some happier thoughts

i can understand why everyone thinks i'm depressed. after reading some of the shit that i write, i can't blame people for thinking that. but don't be fooled! i love every dismal, bleak, joyless, self-depricating thought that seeps from my morbid head. and truly, i am happy. i guess i just express my happiness in other ways. i ride my bike, hang out with friends, who wants to be alone writing or painting when you're in a good mood? not me. anyway, here is an attempt at some happier thoughts:
i was just thinking about my mom when we lived in minnesota, how she stuffed her jeans inside her knee high snow boots, even when the snow wasn't particularly deep. this parental humiliation did a number on my already arduous adolescence.
and i was just thinking about my mom again, when she took in Nacho for me because i got caught with him in college (no dogs allowed in my apartment complex). i was home for xmas break and everytime she came home from a walk with him she would jubilantly announce the literal outcome of the walk "Nacho peed and pooped!"
i was just thinking about my dad, how i came home one night all late and stoned and found him in the living room watching planet of the apes. he was sitting on the floor indian style inches from the television rocking back and forth like a mentally retarded kid who could barely contain his excitement. the sight of him, so child-like in all his thick-spectacled, open-mouthed fascination with the apes made me want to laugh and cry all at the same time. instead i joined him for the remainder of the movie, in an effort to bond with my unassuming father. i don't think he ever noticed me come in.
i was just thinking about teresa and erin, my sisters, and getting drunk with them in all their underaged glory. making fun of my poems and my quote book that i've kept since 6th grade. it's full of lame cliches such as "where there's a will there's a way" and "love is a many splendored red red rose that won't make you cry or puke" blah blah blah. things that must have been inspiring at one point in my life. "no guts no glory" and erin's famous "these aren't even donuts, they're donettes, they're like donuts with vaginas!" was the most recently added quote.
i was just thinking about brian and his obsession with cats. he could talk about his cats for hours. he could write a book on their nature and personalities. he could write an electronic journal article about their unique characteristics. and you could find it on an online library archive if you were writing a report about cats and use it as a source. it would tell you what makes them purr, what makes them vomit, what gives them diahrreah and why they knead your rolls of fat when you're sitting down (reminds them of the mama cat's nipples). it's okay that brian's obsessed with cats. i used to be obsessed with paris hilton, who posesses a few feline qualities herself.
i was jsut thinking about the man who sometimes rings me out at safeway. with his long wild grey hair, complete, or incomplete with a bald spot in the middle. he always has something interesting to say about witches. he told me how to tell if a woman is really a witch. it's quite simple, all you have to do is drown her and if her body floats she is a witch. or maybe it's if her body sinks. hell, i can't remember. he always tells me to smile, even if i'm already smiling, so then i have to smile harder, sometimes to the point that i feel as though the corners of my lips will push my eyeballs right off my face.
i know i said i was empty the other day, but really, how can i be empty in a world where frank rides his tawdry wal-mart "Next" bike down the wrong side of Academy, stopping to light a cigarette, unpahsed as cars, trucks, semis and pt cruisers speed by honking violently with formidable impacience? how can i be empty when i belong to a family that discusses homosexuality, old lady smell and farting when we are out to dinner at fancy resturant? how can i really be empty when i have friends who will give me a ride home even when i have pee in my Croc because i missed. how can i be empty when i have friends who forgive me for wearing the very shoe i sold out to?
i know i said i was empty, but regardless of what i claimed in a fit of frustration, i fell asleep that night with the sloppy leftovers of a smile sliding off my face...

