Turkey Resolutions

I am realizing now that I am going to struggle my way through the end of this year. Why? Because I don't listen to my mother and all that she tells me to do. If I did I would be much safer from the cruelties of the world and most likely in some state of ignorant bliss. I have begun to draft a list of things that will help next year be better....

1. Don't drink so much. Not because I drink excessively or anything but because without fail, whenever I drink, I make an ass out of myself or say irrevokable things (as many of us do, so I imagine).

2. Don't smoke so much. Again, not because I smoke too much but because I believe that one loves from their lungs. It is a choice to breath each and every breath and release it, just like love. Smoking is like saying, fuck love.

3. Don't kiss/love/get involved/make best friends with men that you cant futurize about/with. Not that I am involved with many married men but it is just a terrible idea and causes too much emotional confussion and pain.

4. Believe in the ability to do good things in the best interest of people and their hearts and selves. So, I can affect people but do I really want to shred them up and leave them just because I can and it is less painful for me?

5. If you do something wrong, apologize, don't turn it around on someone else. I blame rhetoric and the ability to debate through words as opposed truth. I find that I can generally win, but should I?

6. Explore hard and always give into the hunger for more. I am where I am because of the unwavering thirst to know and be known. I am miserable when I give into anything other than that.

7. Really work on the drama thing. I would like to say that I am less drama but good with words. That translates into: through words I can magnify the small amount of drama in my life to make it appear more interesting. I would like to be a little bit more plain and softened next year.

8. Keep on truckin'. Rough patches will smooth over so don't dwell. dont dwell. dont hold on too tight. dont hold your breath. when you do hold your breath. dont forget to gasp for air. dont let yourself be blinded. always run faster.

I am sure there is more but resolutions are a work in progress. I am trying to figure out where I want to go with this blog thing. I am not sure if what I am going through these days is really worth writing about. Not as in worth of being read but as in worth what I have to go through to filter out how I feel, who is reading, and what I actually want to put into words.

My grandmother hates the idea of me writing because everything she reads seems like it should be private..... if she only knew. I am now beginning to feel more aware what it means to make emotions public and I think that goes against my resolution number... 7. Overall the resolutions have all been heard before. We are all going through generally the same things we just choose different ways to learn our lessons. I may want to take a humble bow and learn my lessons more privately from now on.

Don't worry. If I actually do give this all up, I will provide a nicer bow out.

welding and dancing by the pane of glass

I read that people are advised to try a "peaceful mind exercise" if they are struggling going to bed at night. After tossing and turning or slipping out of drug-like experiences of sleep I have started to do the exact opposite of mind-easing meditations. I have found on multiple occasions that bringing myself out of my bed and dancing like a crazy woman in the darkness is my only resolve. Streaks of moonlight and stripes from streetlamps chase my bare legs and belly through the slats of the blinds. I am painted and dicernable only through movement. I listen to the most riling music and motion inspiring jigs that I can find on my i-pod and rock my body as though I never wanted tomorrow to come.

and the stress, and the thoughts, and the unease, and all that comes with facing the cieling as night draws deeper into itself........ it washes away.

It slips off the sides of my hips as they sway into some imaginative figure with power and purpose. It bounces away as I lollygag with such determination in the darkness. One would never know it from listening at the door that there was even a mouse (which there is). The pads of my feet as they two-step and shuffle about make nothing but smothered sounds against the hard linoleum floors. Not until my breath overpowers the air that I am blending with my body would one know that somthing is stiring and overflowing within my little room.

And what do I do before that? I weld. I put on my blue workers uniform, a strap on the multiple layers of leather to protect my gut, arms, and anything else that might be exposed to the orange glow that I have come to love, and I bind metal to metal, mask over face. I have given up on any other sort of romance or love because so far it is the only one that I can actually make something out of. Of course it is nothing to know that I am the first woman to weld at UNEX and that I am damn good at it for my first time.

Twine Unwinding

This week has been of emotional highs and lows. The stress of being stationary is pushing me from all directions. It is the raw truth of the matter; if you stay in one place, make yourself known, come to know others, you are making a commitment to deal with whatever comes to the table. It is hard to know about yourself that under a certain light you are wonderful with people, love them, and love getting to know them, and as that light transforms so do you. In the slightest difference of shade you want to run and hide and not deal with people at all. The wise ones tell you that boundries are to be learned but even in the most insightful moments I think to myself "Why do I have to have boundries? People should know what they are getting into all on their own and whether or not I have boundries does not decide whether or not they hold their own".

I am tired of the place that I am in and am wondering how I got to a place where I feel stuck. Is leaving tomorrow as easy as I am allowing it to be in my mind? I have learned by now, always have an escape plan. If you dig yourself into a hole you at some point have to figure out how to dig yourself out of it. I need to learn to throw a long enough rope from the top before I get to deep to leap out. Next time I will remember this period of my life and force myself to provide a way out from the maze. Paper trails or something.

