2nd star revelations

okay, it's fall.

my one year anniversary has come and gone, my hair has been dyed three different colors, i've failed two relationships swimmingly, and drunk myself into a stupor more than i would like to admit.

i have relished the beautiful nyc days in the sun and jumped in puddles in the soaked-to-the-bone rainstorms; have and been wooed by those more financially stable than i; experienced the loss of friendships and the gain of people promising to be more faithful than the ones fading into the years.

when i went to san francisco, i experienced a turbulence i had never before tasted. dad's cancer, loading and unloading a moving truck filled to the brim with my shit, adultery, and rocky finances. i swore it was going to get better. then, i shook off atlanta and took on boston, which was a lesson on how things could become even more intense, and to the realization that conservative men really like me for some reason (that's what i get for working right next to harvard, i guess). on to new york... new york.

new york has tied together some of the loose ends... not financially, as i'm struggling every day... but ends that i made into other things, ends that i put up on pedestals. the city has forced some of my projections into translucency... and even though that's a really scary thing, at least i know the truth from my fantasy, which can be relatively thick, like a fog in my brain.

never judge a book by it's cover.
things are NEVER what they seem.
value someone's intelligence over anything. for better or for worse, you will learn exactly what they can be capable of.

i need to listen to these little stars behind my ear more often. and after a year here, in a hardened city with a beautiful, sunlit skyline... they have weaved their little lessons into my life with every heartbreak, every job loss, and every let-down that has introduced itself to me.

sure, i still think about the man who cracked my ribs apart with a couple sentences, the friend who gave me up for a pipe-dream romance, and the boss who fired me over the phone.

but i'm still here. i'm still doing something. i'm still landing jobs and dancing and laughing and loving.

fall is here and soon it will be gone, and i'll get to play in the snow and go ice skating in central park with nat. and i'll still be smiling, even if it doesn't seem like there's anything to smile about.

things are NEVER what they seem. :)

k.

to the brim

perfect fit

i could make a dress
a robe fit for a prince
i could clothe a continent
but i can't sew a stitch

i can paint my face
and stand very very still
its not very practical
but it still pays the bills

i can't change my name
but i could be your type
i can dance and win at games
like backgammon and life

i used to be the smart one
sharp as a tack
funny how that skipping years ahead
has held me back

i used to be the bright one
top in my class
funny what they give you when you
just learn how to ask

i can write a song
but i cant sing in key
i can play piano
but i never learned to read

i can't trap a mouse
but i can pet a cat
no i'm really serious!
i'm really very good at that

i can't fix a car
but i can fix a flat
i could fix alot of things
but i'd rather not get into that

i used to be the bright one
smart as a whip
funny how you slip so far when
teachers dont keep track of it

i used to be the tight one
the perfect fit
funny how those compliments can
make you feel so full of it

i can shuffle cut and deal
but i can't draw a hand
i can't draw a lot of things
i hope you understand
i'm not exceptionally shy
but i've never had a man
that i could look straight in the eye
and tell my secret plans

i can take a vow
and i can wear a ring
and i can make you promises but
they won't mean a thing

can't you do it for me, i'll pay you well
fuck i'll pay you anything if you could end this

can't you just fix it for me, it's gone berserk...
fuck i'll give you anything if
you can make the damn thing work

can't you just fix it for me, ill pay you well,
fuck ill pay you anything
if you can end this
hello, i love you will you tell me your name?
hello, i'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same?


white doll cabaret. music and story by the dresden dolls. fall, 2011. <3

the art of defense

when i was freshly twenty-one, living on my own for the first time in atlanta, i made a giant mistake.

i called my father for father's day.

normally, father's day is set in place by the creators of all the holidays in america, hallmark, to be a day that dad's can revel in their dadness. "look at how my sons have grown... big and strong and tough..."; "i may not have had a rulebook, but i sure did raise some good kids..."; etc.

"i hope you have a great father's day dad... how are you playing today? mmhm. yup. what's that? um, well, i'm serving at a restaurant downtown. yes, i'm dancing too. no, it's paid performances, unpaid rehearsals. well... well, no, i hadn't really - but i don't want to get - dad. dad, i don't need to - can we not do this right - ???"

a wish for a happy father's day went downhill fast. effect... me on my couch, in tears, listening to him tell me that my whole love for ballet as a career was a sham, and how i would never make enough money to survive in the real world.

and here i am, surviving, and writing about that memory.

i share a peculiar relationship with my father. we are two ducks in a pond, siskel (rip buddy) and ebert, martha stewart and robert morvillo. if god existed, he would have pulled a rib from my father and made me out of it. he's a writer, and a bullshitter, and an athlete. a damn fine lookin man, as well.

