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Indeed.

31 Aug

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–Unknown

20/20

22 Aug

Inspired by my gal and fellow blogger Toia, here are 20 random facts about me, myself, and yes, I.

1. My disdain for Anne Hathaway knows no bounds. Don’t ask me why. But it’s the first thing I thought of.
2. My love for music much older than me is intense and everlasting.
3. I intentionally misspelled a word during my 8th grade spelling bee so I could get back to class and watch “The Diary of Anne Frank.”
4. I know every tv theme song. Seriously.
5. I have a debilitating fear of water. And heights. And mold. And critters. And heights.
6. I don’t know how to ride a bike. There. I said it.
7. The Three Stooges. Enough said.
8. I could write a dissertation on unrequited love.
9. I’m a carnivore. For real.
10. Love, love, LOVE traveling!
11. I want to move to San Diego. Like yesterday.
12. I met Michael Bublé and he saved me from falling to my death in his tour bus. True story.
13. Clowns.terrify.me.
14. I’m secretly a major optimist, but pessimism is far more compelling, right? Right?
15. My joints pop. Loudly.
16. I take my role as an older sister kind of seriously. I worry about those nuts like I’m their mom or something.
17. The arts. Are my life. Film, music, theater, art, writing–all of it.
18. Sometimes I take naps in the bathroom at work. What? I’m tired.
19. I’d pretty much do anything to avoid dealing with Math.
20. The scent of cake baking in the oven? Heaven. Pure heaven.

That’s all, folks!

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Kitten Heel Marvel Goes to the Airport.

17 Aug

1. Panic. I’m going to miss my flight. I’m going to be late. I’m going to miss my flight. I’m going to be late. (Note that I typically arrive at the airport several hours before I fly, so this panic is just anxiety. Ah, anxiety. My closest friend.)

2. Suitcase. Why did I overpack? Am I going on safari? Why is this bag so heavy? Do I need another bag? How much will they charge me for this thing? Will I fall to my death trying to get this thing on an escalator? (This problem would be solved, time and time again, if I packed judiciously and not like an undisciplined hyena. What, you didn’t know most hyenas were disciplined?)

3. Bathroom. What if I have to go to the bathroom? Don’t they know I loathe hate public restrooms? But what if I have to go? (I go now. They’re mostly clean. And my bladder thanks me.)

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Happy flying to me.

American Sonnet.

8 Aug

American Sonnet
Billy Collins

We do not speak like Petrarch or wear a hat like Spenser
and it is not fourteen lines
like furrows in a small, carefully plowed field

but the picture postcard, a poem on vacation,
that forces us to sing our songs in little rooms
or pour our sentiments into measuring cups.

We write on the back of a waterfall or lake,
adding to the view a caption as conventional
as an Elizabethan woman’s heliocentric eyes.

We locate an adjective for the weather.
We announce that we are having a wonderful time.
We express the wish that you were here

and hide the wish that we were where you are,
walking back from the mailbox, your head lowered
as you read and turn the thin message in your hands.

A slice of this place, a length of white beach,
a piazza or carved spires of a cathedral
will pierce the familiar place where you remain,

and you will toss on the table this reversible display:
a few square inches of where we have strayed
and a compression of what we feel.

I went to the woods.

6 Aug

thoreau

Image

Paris Is Always a Good Idea.

2 Aug

Paris Is Always a Good Idea.

Yes, it always is, Audrey.

Thank You Notes.

14 May

Sharing a few thank you notes of my own. Shall we?

Thank you, Baz Luhrmann, for attacking my medulla with the craziest visuals this side of Moulin Rouge in your interpretation of The Great Gatsby. It was enjoyable, for the most part, and sealed my conviction that the Academy Award presented to this one earlier this year should be taken away immediately and given to DiCaprio. Enough already. The man is supremely talented and we live in a world where Marisa Tomei has one. Come on.

Thank you, bestie, for being the bestie. She really is the very best. Never have I enjoyed a friendship where I’m thrilled, fascinated, incensed, and very much loved all at the same time, most of these emotions happening minutes after the other. I can only hope I provide the same sweet madness for her.

Thank you, darling schizophrenic weather, for justifying the fact that I never put away my winter clothes. It’s almost the middle of May, you guys. And it is currently 54 degrees. My sweaters continue to laugh with abandon.

Thank you, firm and good decisions. Of late, I’ve had to make some interesting decisions in my life. Being someone who wants most of the people in my life to be happy, I was forgetting that ultimately, my happiness is important, as well. Taking the time to really deliberate this, along with lots of prayer, truly helped in finally making my choices. And I’m happy.