The wind is blowing today. It may just take me away with it.

červený mlýn

Something like Tolkien's "cellar door", červený mlýn just sounds beautiful to me. Aside from that I have nothing much to say about red mills.

The pads of my feet are hitting the pavement with less weight and more purpose. A lofty something or other has taken hold of me and whispered sweet nothings into my ears. I am feeling a sensation that one can only feel before something is going to happen in their life. Spending a weekend in Prague with Patrick was refreshing. It was nice to speak with little force or concentration for long periods of time. I had forgotton what it meant to talk freely and fluidly with someone who knows about where you come from. There was no explaining about badass happenings because we both just knew that they happened where we come from. There was no forcing conversations and filtering them. There was laughter, and romping, and cheersing, and haircutting, and singing, and long walks through the streets. I was much more frightened of seeing someone from home than I should have been but Patrick was the perfect person to relieve that.

I am anxiously and almost drunkenly suffering through this day. I am so ready to be proud of being an American when Obama takes his rightfully desereved spot in the White House. Aside from the fact that I was out all night making company with the rims of glasses and partaking in potentially scandaless activities, this new feeling of giddy and anxt has much to do with the election. Things are happening around the world and it feels good to be able to feel it.

I would love nothing more than to go dancing. At this moment I would do anything to be at Blevins Junior High or back at a Splash Dance nervously waiting to be asked to dance by Nathan Minatta. Which never happened by the way, he was much too cool for me. Anyways, the point is, I feel silly and young and I would love to go to a dance.

This is officially the worst post I have ever written and I am sorry for exposing you to such drabble. I will do better next time.

Stick your head in the sand

I started to write last week that I wasn't planning on visiting Petr but that I did anyway. I never had the time during the week to finish that post and so it became forgotton. I intended to get on this week to write and found that what I wanted to write had already been written.

I wasn't planning on visiting Petr last weekend but I found that I did anyway, again. There is really no reason not to go. I have fun when I am there, it feels homey, and I can speak Czech all weekend. I was reading Paul Theroux's story about how when he was traveling at twenty-two he new that all of the foreign girls that he found himself entangled with would do anything to hear those words. The words that mothers tell their children and lovers whisper to each other. Theroux, knowing the sacrifice, refused to say it and worked his ass off to get where he could with the next fresh thing on the market. He knew that it was a painless three words to erase the unease of a heated conversation. He knew that his pride would be carved away when he released his firm hold on what he loved and what he didn't. I just lie. I, like Thoroux, know the damage those simple words can do. We both knowingly and willingly admit to loving everything and everyone but some, especially those who want to feel different from the croud don't understand how one can love everyone and everything. They puddle over the idea and that is why Theroux chooses not to say it. I on the other hand have no fear in saying it because at any moment I can jump ship. When he finally does say it, to get somewhere that is and not truly, it is a scandal. We are both scandaless I guess. All paths lead home and we each choose our own to get there.

The point is. One day my dear Petr will learn English, explore into my writings, and all will be revealed to him at a time that is appropriate.

On another note. For the past six months I have kept myself from home and kept home from me. It has been my only way to protect myself from the cruelties of truth etc. Well, home has begun to hunt me down. I picked up Patrick on a whim at the train station in Brno and I was truly excited. Thrilled to see his little face, pronounced nose, sharp but child like sparkle in his eyes, peeking out the window of the cabin as it raced to a halt in front of me. A leap and a bound later with a few shreaks and school girl noises into our greating it was not as painful as I suspected it could be. Familiar faces really can ease out wrinkles and callouses. It was nice to have time with a friend. Someone that knows me and forces me to acknowledge that I have a past.

On the Side: Collected Tales of Mistresses

Deep in some jungle in a country unknown to us there was a young man, growing older at an unusual pace. His years preceded his behavior and one would blankly stare at the thought of him being as old as he actually was. Even his face, with a significant amount of imperfections and scars, reminded one of a young man suffering from a slightly bad complexion. He, like most young men in those parts, was openly sexual but had exclusively been seeing one woman for a long enough time that it was nearly impossible to escape. They were a perfect example of how young love can turn into a thorn in ones side. There is no out because there is doubt in the want to flee. But, alas, there is still the desperation for greener grass, wetter loins, and more passion. A young girl would eventually enter into his life and tickle his fancy. He paid no mind to the fact that he had a woman, he openly paid mind to freshness. The young girl was by no means looking for love but enjoyed playing the games of flirtation and secretly took pride that she could woo those who were taken. She never faltered in designing a character and a love that to him seemed as though could last forever. The design is perfect and of lofty intentions. He was happy to have her in the driveway behind gates, and she was happy to not give it another thought. Such scandals she coaxed out of others lives. Although it is only a scandal if it is revealed. That alone may be cause for defining the different breeds of mistresses. One day she moved on only to think of him under a certain light that rarely shown. He longed for her endlessly but was happy that he still had a thorn in his side and was glad to have kept her.

