cheeto puffs and cigarettes

Dark times inspire dark writing. I don't have much to say as a precursor, here. Just that as humans, we beat ourselves up for things, sometimes for things that weren't even our fault, or sometimes for reasons we can't quite discern. I guess life is a constant struggle to love yourself and treat yourself well and learn what you need. Some people learn from the mistakes of others, and some must learn for themselves by repeating mistakes over and over again. It's all a journey. And with every journey there are battles. I must thank a dear friend of mine for giving me the title of this piece and thus encouraging me to write the rest. You know who you are and I love you.
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cheeto puffs and cigarettes by victoria rose

Her hands smelled of cheeto puffs and cigarettes. It was a strange, repugnant combination – one of self-destruction, of sabotage. She was out to commit a crime. She was out to be an adulterer…to herself. It was her first cigarette, her first pack. She held the limp “cancer stick” up to her lips, pretending that she was Greta Garbo. She stared at her pale reflection in the car mirror as she puffed and blew the smoke out through her chapped lips. She wanted to pollute her lungs, pollute herself. But she also wanted to be romantic.

Why did she want to hurt herself, you ask? She didn’t really know. This was new to her, this form of self-mutilation, this desecration. Up to this point, punishment came in the form of casual “sexcapades” – ones that made the emptiness deeper and more tangible. She would get lonely, search through her cell phone address book, pick a number at random, invite herself over, fool around while fantasizing about the man of her dreams, and leave feeling less fulfilled and less desirable than before. Now she wanted something harsher.

An innocent, she wanted to corrupt herself with things she’d scoffed for years. She was the kind of girl that thought drinking was a conformist act, didn’t understand smoking because "it is clearly carcinogenic," and refused recreational drugs because she was hyper-sensitive– she didn’t need a chemical alteration to feel creative and found it less legitimate, and almost a form of cheating when other people did. Now, here she was, driving aimlessly around Los Angeles, at 3:30 AM, because she had nowhere to go, nowhere to turn, with a pack of cigarettes in hand, looking for a drinking buddy, and fantasizing about doing something big. She was actively searching for the big, bad, wolf instead of meandering along to her grandmother’s cottage unaware of the darkness existing within the forest.

Her home was hell, so she couldn’t go there. In fact, she felt she had no home at all. Every enclosed space bred claustrophobia, and every outdoor one made her feel small. At a loss, she parked on a random neighborhood street. She had intended to go to the beach, but realized midway through the drive that parking would be a hassle, and strange men might lurk in the shadows. While she was feeling destructive and dangerous, she didn’t have an immediate death wish.

She stood outside, leaned up against her car door, stared up at the darkened night sky and the few and far between dull, twinkling stars, and puffed on her cigarette. It wasn’t lit. She used the cheap red lighter she had bought at the Shell gas station, along with the Parliaments, and the cheeto puffs, and a pack of gum, and where she exchanged her self-worth as currency, and watched the flames burn down the paper. It looked strikingly beautiful.

She put the cigarette up to her lips, inhaled, exhaled, and felt a bit calmer. Hurting herself made her feel better. Even though it wasn’t physical pain, it was “bad,” conceptually, and for some reason that made her feel peaceful. She was so accustomed to being good. And what good had it done her?

She opened the bag of cheeto puffs, and crunched down on one, the cheese collecting in between the indentations of her molars. When did life get this convoluted? She wondered, almost aloud. It’s always been difficult, but when did it get to the point when others hurting her wasn’t enough, that now she had to resort to self-sabotage? She threw the cigarette onto the slicked pavement, channeling the femme fatales in the forties, stepped on it with the tip of her sandal, and sighed. She got back into her car and decided it was time to get wasted. No more aimless driving, no more aimless thoughts. Decisiveness. This girl will self-destruct in…3…2…1…

Blast off.

The Birthday Party

The Birthday Party

The Birthday Party was written at the Stanford Discovery Institute, the summer before my Senior year of high school. It is a vignette describing a birthday party from a third-person perspective, and then from one of the character's points of view AKA first-person narration. Strangely, later in life, this past year, I made a short film entitled: Karl's Big Day which is strikingly reminiscent of this written piece. (You can view Karl's Big Day HERE - if vimeo asks for a password, type in KARL) Anyway, I had completely forgotten about "The Birthday Party", at least consciously, when I made this film. So for some odd reason, drunken clowns, the subject matter for both, have a penchant for floating in and out of my mind and making their way into my creative works. I haven't quite delved deeply enough to figure out what this represents or why I care about this figure so much. Maybe you, Reader, will solve the mystery of my obsession with the fallen funny man. Enjoy.

