Archive | March, 2008


20 Mar

Here lies Frederick, former beloved plant. I have washed the vase he once lived in. He is gone.

To quote the wonderful, inimitable James Taylor:

Walk down that lonesome road all by yourself
Don’t turn your head back over your shoulder
And only stop to rest yourself when the silver moon
Is shining high above the trees

If I had stopped to listen once or twice
If I had closed my mouth and opened my eyes
If I had cooled my head and warmed my heart
I’d not be on this road tonight

Carry on
Never mind feeling sorry for yourself
It doesn’t save you from your troubled mind

Walk down that lonesome road all by yourself
Don’t turn your head back over your shoulder
And only stop to rest yourself when the silver moon
Is shining high above the trees

Frederick, you were loved.

Le Premier Jour de Printemps!

20 Mar

Yes, the JournaBlog has gone international!

Nah, I just felt like expressing my excitement for the official First Day of Spring (that’s what it all means) in French, being that springtime and France and Paris all seem to go hand in hand. And, after nearly 8 years of learning the language in the past, the above-mentioned title, by far, is all I can put together.

So, oui, it’s the First Day of Spring! The sun is out, buds are forming on the trees, and the wind is whipping about at 100 miles per hour. So, no, it doesn’t feel like spring, and no, it won’t feel like spring until mid-June, when summer is beginning. Lest I seem bitter (and I am. I am. Spring lasts one week in these parts. We never get spring!), I’m stating the facts. Nevertheless, I will try and remain positive and hope against hope that one of my favorite seasons (along with autumn, which also lasts exactly ONE WEEK) will manifest itself considerably this year. Welcome, Fake Springtime. We’ve missed you.

Warning: I refuse to discuss celebrity issues on this JournaBlog. I refuse. But I.Can’t.Help.the.Following:

  • Dear Lindsay, It’s been a while since leaving old rehab. Yet, according to the pictures featured everywhere, you still show up in clubs with bottles of “water.” And you still hang out with the same old enablers. I don’t get it. Admit it, girl: there might be some issues that haven’t worked themselves out. Or, that you haven’t allowed yourself to work out. One suggestion, though? Stay home! And please stop kidding yourself–the good apple relaxing in the vat of bad apples? Doesn’t stay a good apple. You can’t expect to go back to the scene of the crime, as it were, and expect to remain unscathed. It’s impossible. So, just stay home. Get on Netflix, watch your innocent self in The Parent Trap (remember?), and drink real water. The bottom line: I should never see your picture and wonder how old you really are. Make smart choices.

Had to get that out.

Au revoir, for now.

There’s Something Smelly in Smellville

17 Mar

Which means, in a nutshell, that something ain’t right.

I was getting breakfast this morning. I had called ahead maybe 15 minutes ahead of time to ensure that when I arrived (already a bit tardy for work), I could grab my bagel and get out of there. The woman at the front counter does not like me. This was established long ago, when, to her obvious chagrin, I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to choose a banana. (I like them pretty and very yellow. No brown spots, no imperfections. It’s the only thing I ask. A pretty banana. Come on.) Since the Banana Episode, her smile turns into a frown whenever I enter the deli. Anywho, I give my name and my order. She taps the computer. “I don’t see your order.” Then she taps the other computer with the same results. She looks at me with a shrug (and a smidge of delight, if you ask me) and says, “It’s not here. I don’t see it.”

Am I to leave? Say it’s Ok? Accept it and move on? No! I CALLED. I SPOKE TO A HUMAN BEING. So, there’s this awkward pause, where she’s looking at me with slightly evil delight (no bagel for you, ha ha!) and I’m looking at her blankly, hopefully indicating my unwillingness to move. I then look at her co-worker, a much nicer guy who smiles and actually gives good customer service, and mention that I spoke to him when placing my order. He comes over, taps the computer, then shows her where my name and order is. She kind of shrugs, like, whatever, then gives me the total. Yes, she was likely letdown that I would eat this morning. For good measure, I glance over at the banana dish, just to make her a little nervous.

Anyway, post-bagel, I wonder: was she telling the truth? Could she truly not find my bagel? How could he find it so easily? Did she simply press the wrong button? The questions abound. She clearly and obviously does not like me. Needless to say, the conspiracy theories continue to abound. If it happens again, where she can’t find my order? It will be confirmed.