. . . .

An underage smart ass with too many names for the city to keep up with walked into her usual bar. The bar tenders' eyes light up and an of character smile with a hint of sleaze and anticipation welcomed her in. Her confidence confused him and aroused him. From the first time she ordered a Bloody Mary he didn't think twice about carding her. If she was underage, he didn't want to know. He had been open about his marriage and yet on one particular night, up against a wall one would find them on the brink of heat and pressure. She had no interest in him at all and found it pathetic that he would get married in the first place if he would feel any desire to stray. She was more interested in the man who worked across the street in a little coffee shop. He too had a nice young girl waiting for him at home but couldn´t resist sneaking into the basement after hours with his mistress for a different aftertaste.

. . . .

In another corner of the world a seemingly happily married man was driven to near madness by his jealous wife. Despite the fact that they were still young and attracted to each other, had made a beautiful family, and lived in a beautiful home, she would not release herself from the thought of him wooing other woman. That same man, kinder than most one would meet in the period of a month, befriended a woman. They did not seek each other out based off of attraction they merely met under normal circumstances and conversation came easily for them. Conversation came easily for both of them with everyone but it was nice to meet someone of the same mind and relish in diving into it. Had she been of homely features the wife would not have paid much mind, but the woman was younger, had a lot in common with her husband, and had a look about her that felt like a threat. Deep down the woman and the husband were truly sad that they could not enjoy each others company and conversation but hid the sadness as proof that not every attraction had to be an affair.

. . . .

Some girl stared off into the mountain side through large panes of glass. The heating vent is blasting hot air straight onto her and she still shivers. Her sadness can be described by anyone else left for another but she still seems alone in her new feat to face each day alone and with a love lost. Somewhere in the same scope a mindless girl who wooed the broken heart's love will face the same mountain side another day because of her stake in the affair. Over and over and over again.

. . . .

I very unhappily married man is stunned by a new light that enters into his life. He has the opportunity to flirt and feel attractive so he takes it. He grabs hold of the opportunity to complement honestly and whole heartedly. He has the brief pleasure of being able to warm up to her in the night and hold her close and feel like everything is going to be ok. He forgets that he is miserable and allows himself to feel the happiness of wrapping his arms around another. When the morning comes he reminds himself that though he may still be young and attractive, he is still married. He puts off thinking of how to be happy and free without being a failure and a cheat.

Uničov: the world is my pup tent

This part of the Czech Republic is like walking through a story that is trying to illustrate a history so deep that it fails miserably in doing so. When I say this part I mean the seemingly large but fenced of area that my new job is contained in. The streets are grey and worn down just as the buildings that are scattered and placed beside them. Thousands walk around in their thick cotton trousers and matching button up shirts in an unaturally vibrant blue dulled by hard labor. Oil, smears made by remanants of metals, and an aroma of all that is flesh and all that is not melded into one.

My first night in the bloc inspired temporary housing reminded me of my first night in San Francisco. Now, over two years later, I can tell that I have aged. That night I cried. I was there on the basis that I had something to prove to the world, that I could in fact do whatever I wanted and be great at it. I was sad that it was harder than I wanted it to be. Now days I have no one to prove anything to. The people that I wanted to prove something to I dont really care for anymore. The people that humored me at first now just think I am long gone. The rest dont know me and so I have nothing to prove only a life to live to meet my own expecations. If they find it strange they came to that notion on their own.

The girls at the office have been more than welcoming. I think they are happy to have a fresh face around and it helps that I have a substantial amount of Czech because I was immediatly treated with a higher respect. Every morning I walk the fifteen minutes or so from my door through the many blockades and diversions, I make my way through the monsterous concrete building and step into the office for the day. An assortment of emails and conversations are sifted through and then I make my way bake. I have been reading some travel journals and flirting with the idea of getting bolder in my writing. Thoroux, at sixty, after a lifetime of travel and storytelling wrote that a true teller of stories really has only one to tell. I want to make sure that I dont let go of mine to soon. So, I will continue filtering out tales of impure thoughts and unthinkable acts and encouters and stick to the daily hum drum. I am feally weak though and have the urge to get it down on paper. It is a shame that is something I will have to train myself to do. To have a mind for writing for myself in a book bound only to me.

The pup tent was his space away from uncomfortability. The kitchen table, the conversations, the people who loved unconditionally, they made him uneasy. He always ran to the pup tent to feel safe, to feel alone, to feel alive, and to feel real.