to drink, pray or run myself into oblivion

it's sunny and cloudy at the same time and i have many things i could do but nothing that i really need to do. my mail box is empty today. i was expecting a letter or a bill or both. my fridge is empty. the canvas stares back at me from my easel, empty. my bottle of contact solution, empty. my stomach, empty. the box that used to hold my grandmother's jewelery before i pawned it all away, empty. my soul might as well be empty. empty empty empty. if you say a word over and over that's what it becomes. empty. empty. empty. even empty's own name. what is that? onomonopia or something like that. nothing can fill me today. i had a swim. i had a shower. i had chamomile tea and scrambled egg whites. i had a ride. i had a pounding headache. i finished a book. i started a painting. i had a dream. i woke up. nothing can fill me today. nothing can fill me today. i want someone to tell me that it's jesus. it's jesus that i'm missing. because then i could just close my brain and open up wide to let him in. i could throw myself so easily one way or the other to cure this. i could convince myself of heaven and truth and salvation and a divine perpetual friendship. i don't know whether to drink, pray, or run myself into oblivion. which is where i feel i should be. i choose to run because it's the only thing i can feel right now. i want someone to tell me that it's jesus that i'm missing. that he was here all along and i just couldn't see. then we could all laugh because you always laugh when what you were looking for was right before you all along. can't it just be jesus? it'd be so easy. i could talk to him without feeling silly because believing means it's real. even if only to you. i could go crazy or i could go christian or perhaps i could conform and sink sink sink like the rest. it's cloudy and sunny at the same time today. the sky is dark but everything else is bright and now rambling on and on to tired keys is no different than plucking tired strings and draining tired pens and tired tubes of water- soluble oil paint. i told you nothing can fill me today.

5430 half ironman

you run and hurt and resign yourself to the fact that you'll never be comfortable again. you will never be curled on your couch reading a book, you will never sit down to a wholesome dinner, you will never feel the cool, cleansing rush of water on your skin, you will never wrap yourself in fresh linen and lay your head on your soft down pillow to sink slowly out of reality. no. you accept that you will be running around this god-forsaken reservoir until the cruel gods of triathlon, cackling from above decide you have had enough and put you out of your misery. and who knows when that will be? it will never end. the stinging blisters on your feet (each step is excruciating) the tired muscles screaming from the incessant pounding on the dull earth, the brain, fatigued from the length of day and the inability to see the end is failing you. everything that was so important five hours ago is losing meaning. winning. who cares? losing. who cares? cutting time. who cares? adding time. who cares? bouncing checks. who cares? telling lies. who cares? goals. who cares? life. who cares? love. what? and you retreat to a place where you can agree to disagree with your own body. your own character. you are comfortable with a certain intensity of pain. you will never leave here. this trail. this reservoir. it is like hiding under your bed. a comforting misery. a miserable comfort. you win some. you lose some. you get blisters along the way. you hate this. you need this. you pass an old man who is worse off than you. you grunt understandingly to each other as you shuffle miserably, ridiculously, along. you will both sign up again next year.

drugs kill, vanity cripples

It could be worse. It could always be worse. I could be 345 lbs riding a Lil' Rascal making everyone around me uncomfortable. I just noticed I said "be 345 lbs" rather than "weigh 345 lbs". Be as though a person's weight actually defines her. But doesn't it? If you are what you eat than as a result you are what you weigh. It could be worse. It could always be worse. I could have some wretched, incurable disease or condition like HIV or worse, yellow teeth. I could be autistic and hopelessy socially inept or I could be LD- learning disabled- mentally crippled if you will. The only thing I couldn't be is more vain. Vanity consumes me. It floods my veins until they are drowning highways leading me to the land of Nervous Breakdown with my old washed up exoskeletons from times when I didn't care what anyone though of me littering the shoulders. Dad always said I was the introspective one. He probably never knew how painfully and dysfunctionally introspective.
If only I were oblivious to myself like a dog. Running around wildly, immersed in the world around me, remembering myself only for brief interludes, scratching my ear, licking my genitals and whatnot. Or a mentally retarded person only vaguley aware of the statistics and details of my relationships. Having intense emotions without knowing, much less caring what their sources are. Never bothering with the pages of recorded interactions- actions and reactions- left for me to analyze. So exhausting.
My hadwriting has shrunken over the past few years. You wouldn't know because I'm typing. Tiny script indicates insecurity. Neurocity. Paranoia. Everyone tells me to stop being silly. Why are my feelings always categorized as "silly"? Silly. Unimportant. Pointless. Insignificant. Likely to be dismissed. "Don't waste my time". Silly.
My head is a dark, deep canyon that I dwell inside. I'm trying desperately to climb out. Scrambling determinedly up these steep, loose walls and falling back down, lower than ever with each attempt. Trying relentlessly, Failing inevitably. I long to stand at the edge of the canyon and peer down into it objectively, sensibly. I just want to be outside my brain. I want clarity. It's loud in here and all reason is muffled by a roaring river of doubt and insecurity that drowns all hope. Hope- the serenity only heard from the top.
Psychology Today told me I am hotter than I think and I took comfort in that fact. I developed a mantra to use whenever faced with the mirror. "25 percent" because I am 25 percent more attractive than I percieve myself (according to Psychology Today) That 25 percent is my saving grace- whether or not it's true. I cling to it like the "Oh shit" handle around a fast, tight bend. And then I ask myself why approaching my reflection holds the same intense anxiety as high speed cornering. I am vain beyond reason. Vain beyond function. Unhealthily vain. Disgustingly vain. Vain. Vain. Vain.
I want nothing more than to see people for who they are rather than how I compare to them. I want to see people as their own beautiful and unique entities rather than incremental versions of one another. Higher and lower levels of the same design. Like the Specialized Allez. Sport. Comp. Elite. Pro. S-Works- whatever. Same idea with varying levels of componentry. I want to see myself for who I might really be rather than the culmination of my flaws plus that consolation 25 percent.
It could be worse. It could always be worse.