but even though there are so many similarities, we have a grand canyon in between us, one that will forever separate us from ever seeing eye to eye on lots of different topics, however insignificant or controversial they may be.

my father gave up being an artist to do "the right thing", which in the seventies, translated into marrying a beautiful woman, having babies, buying a house, and owning your own business. because if you didn't have any or all of those things, you obviously were not a contribution to society and don't deserve to be a part of it.

growing up, i was expected to basically be a stepford child; things are perfect! life is good! i love my family! sort of phrases. but my alcoholic father, my miserable, jobless mother, my socially retarded older brother and me, the "let's fake a smile even though i haven't eaten for three days" child made a portrait of things to come. dad came home drunk for most of my life and fell asleep on the couch. mom sipped her wine and stayed tight-lipped when he berated us for nothing in particular. brother retreated to his room like a beaten puppy and immersed himself in sci-fi adventure books. and what was i to do but starve myself and hope for the day i could leave the whole trainwreck of a family for a clean slate. all the while, we posed pretty for pictures and said our please and thank-you's like proper, well-adjusted functional families do.

my father's pension for scotch fueled his harbored anger he never knew how to release, and verbally punched our guts for years. i thought i hated him for years, because i didn't understand why he was so angry at us for everything.

maybe he was angry that marty was a scholar and not an athlete.
maybe he was angry that his daughter didn't like golf and country clubs.
maybe he was angry that he gave up on his dreams to provide for a family he wasn't really ready for.

the cocktail just got stronger with all of the alchemy.

when i was kicked out at 24, tattooed, pierced, raven-haired... i told them i wasn't going to do it anymore. the pretty bobble head smiles; the acting; the lies. i didn't want to put my energy into something that just kept on letting me down. my family wasn't familial; it was just a portrait of what we were supposed to be.

and yes, for many years, i blamed him. i took out my frustrations on myself. control what you eat, punish yourself for who you are. ink your body, dye your hair. put steel rods through your skin, drink, fuck, and fight. and the day came when we all had had enough. so they kicked me out, and i didn't see them for half a year.

i'm not innocent in this, so don't misconstrue it as me being a victim. i pushed buttons, i sneaked out, i smoked cigarettes on my balcony and pot in my car. maybe i was trying to get them to see that the idea of who i was to them was not the manifestation of who i really was. i don't know. i do know that as an adult now, i have taken my past and grew a garden. the mistakes i made when i was young, whilst repeated in older years, have guided me through decisions i've made as an adult.

my father is a good man. he worked hard for his family and provided for us even if it was like pulling teeth from a donkey without anesthesia. and i recognize that. the providing part, i mean. had he not, i wouldn't be writing this from a computer i bought with money i earned dancing to prove to him that i could make it as a dancer and an artist.

the whole point is, we butted heads because he saw himself in me, and he was scared i would fuck up my life with my parallel vices. understandable worries. bad way to remedy them, but understandable nonetheless.

i will forever be my father's daughter, and i'm proud of it. he may never realize how much he influenced me, and that's alright. sometimes, i think it's better that way, so we can still have the same broken relationship we've always had.

it makes for good writing, and even better memories.

k.

crying wolf

"for everything i
gave up, i
was angry and resentful..."
your words, yours,
which hang heavy, a
mouthful of nails, lips
lined in silver
as the rainclouds
passed over your tongue
and into my mind; worried...
no, you
gave me up,
no one twisted your
wrists, and
called me with words
drenched in apathy,
cancerous cysts...
you walked into my
corner store, smiled
at me in the eyes,
and stole my advice.
here's your cake;
he's your cake,
he's your calories,
he's the hands you
let down with a kiss
that day on the couch.
the tears that streaked
your cheeks
a couple tuesdays ago
are slick with confidence,
now, shiny with
this naive hope
that next time, oh, next time,
there will be a
next time.

that was your
next time.

k.

151 days

i guess it
affected, you.
and that sucks,
that i have to
presume...
five months is
151 days; not
half a year, exactly.
but it's too long
for you to do
so little, so
politely.
i seem shallow, so
transparent, so
selfish.
but it's because
i can't keep reading
the dust jacket
for the next 151 days and
beyond it...
if i can't turn the pages
and i can't turn back clocks
i have to turn back
to me, lost
in music and movement and
more,
more,
more.
i need more.
open palms,
willing eyes, to
turn
letterstowordstosentences
to paragraphs about you and me.

so for now, i guess
i'll wait
and dance and
try to smile.

for the best.


i'm disappointed. it sucks having to come to conclusions and make grown-up decisions. this has most recently translated into me losing friends.

when we're young all we want to do is be an adult. and we scoff at our elders who tell us to enjoy our youth and not try to push the hands.