In other news, it’s another Monday. Seriously? I’ve said it before and I will repeat: I don’t like Mondays. I don’t. Talk about something smelly in Smellville – why are Mondays so painful and hard to deal with? Sheesh!

Sigh. Breakdown City, here we may come.

For Real?

13 Mar

I applied for my passport, right? I asked for it to be delivered regular mail, no big deal, whenever–I’m not planning on traveling anywhere any time soon, and I was sure that it would take 60 weeks at the least.

It came after a week!

For real. For realz. I mean, I was completely shocked by the whole thing. The whole passport fiasco was just last year, when the passport backlog almost led to rioting. Guess it’s all over. Or maybe not, but I’m quite pleased by the results.

In other news, I ate way too much food this morning. It felt terrific, sure, but at this moment in time, there’s a weird rumbling in my stomach. Mutiny?

Your Epidermis is Showing

10 Mar

Someone said that to me in the 6th grade. No clue what he was talking about (I wasn’t well versed on such things just yet). In fact, I innocently asked him just what he was talking about. While he commenced with endless laughter, the anger I felt was pretty acute. Not angry with him, though, but infuriated with myself. I do that often. Because if I turn the anger toward others, bad things happen, grudges are held quite tightly, and I wake up in the middle of the night with hardcore chest pains. (In the sixth grade, of course, I was just angry that the fool got me again. See the sideburns story. Same guy.)

My point for the above-mentioned diatribe? None, really. I’m in a cross mood this cloudy day, and felt like discussing my issues with anger and all of that. I have no real reason to be angry. Just am. Sigh.

Homeward bound, I wish I were, homeward bound…


3 Mar

My inspiration doesn’t have to be personal pathos or suffering.

I should be inspired by life itself, by the people that live it.

And so I intend to eavesdrop on every conversation I happen to hear. Right now, several people are leading interesting lives. I can borrow from them. I promise to borrow heavily.

Ms. Miscellaneous

3 Mar

First things first: I am determined to make it to 100 posts on this little JournaBlog. Not for any rewards, of course, but for personal satisfaction. I started this thing with the intent to write and write away, so I hope to achieve that tiny goal. As far as creative writing…well, the jury is still out on that one.

Interestingly enough, this past weekend, a friend and I were discussing how tragedy and pathos and “issues” fuel the works of most authors, and, really, most artists in general. (Specifically, we talked about Tennessee Williams. Wikipedia him. You shall see. While there, see William Faulkner, Van Gogh, and every other artist/author/playwright/musician you can think of. For real.) In many instances, there needs to be some type of catalyst. Something needs to be going on, I believe, to force the artist to get to work and release the contents of that inner storm.

Nothing is going on with me. Seriously. My brain is filled with a lot–schedules and time and things to get accomplished–but as far something, something, an “issue” that deserves to be wrangled by way of a poem or a story, there’s nothing there. When I was in college, in high school, even in the 4th grade, for pete’s sake, there was always something. Shyness, infatuation, more infatuation, feeling left out, wanting to be accepted, etc. etc. A day didn’t pass by without my hitting up that creative outlet, just to let everything out. Now, in the long, slow days of adulthood, we’re deep in the dry spots.

Of course, the terrific thing about fiction is that I can pretty much write anything–pathos and tragedy are not exactly prerequisites to writing (and no, I’m not asking for tragedy, either. It ain’t fun). However, I think the reason I’m having such a problem getting to work is that there is no inner storm. Nothing poking me in the elbows, requiring that I write and write to get it all out. Being that I largely wrote because of that need to get it all out, I’m kind of at a loss. And for those artists that possess the singular and insatiable desire to simply create–without the presence of pathos and absent of any “issues”–I’m so not there, either. I’m just blah. Sigh. Time for baby steps. Time to start over and figure out how to fix it.

In other news, it’s March. The days will get longer and the air (let’s hope) will get a bit sweeter and lighter. We shall see. I look forward to longer days. There’s something about leaving the office and not feeling like it’s 10 minutes after midnight.



Sincerely, Taj

Dear World, I have stuff to say, so get cozy. Here, I've got cupcakes.

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