on skinny mirrors, hilarity and the overenthusiastic chicken man

There are two kinds of mirrors. Skinny and fat. The worst is when your friend thinks your fat mirror is a skinny mirror and the complacency that spreads across her face upon correction as it registers that she could be even skinnier than she thinks. Mirrors are powerful bitches. They are more capable of affecting moods than even getting a speeding ticket or getting laid before work. The type of mirror you catch yourself in can even subconsciously change your disposition. That wave of depression and lethargy that swept in like a thundercloud out of nowhere? Fat mirror. The sudden burst of radiance and energy that you attribute to your Red Bull kicking in? Skinny mirror. This is true even if you are remotely as vain as I am. Of course, there are some mirrors and reflective surfaces that should be avoided at all costs. I for one, know that I can't go around rating my attractiveness by the squashed, fat midget form reflected in the shiny door panel of some asshole's Ford Focus. I'd be on the brink of suicide each time I walked through a parking lot. So instead, when walking through these confidence-shattering zones, I keep my head up and focus on the destination ahead, muttering empowering words to myself along the way. "Fuck you, Focus" "What are you staring at, Camry?" "Look who's talking, Passat!" Mirrors, however are a bit trickier. You can't always determine their nature (skinny or fat) upon approaching them. It's just a risk you have to take. Life is full of risks. I long for the days when I didn't stress about mirrors and what pleasing or hideous image they would hold on a particular day.
In 5th grade Michelle and I made each other laugh so hard with our Down's Syndrome impressions at recess that we'd piss our pants. One day my leakage was more significant than the usual ignorable dribble. The next morning I ganked one of my mom's maxi pads from under the bathroom sink to use as reinforcement. The lofty thing bulged inside my tiny day-of the-week underwear. I was certain that my classsmates could hear the diapery swoosh over the quiet reverence of the spelling test as I squirmed uncomfortably at my desk. Ironically I didn't pee my pants that day.
Since Michelle, I can count the number of people on one hand, who have made me laugh that hard. High school held a few. Michael and Quinn in geometry. The laughin g was always at some unsuspecting quiet kid's expense. The ones who are all prettier, skinnier, and doubtlessly more successful than I am now. College went by with out much soulful laughing. It didn't count if it was drug or alcohol induced. There were witty comments here and there in the lecture hall or studio that made me snicker and think...always think. But nothing that overtook my bladder. Post college, the kids at BV cracked me up the most. Sarah and Bryan on occasion sent me running knock-kneed toward the bathroom begging them to stop. But now I make myself laugh more than anyone else does.
I was driving home from Patrick's shop yesterday, which by the way houses one of Colorado Springs' most devastating fat mirrors, when I got stuck at a red light right next to the Wild Wings chicken who was flapping his wings- arms- wingarms, eagerly at my window. I acknowleged him briefly and politely before assuming a somewhat exaggerated somber demeanor that said "I am not an asshole, but I am a serious person and am not in the mood to be flapped at." He had nice legs and cool shoes and for a brief moment I visualized myself meeting and falling in love with a beautiful, athletic and hilarious man in some neutral location such as Whole Foods or the gym, only to find out he was the man inside the ridiculous chicken costume flapping aggressively, relentlessly on the corner of Academy and N. Carefree as I hold my breath in desperate anticipation for the green light so that I could finally relax and aleiviate the awkward tension the "stare ahead" has caused my neck and head.
And when I find out that this hot guy is really the Wild Wings chicken man I'd have to let him down gently and with a new and unique excuse so as not to be like "all the other girls" who ran away. Or I could force myself to pretend the chicken gig was for a good cause. That he took on a 2nd job to help raise money for his friend who has rubella or Lou Gherig's Disease, or hell, just plain cancer for all I care, because he can't afford the treatment because the two friends had recently spent all their money on guitars and drumsets to start a band which would have had incredible potential but needed its dying bass player. I think I could respect and possibly even love a man in a chicken suit if it wall in the name of loyal friendships and rock and roll. I get so carried away sometimes...