i always respected it when they said it, figuring they knew what they were giving up upon gaining the numbers to drink legally and fuck whoever you want.

taxes. disrespect. complicated relationships. bills. bills. bills. std's. groceries. dating. hair appointments. chasing dreams. making a living. a compulsive addiction to leather boots.

these things all blow! and they're all why "experience" equals "knowledge" to me. when did this road get so bumpy?

le sigh. chin up, buttercup. the decision was already made up.

k.

residue

tossed aside.

a sopping wet towel on my bar, wrung out seventeen thousand times just to mop up some other wall street hag's disgusting kiwi flavored frozen margarita.

a bill on my nightstand, behind my lamp collecting dust because i know if i pay it i can't afford to pay my landlord rent.

strips from the photobooth lodged in the the back of my journal, eulogies to my many failed relationships.

the paintbrush on my floor, because even though you would think it couldn't take more than six months to paint a bathroom roughly the size of a coffin, it has, because it seems subliminally i don't really mind painter's tape as a decorative procedure.

the yoga mat on the floor of the kitchen. maybe by looking at it, natalie and i can claim yes, it has been used, so recently that we don't even move it because, why put something away if you use it that much?

i have become so accustomed to my style of hoarding that it just seems normal to find a nice, neat place for something that i may use in the near future; as if putting it away would somehow usurp it's existence. that's not true, of course, as those fuckers from american express have so relentlessly reminded me over the past year. but it seems that by moving something to the side makes it less real, less able to interfere with your everyday life.

and of course, there are always those times that we put that sweater that grandma knitted for christmas away for so long, that upon finding it, understand that we have no use for it anymore. until that damn "awful christmas sweater" party comes along and you have to go out and buy one from a vintage store, only to repeat the cycle all over again. i mean, it was a lousy seven dollars, but shit, that can buy a shot of jack daniels and a pbr at happy hour down the road from me. wasted. on the sweater, i mean.

on the opposite of that though, are the first edition coins a great-grandfather left you in his will, which, upon recovery, turn out to be worth four hundred dollars and fifty-eight cents. i never knew you, gramps, but you have definitely contributed to my full-sleeve tattoo. i know you'd be so proud.

when i was dating the kid, i was head over heels impossibly corrupted in love with him. granted, i had just come from a relationship with mooseface that was so holy the pope could have used it to masturbate into. i wanted something pure, and quiet, and simple. something my heart would recognize. something that was so grounded it was covered in dirt.

and so it was. i breathed him for several months. six, to be exact. i was to leave the day after valentines' to teach in san francisco. everything was as planned. i took the train to the airport, got on the plain, flew seven hours to cali, and went to my hotel room. all with no word. after calling his roommate and finding out his phone wasn't broken and that he wasn't dead in the gutter, i was bludgeoned with the realization that, he just wasn't really that into me.

i had been used. and tossed aside, limp as a noodle and less aware than anna nicole smith, well, ever.

me, used? no. there had to be a reason. there had to be something i did... something he did? wait, did i even do anything to deserve this? think, now... think. i bought him dinner, drove to his house almost an hour away from me, gave him a killer photojournal for valentines... no. there was nothing i did wrong.

so what did i do wrong?

we patched things up, just to come unsewed several more times, and eventually, fell apart into shreds. we were the favorite jeans that fit so well to begin, but the seams on the legs just start to unravel, and fray. we were the great pair of boots whose heels are bore down to the concrete underfoot. the white shirt you fatally wore to the red wine tasting.

but when it comes down to it... i was a way to make someone feel really good about themself. which, really, is quite flattering, but at the end, it eats away at you.

and it's not just lovers. we do it to friends, we do it to family, and we do it to people we work with... unfortunately, at this point of the world, after all of the stories over the years of divide and conquer... some of the best kingdoms have come out of this betrayal. and although i would love to be able to say, "well, keep your eyes open and it won't happen to you..."

i can't.

i thought that after years of dealing with this from the kid and assorted other lovers and friends, i would be able to tell if someone wasn't who they were telling me. i was all hyped up on me for being so good at "reading" people. right. it's only been a year since last i experienced it and i'm still walled up in my chest, protecting the one thing that i've always wanted to be someone else's.

but that's a different story, a different novel, i will have to cover sometime else. i don't feel like moving those mountains tonight. ugh.

i guess we really don't have a choice. we have a chance. the choice comes after the pitcher makes their move, and i'll be damned anymore if i decide to wait on the side of the bar anymore to mop up someone else's mess.

k.

30,000 leaugues above the sea

I dream about water almost every night.

It's always turbulent, although I never realize it until I wake.

And when I do come out of my silvery water dream world, I have a sinking understanding that water, as beautiful and flowing and calming as it is, can drown even the most powerful of swimmers.

K.