Archive | November, 2011

To the Sweet Turning of Pages: An Apology

29 Nov

Stating the obvious and the thoroughly discussed: I love books.  I love how they smell. I love how they look. I love the feeling of a book  gently bouncing in my bag as I walk to and fromwork. I love flipping the pages. I love bookstores and libraries. I love, I love, I love.

Which is why I’m feeling guilty for what I’ve done. No book burning rallies or anything like that, of course. Worse.

I purchased this:

Barnes & Noble Nook Color - BNRV200

It was Cyber Monday, and I’m all about the deals, and I looked at the one my Sissie has and my eyes grew hungry and wanting, and…and…I lost my mind. I bought one. Me, who has long decried the advent of e-books and their ruination of actual books. Me, who realizes that these things largely helped destroy my beloved Borders Books. Me, with the narrowed eyes and the endless head shaking as I watch fellow metro riders pull them from their bags during our morning and afternoon commutes. Me, the obvious Book Snob. (I think the previous sentences prove that, don’t they?) I gave in. I gave in!

I won’t even begin to list the pros of the Nook (for a book lover, this is kind of great; I can buy books in seconds, I can borrow books from the virtual library; I’ll stop now) or provide an overview of the product. Suffice it to say that if there were a Book Altar, I would be sacrificing a sound animal for the purposes of atonement and forgiveness. Never mind that my guilt almost matches the giddy excitement I feel at the prospect of receiving my new purchase in the mail.  Ignore that last statement. Anyway, there you have it. My admission of guilt. Nevertheless, I don’t intend to give up on my actual books or my bookstores or libraries. The love and snobbery will most certainly continue.

possibly a baby gangsta?

17 Nov

Why was I looking at that kid to the right of me with such venom? Why was I holding on to that baby car like a Bentley, likely for the use of running said kid over?

Yours truly. Back in the Motherland, age: unsure, but clearly old enough to entertain murderous intentions, based on the aforementioned look on my face. Yikes. Oh, and all my photos were like this early on: frowning like an underworld boss Teamster.


8 Nov

As much as I talk about myself on this here blog, I never really reveal anything. Sure, my love of all things Paul Newman, Europe, writing, traveling, etc., have been discussed at length. And sure, my loathing of all things rainy, cloudy, snowy (I won’t even comment on how loathing and weather seem to be related with me), etc., have been discussed time and time again.

But I barely talk about me.

The Actual Me, the fears, the hopes, the past, the pain, the truest sense of myself. There are several reasons why I have refrained from doing so. A few: 

1) I believe there should still be a level of privacy when it comes to anything online and the life you lead offline. I know nothing is ever really hidden–somewhere, my terrible, hastily deleted email about my former boss probably still exists, likely in the Matrix–but I just don’t think anyone needs to know what city I live in or the name of the company I work for (well, that information is available on FB, which might invalidate this entire reasoning, but only my friends can access that. I think. I’m in trouble.) Those things can be found, yes. But the info will not be coming from me.

2) For some reason, I imagine serial murderers waiting in the darkness, waiting for the kill, having found me or family/friends by way of an address or a telephone number. I don’t want that. So I use no proper nouns or locations.

3) It’s just weird, revealing the many vulnerabilities of yourself online. Like, do I really want to talk about what those horrible kids did to me in the 6th grade? Not really. I’d rather just nervous breakdown about it one day and somehow get a therapist for free. (Free being the most important part. We’re in a recession, right?)

The point of it all? I don’t just hold back here on Kitten Heel Marvel. I hold back in my life. But I’m lately recognizing that my adult, 16 days as a 33 year-old self can’t keep holding back anymore. For the purposes of closure, of letting it out, of attaining a sense of emotional balance, it may be time to loosen the ropes I’ve tied around my life.

“Me,” by Paula Cole. I think her song inherently describes the battle between repression and revelation, and eventually, choosing the latter. Lyrics follow the audio.

i am not the person who is singing
i am the silent one inside
i am not the one who laughs at people’s jokes
i just pacify their egos
i am not my house or my car or my songs
they are only just stops along my way
i am like winter
i’m a dark cold female
with a golden ring of wisdom in my cave

and it is me who is my enemy
me who beats me up
me who makes the monsters
me who strips my confidence

i am carrying my voice
i am carrying my heart
i am carrying my rhythm
i am carrying my prayers
but you can’t kill my spirit
it’s soaring and it’s strong
like a mountain
i go on and on
but when my wings are folded
the brightly colored moth
blends into the dirt into the ground


and it’s me who’s too weak
and it’s me who’s too shy
to ask for the thing i love
and it’s me who’s too weak
and it’s me who’s too shy
to ask for the thing i love
that i love

i am walking on the bridge
i am over the water
and i’m scared as h***
but i know there’s something better
yes i know there’s something
yes i know, i know, yes i know

that i love (5 times overlapping chorus)

but it’s me
and it’s me
but it’s me



Sincerely, Taj

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

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