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The Birthday Party: 3rd Person

Mara clenched her 5-year-old fist around the 3 apple-red balloons. Her innocent cherub face was covered with a huge grin and 2 dimples that her papa called "craters on the moon". This wasn't any ordinary sunny west coast day; it was her birthday. A day of laughter, black and white cake, and boxes wrapped in colorfully printed and checkered paper. Mara was especially excited about this particular birthday celebration and she could hardly go to sleep the night before due to the sparks and flutters in her stomach. Her papa had promised that this party would far surpass her previous ones. Not only would there be party games such as "pin the tail on the donkey or "musical chairs", but there would be a really funny clown - the clown that went to Sally McDougal's 5th birthday party and the other overly privileged, rich girls from Mara's school. Mara and George (whom Mara called Papa) lived alone and in terms of material wealth, were struggling. Their home, covered in ivy and bug spray, and reeking of an unidentified musty odor, was barely presentable. The cream-colored paint was chipping, but it had character. George worked as hard as he possibly could and wrinkles had started to form on his always-sweaty forehead. He had crow's feet around his eyes, making him appear gentle and kind. He worked at a small insurance company in Inglewood, but most of the time the clients were so impoverished and distraught that he provided service free of charge. However, no matter how kind-hearted or hard-working he was, George never felt adequate enough. He had to be the mother and the father, the provider, for his dear little Mara. George could only imagine how difficult it must be for Mara to not have the warm, soothing coo of a mother's voice or the loving, tender touch from a mother's arms. He wanted to make the world a better place for his daughter and if he hired Craig the Clown and spread a little joy and light into Mara's face for one afternoon he would feel that much closer to success. So, he had pulled together all his spare change, which he kept in a tiny glass jar under the kitchen sink. For years he had saved up: searching through dirty couch cushions, and on hot pavement, for pennies, coins that would accumulate to the grand total. And finally, they did. Unfortunately, here he was, standing on the porch, with those worried wrinkles getting deeper and more defined. It was 3:00 PM and Craig was supposed to have arrived at 1:00 PM, right after lunch. He alternated glancing at his tightly fitted black wristwatch that his father had given him and at the smiling, glowing face of Mara. He was lucky one of the mothers had taken the reigns and lead an elongated group game of hide-and-go seek. Should he tell Mara that Craig the Clown wasn't coming? No, he did not want to see the disappointment on her precious face. Should he wait longer? No, that wouldn't be fair to all the guests. The parents' backs were starting to sag and their phony smiles were starting to fade. Sighs were coming from the children who were patiently waiting on the grassy lawn, the ones who opted out of the communal game, tired of playing, wanting to see this commodity, this climax: Craig the Clown. But not little Mara, her face stayed in a permanent grin. She was hopeful, and she waited happily in anticipation for what she thought would be the greatest day of her life.

The Birthday Party: 1st Person

I really just didn't want to go to work today. I am sick and tired of driving all around town in my shitty old van. By now, I hate little kids, which I never thought was even possible. Their runny noses, the dirty diapers, the endless crying and red little faces. They really get on my last fucking nerve. I know I sound like an ass, but after 20 some odd years of going to kid's birthday parties and wearing a big-ass red ball on your nose, and huge shoes that you trip in constantly, you would feel the same way too. This morning, after swallowing some pills that are supposed to cure a hangover (that shit never works but I keep taking them any way), I put on my orange wig, and my "clown clothes", which by the way, I don't think I've washed in about 2 months now. Honestly, what's the point? I feel pathetic. I just had my own birthday a few days ago. May 8th. And I turned 40. Maybe this is my mid-life crisis or whatever Dr. Phil or those other people talk about on TV. Whatever. Even though I didn't feel like plastering on my famously happy "Craig the Clown" face, I dragged myself to the van. I sped on the freeway, driving about 80 miles per hour. At least my piece of shit van can pick up speed. I took the Rosita Street Exit that was posted on the big green sign and I turned onto the street. This was the poorest neighborhood I had ever gone to. Most people who hire me are these rich pretentious bitches who spend their husband's money. That's why I never got married. Too much responsibility, not enough time alone. I parked my van far away from the actual house, hoping that the air might clear my head. I needed to prepare myself and practice my signature "Craig the Clown" laugh. They don't pay me the big bucks for nothing. My laugh is the shit. I've worked on it for years. I've developed it, honed it. I guess I'm kind of proud of it. Wow. I really am pathetic. Anyway, I took one clunky foot step after another, I hate those fucking shoes, and stopped when I saw bunches of red balloons tied onto a fence surrounding THE crappiest house I'd ever seen. I mean, my apartment looks like a fucking mansion compared to this. I stopped behind a big oak tree in front of their house because I wanted to get the general feeling of the party, see how many people were there, see if there were any whores who might give me a blow job or something after the party. Some women are like that. You would be surprised. They get a thrill out of blowing a clown. These married women, man, I'm telling you. Pretty fucked up. I saw the little kids sitting on the lawn, the parents lined by the "refreshment table, talking "amongst" themselves (yeah I got a proper education, I know grammar), and then I noticed the dad. The parent is always the one who looks worried. I tried to find the birthday kid; I had forgotten whether it was a girl or a boy. Normally he will have a party hat on or he is extra loud and obnoxious, but I didn't see anyone that stood out. After scanning the party, I saw her. I hate to admit it but she was really cute. Smiling and everything, looking real sweet, unlike the bratty kids I usually have to deal with - you know, the ones that yank my nose off, or tie my shoelaces together; the ones that pop my balloons after I have turned them into dogs or flowers. I didn't see a mom anywhere. The mom is usually the one running around trying to set everything up, making sure everything is in order. That's when I remembered. This was the call my boss told me about, specifically. It was the little girl who lost her mom in the fire a few years ago. I felt like such an asshole. Here I was, this 40 year old clown, hiding behind a giant tree, spying on the birthday party I was supposed to be at 2 hours ago. I didn't know what to do. My head was pounding from the beer and grinding techno music from the strip club I had been to the night before. I felt like complete shit and I wanted to quit my job and stay locked up in my house watching crap TV shows like Jerry Springer or Roseanne. But here was this poor girl without a mom, waiting for ME. I didn't know what the hell to do. I could either go to the party despite my shitty mood or possibly ruin what this little girl thought would be the best day of her life.