Onwards? Yes?

what’s the buzz, tell me what’s a-happenin’…

3 May

Have I mentioned that I stalk all things musical theatre? The title is a reference to one of my favorite jams from Jesus Christ Superstar. Anyway, Happy Friday to you, and you, and you. Following is the buzz on yours truly, what’s been happenin’ (and very entertainment-y, as you’ll see):

  • NaPoWriMo was a complete success. Woo hoo! Thanks to all who read my work, poemadaycommented, followed this blog, etc., in the month of April. I’m even more in love with poetry, if that’s humanly possible, and we’re registered at the local library if you want to get us anything. (Way to wrangle a metaphor, no?) In general, I learned that I really can write every day, if I put my mind to it. I suppose all that raucous laughter at a fellow writer who once told me he gets up at 5am every morning to write was unwarranted, huh? Sorry.
  • The summer movie season is starting and I’m trying not to drool with excitement. Beginning with this film, starring an actor that I’ve adored since antiquity (already bought my ticket for tomorrow, yeah!), I intend on fully taking advantage of this time of year. After IM3, I wait with bated breath for The Great Gatsby, Star Trek Into Darkness, Man of Steel, etc., etc. Reviews will be provided, naturally. Did you know about my lifelong obsession fascination with summermoviesall things comic book, sci-fi, and general popcorn fun? Hey, I may prefer a literary adaptation or a British accent in film, but I still gets my fun on. But we never talk about that stuff on here because, well, I’d rather talk about other things. But it’s Friday, so have at it, Kitten Heel Marvel.
  • Anyone heard of Netflix? When I’m not working, or taking care of life, or eating, or sleeping, or stalking summer movies or musical theatre or Robert Downey, Jr., I’m glued to the old iPad, watching everything from Bollywood films to Murder, She Wrote as they stream on Netflix. Sigh. I would complain about the utter waste of time, but…I love it.

This last thing going on in my life is a bit beyond bullets and a quick summary. You remember this. Well, things got kind of interesting. As in the quiet, almost nonchalant way I was approaching my feelings about this individual didn’t necessarily change, but I was talking about him a lot. A lot. Talking about him turned into wondering whether he shared my feelings, which turned into he obviously shared my feelings, based on his peripheral staring of me, which turned into a much-needed intervention from my concerned best friend after listening to my ramblings about this guy. I lost my marbles a bit. Side-eyed staring (which seriously happened like two times) and other non-events are not indicators of mutual interest. In the end, I’m just grateful for the tough love dispensed by my bestie. Said tough love even inspired me to write an essay, which I submitted here for consideration. I’ll provide updates should it be published. Anyway, crushes are ok, but I want more and will hold out for just that.

Onwards, and bon weekend!

warsan shire.

15 Mar

Because it’s Friday, and because I love sharing poetry that plays volleyball with my little heart:

This is Warsan Shire. Warsan is a poet, a linguist, a talent, a light, a mirror to almost everything you and I have experienced and will yet experience in life. My friend and I trade her poems like baseball cards. A few of her works are below. Lastly, go to her Tumblr, please. Buy her book. Fall in love with her.

34 excuses for why we failed at love.

1. I’m lonely so I do lonely things.

2. Loving you was like going to war, I never came back the same.
3. You hate women, just like your father and his father, so it runs in your blood.
4. I was wandering the derelict car park of your heart looking for a ride home.
5. You’re a ghost town I’m too patriotic to leave.
6. I stay because you’re the beginning of the dream I want to remember.
7. I didn’t call him back because he likes his girls voiceless.
8. It’s not that he’s wants to be a liar, it’s just that he doesn’t know the truth.
9. I couldn’t love you, you were a small war.
10. We covered the smell of loss with jokes.
11. I didn’t want to fail at love like our parents.
12. You made the nomad in me build a house and stay.
13. I’m not a dog.
14. We were trying to prove our blood wrong.
15. I was still lonely so I did even lonelier things.
16. Yes, I’m insecure, but so was my mother and her mother.
17. No, he loves me he just makes me cry a lot.
18. He knows all of my secrets and still wants to kiss me.
19. You were too cruel to love for a long time.
20. It just didn’t work out.
21. My dad walked out one afternoon and never came back.
22. I can’t sleep because I can still taste him in my mouth.
23. I cut him out at the root , he was my favourite tree, rotting, threatening the foundations of my home.
24. The women in my family die waiting.
25. Because I didn’t want to die waiting for you.
26. I had to leave, I felt lonely when he held me.
27. You’re the song I rewind until I know all the words and I feel sick.
28. He sent me a text that said ‘I love you so bad’
29. His heart wasn’t as beautiful as his smile.
30. We emotionally manipulated one another until we thought it was love.
31. Forgive me, I was lonely so I chose you.
32. I’m a lover without a lover
33. I’m lovely and lonely.
34. I belong deeply to myself.

 

inheritance

Where did you get those big eyes?

My mother.

And where did you get those lips?

My mother.

And the loneliness?

My mother.

And that broken heart?

My mother.

And the absence, where did you get that?

