's say you didn't have any kids or anyone dependent on you that way... would you travel the world's first mission to Mars, knowing that you wouldn't be coming back? You would be—hopefully—gleaning tons of insight about space and helping advance our knowledge and technology, but... it's a suicide mission. You can't come back when it's all over."

I got quite the look for this one.

"What, am I stupid?" he blasted from across the table. "What a stupid question! Why in the hell would I want to do that?!"

I tried to explain that it would probably be incredible, even just the experience: sites and sounds and feelings. Still, he had a pretty cross look on his face.

"Well, would you?" he asked, turning it around on me.

"Yes." And then I mumbled something sarcastic about having a football field named after me or something.

This isn't the only fight we've had over a dinnertime discussion. In fact, we spent days arguing, stopping then picking back up at our next encounter, about why "I don't want to be rich." Once more, I got the what-are-you-stupid? face.

"The only people you ever hear saying that they don't want money are poor people!" he spat.

"Not true. There is more to life than money. Yeah, it would be nice to be more comfortable and less stressed come bill time, but I know myself well enough to know that kind of excess would depress me."

"Then you buy drugs to make you happy! You can afford it!" was his answer.

I've got a whole diatribe in me. Trust me. And I want so badly to calm this indignant heat in me over his stereotypical "male" response, but just explaining it here has me all fiery again. Spare me the lecture about being an ignorant and sexist ass for blaming it on his "maleness," because there are reasons that stereotypes are stereotypes, as my roommate would say.

Cliche as it is: there's more to life than things. This isn't to say I don't enjoy "things"; however, I know my limits. I know that my want of things—whether they are gadgets, careers or personal goals—keeps me determined and pushing. I need to have "want."

That said, anyone who'd like to help pay for my mountain-sized debt from school, please find me on PayPal. I'll repay in doodles and kisses.

Best,
mt

"Mars Poetica"
Wyn Cooper

Imagine you're on Mars, looking at earth,
a swirl of colors in the distance.
Tell us what you miss most, or least.

Let your feelings rise to the surface.
Skim that surface with a tiny net.
Now you're getting the hang of it.

Tell us your story slantwise,
streetwise, in the disguise
of an astronaut in his suit.

Tell us something we didn't know
before: how words mean things
we didn't know we knew.

Don't count the stars, she says...

"Everything about you is extreme."

This is what the tarot-card reader told me a few months back. "No shit, lady," is what I wanted to say, but instead wore a smug grin, the occasional laugh escaping. I tried to hide my disbelief while I took notes in my book. I wrote everything. Extreme...

So what?

This is a question I'm often jotting in the margins of student papers. It's so easy to use heavy words, concepts really, without definition: words without the picture-frame-like backs to hold them up. But she was right. Everything. The broad works here.

I feel a chapter ending. I feel... confused. I feel like I don't have many chapters left to go if I keep burning through them so quickly. One person can only do so much. And I know it in my heart, yet feel I need to be superwoman. Even if I were—cape-clad and toting otherworldly powers—it still wouldn't be enough.

On Tuesday, I left class and walked to my car alongside a very kind student of mine. She is from a middle eastern country, and so, startled by the bright eye of the moon [as always] I turned to her and asked if there were any myths or stories about the moon in her country.

"Sorry. I'm just sort of preoccupied with the sky a lot."

She understood and stopped at the top landing of the cement stairs, our unspoken point of departure: "Let me think... no, but there is something with the stars."

At this point, I may have been drooling. Something about the universe just does it for me. I guess I'm both THAT simple and THAT complex.

"My grandpa always warned me not to count the stars. I don't know what, but something bad would happen. I always wanted to, but was too afraid to look for too long."

After some later goose-chase online, I found what I was looking for: http://rosmee.wordpress.com/2009/09/02/count-the-stars-dhofar-sinkhole-shihait/

One blogger had an answer. While it is a fantastical folktale or not, I gleaned my own truth. What is the moral? What am I to learn? [The exact topic I've been lecturing about in class: the folktale.]

With no idea of it, this student gave me my own lesson. It wasn't anything she said, but everything I knew that she didn't need to say. I'd been stargazing too long. Wrapped up in my own head, striving for my own definition of "success"—essentially the unattainable. Time to come down to earth, lady.

It's time.
mt

Dear 2013 | Resolutions, Replays & Ridiculousness

You may wonder what I expect of you. Chances are that, already, I have overblown your proverbial balloon with 200-ton expectations and a heaping mountain-sized dose of blind optimism. My bad.

2012 was something like hell for me. While it had its high tides, its low blows seemed near fatal, at times, and mostly just... well, depressing. So, yes, the dawning of a new calendar on my wall [the 2013 I Can Has Cheezburger LOLCat Calendar, to be precise] has my eyes a-glitter with some serious hope. This just HAS to be the year they invent affordable jet packs or a Transatlantic tunnel.

You know... I had so many expectations for last year—so many goals and resolutions that I never got to. I mean, I could spend all day listing the personality flaws that need fixin', the calories I should be cutting and margins of productivity I wanted to conquer, but I'll refrain to save you some jive bitching. [I really should take up drinking or something...] Anyhow, let's face it;
you kind of sort of owe me one. No?

In ranting and raving about the year past, let me also note that I'm not the only one with a steamship full of disappointments [sinking ship?]; it appears 2012 wasn't a bitch for just me. Nearly everyone I talk to had a shitty year, too. 2012 was amaze with separations, sicknesses, deaths, moves and heated political debates. I realize most years have ups and downs, but last year, in my rear-view mirror and the mirrors of many others, those 365 days smarted some sick-nasty destruction. Personally, by December, I was rooting for the promised end of civilization [See: End of the World.]

In conclusion: you should be preparing for a stellar year. We deserve it! [If it takes a dozen or so HJ's to accomplish this, I'm willing. Just sayin.]


Sincerely, your friend,
mt


In an attempt to keep my resolutions both optimistic and generic, I drew a doodle to commemorate:

Thank you, Instagram! [Follow me: 1flychicken]

...Oddly enough, it's only January 7th and already I received my first speeding ticket, fallen down the icy stairs and hurt myself, had about three zombie dreams aaaaaand got my period. Really, 2013? Can we try a little harder...?