Red Cloud

In 6th grade I made fun of Ben in art class because he colored his cloud red. Years later at his wake I knelt over his dead body. I stared half in anger and half in disbelief at the excessive amount of makeup someone had slathered over his face in order to conceal the grey tinge that death can leave on one's complexion . Ben never wore makeup. I thought to myself: If his soul gets wind of this there will be a haunting like this funeral home has never seen before. I wanted to rip through his crisp white buttondown shirt (Ben would have never worn that) and put my hands through that self-inflicted bullet wound that lay underneath. I wanted to make sure it was real and abate the voice in my head that kept reminding me of Huckelberry Finn. Ben was always so funny...
The next day I hung my head at his funeral as Father David assured us that Ben would probably make it to Purgatory (at least). That was the last time I recieved Communion. I spent the next few years searching (unsuccessfully) for a more lenient god. I have since discovered Colorado and found Peace that no sermon can provide. I have felt here, a sense of belonging that joining hands in prayer with fellow church goers cannot transcend. I have seen skies and clouds of all colors, including red. I am an artist now, and although I rarely paint clouds myself, I cringe when others use white.

reading between the lines we failed to draw

I would like to know the psychogalvantics of kissing. It seems to occur only when there is nothing to say, or nothing left to say. What though, do you expect to find inside my mouth that is tangible and capable of being scooped up by your tongue? The biomechanics of a kiss are so strange... what is it that compels you to drive your tongue aggressively through my lips? What propels the eager ransacking of my mouth? What are you trying to take from me? What are you trying to give? Perhaps it is just a displaced human hunger...
You spoke of loss and the need to win and I noted the screaming correlation between the two. You spoke of the rejection you recieved from loved ones. The cold righteous hands steering you away from yourself were incentive to rebel and through kissing you renounce those hands and their efforts to change you. And now you are searching for the love you lost in places that you and I both know you didn't leave it. Of all the ways you've tried to reach people, only one will affirm that the message was heard. Felt. Understood. If I kiss back you have succeeded in forcing someone to acknowledge you.
And I sopke of trickery and fraud. I told you how I used to call it love when really it's need and how I mistakenly interpreted a need for love and how I heard that word over and over with strong hands wrapped around my throat. By recieving your tongue I am saying that I have learned nothing from those hands. That I am as easily and willingly manipulated as ever. Each time I kiss back I try to convince myself that this time it will mean nothing and I will leave here as nonchalant as I came, carrying with me that smug, cannibalistic satisfaction that comes from stealing something from someone. I tell myself that I will leave here glowing with complacency and the primitive "get yours" mentality. But this has not been the case thus far.
"Survival of the fittest" has recently evolved into "survival of the heartless" and I drive home with all the windows down in hopes that mine will fly away so I can finally stop losing. I am hoping mine will fly away so I may come back tomorrow night with no qualms about using you...and the rest of your body.