My father.

i’m not sad

but the boys who are looking for sad girls always find me. i’m not a girl anymore and i’m not sad anymore. you want me to be a tragic backdrop so that you can appear to be illuminated, so that people can say ‘wow, isn’t he so terribly brave to love a girl who is so obviously sad?’ you think i’ll be the dark sky so you can be the star? i’ll swallow you whole.

the craft

the first line of a poem should usher you in,

a door half open,

a warm glow,

an empty seat.

the last line should punch you in the stomach.

tripping the light liptastic.

6 Sep

Funny, how you learn something and it kind of changes everything? A bit vague, yes, so I will happily elaborate (and you know I will).

This past weekend, my Mother and I discussed how there are a few things in life I simply cannot take, accept, or stand. One of those things is teasing. I don’t like to be teased. In any way. Tongue-in-cheek teasing, jokey jokey teasing, whatever–when it happens, my insides shrivel up and I am transported back to the nauseating days of my adolesence, when my peers had no problem choosing something they considered “odd” or “weird” about me and commenced with mercilessly teasing and mocking me about it. (Super sensitive? Why, yes, I am. But I still reserve the right to despise it, thankyouverymuch.) Out of all the humiliating, teasing moments I’ve experienced (and there have been so, so many; trust that I will be penning a book for adolescent/teen girls on how to just plain survive in the near future), Mom and I discussed a singular, significant moment in my past that always stands out. It stands out for various reasons, but following last weekend’s discussion, I look at that moment now from an entirely different and far more powerful perspective.

Picture it: Surburbia, Northern VA, 1989 (I love you, Sophia Petrillo): I was a new sixth-grader at a brand new elementary school; quiet, shy, terrified by my new surroundings. That day, we sat on the nubby, brown-carpeted floor in the chorus room waiting for our chorus teacher. I was sitting against the wall, next to the radiator, facing a group of my classmates. I remember one of them lifting up his finger to point (this culprit, the ringleader, would resurface time and time again in my young life) at me, after which he started chanting, “Fish lips, fish lips, look at her fish lips.” A gaggle of other kids followed suit, pointing, chanting, and laughing. I remember wondering–I suppose this was the first manifestation of my whole delayed reaction thing–who they were pointing, chanting, and laughing at. I looked around me. I even laughed a little. Then I noticed that the few kids who weren’t pointing, chanting, and laughing were looking at me with strange, sad faces. The others who couldn’t look just stared down at the ground. It became clear: I was the target of the pointing, chanting, and laughing. I blinked in surprise…in confusion…in embarassment…in pain. My stomach dropped. I remember feeling dizzy. Why were they doing this to me? It kept going until our chorus teacher entered the room, when everything became conveniently quiet and still again. How did I react later, you wonder? Did I cry? Hold a grudge against the mongrels? Tell my little sister (who would have figured out a way to pound each of their faces in), my parents? None of the above. I did nothing. After the shock and pain wore off, I stopped thinking about it. I even became friends with two of the girls that had been part of the mocking crew, both of whom later subjected me to daily doses of peer pressure and further humiliation. Maybe it’s the wiring of a child’s mind, to forget and forgive so easily. I digress. Recall my statement about delayed reaction? Well, I did react eventually…for the next several years:

  • I started to cover my mouth when I smiled or laughed.
  • I hated seeing my lips in photos.
  • I would look in the mirror and stare at my lips in disdain.
  • I became so sensitive about my lips that when someone would look in my direction, I wondered if they were gawking at them.

A subconscious, toxic imprint was created in me that day, a fact I didn’t realize until later. Nevertheless, this really isn’t about the damage that day did and my long journey in finally accepting these lips and by extension, this face, and even larger, who I am as a person. What I now find incredible about that terrible day goes back to last weekend, during the aforementioned discussion with my Mom. Last weekend was when I learned something I never knew before: Mom revealed that my late father was so teased about his lips that he grew a moustache to take the attention off them.

I was shocked. How could anyone tease my father, who was arguably the most handsome man I knew? And yes, I’m biased, but I happen to know that plenty of people share this opinion, ok? My Pops was a looker.

Even more incredulous: my Dad and I had shared the same struggle in trying to hide something that had no business being hidden.

But here comes the new perspective I mentioned earlier. Drumroll, please: finding out what my Dad went through with his self-image reminds me of how alike we really were. Good or bad, I love this. I love it times 100. Because knowing what he went through makes me identify with him even more, understand him even more, and appreciate the memory of him even more and more. Not only that, the revelation about my father strips away the power from the kids that chose to–for whatever psychological reason–target me. When I think about that day or speak of it now, I’ll only remember that my beloved dad went through it and he got throught it. Just like I did. You’re just like your father (heard it my whole life) has never meant more to me.

So these luscious lips of mine? They’re beautiful, plump, pronounced, and so liptastic. I stopped being ashamed of them a long time ago. And why not? I got them from my father.

BJ & FE SCOTT

...LIVING THE BEST LIFE EVER!

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