Ode to an Orange

Written Sophomore Year of High School at L'Acadamie de Paris. Orange in hand - I was inspired to write this piece. The orange, of which I speak, also represents a person in my life. It's strange how spiritual a piece of fruit can be. Running your fingers across the indentations and marks, feeling the bumpiness of the skin or the peel. We take the beauty and richness of color, scent, and taste so much for granted in our daily life, but it is truly something to study. Here is your daily dose of vitamin C:

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Ode to an Orange

How did you detach from your stem, your tree, your family?

Were you plucked relentlessly when you weren't ready?

Or did you fall with a loud thud onto the soil canopy below?

Willing to leave, wanting to search and see

Seductive

Mysterious

With your simple peel

But inside -

Full of succulent some-what sour juice

With fleshy pulp that gets stuck in stained teeth

Refreshing, tempting

Desired on hot summer days after a roll in the mud

Strong

Independent

Inside you are soft

Bitable, chewable, easily shred

Vulnerable

Unlike your hard exterior

Of minor scratches and engravings

Scars, remembrances -

Of your journey

From the intimidating tree

To my warm, accepting hand

Schizophrenic Snow Globe Thoughts

The strange thing is...I don't even remember when I wrote this. I must have been contemplative and in a particularly dreary, angry, hateful mood. But the actual act of writing this, what I was thinking, what spawned this creativity-  is lost. I typically remember exactly why and how and what inspired me to write pieces - but this escapes me. This lapse of memory means something. What that something is? I'm not sure... I do remember hunching over the computer, and standing while I wrote - which means it was really flowing out of my fingers - that I wasn't censoring, and I wasn't thinking. But then again, I never really think about what I write - it just travels out,  like breath, like a long exhale, like a meditation. This is a fictional piece - with bits of reality, or realistic undertones/emotions I should say. But let me clarify one thing: I do NOT go into online chatrooms. Haha. Don't get me wrong - I did in middle school, when that was the "kool" thing to do. But I haven't gone into a chatroom since eighth grade when my friend and I fought over a cyber boy who was simultaneously flirting with both of us. Very dramatic. Oh, middle school. Enjoy the darkness. 

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Sometimes I trace your outline with my fingertips across the wooden floor. I close my eyes, envision your smile, the wrinkled lines by your eyes, and I laugh silently to myself. Sometimes, I'll lick an ice-cream cone, and the chocolate will get on my nose, maybe a few rainbow sprinkles, and I imagine you there wiping it off with a folded napkin, shaking your head at me. Sometimes I'll be talking to someone. I won't hear a sound besides the wind, whirring loudly into my ears, resounding and pounding like a drum. And I remember the way you would dance. 

No one knows about these thoughts. I don't tell anyone. I keep it to myself. I plaster a goofy grin on my face, nod at everything they say, and I listen. I listen to every word, but I don't hear what they are saying, because I don't genuinely care. I am only thinking of you. What you would say. Your voice is in my head, like a commentator from the horse races. 

Sometimes I worry that I've become schizophrenic. That the words I conjure up and form in my mind, though I know they are fictional or excerpts of things you once said, are not conscious. Then I have a Truman Show moment and wonder if anyone in my life is real. Once I lost my friend in a department store. I felt dizzy and light headed and parched. She was gone. I wondered if she had ever been there to begin with. Then she reappeared. But maybe I'm just that crazy person everyone stares at, everyone humors. I suppose I'll never know.

Sometimes I'll go into an online chatroom and pretend to be you. I say what I think you would say, laugh when I think you would laugh, be sarcastic or funny or rude or ill-tempered the way I remember you to be. It is my way of keeping you alive. Is that sick? Is that unhealthy? I know it is. But I continue to do it. 

Sometimes I'll sit under a tree, a giant oak or a tall fern, and pretend that you are dead. I pretend that you are a spirit, and that the soil and the earth underneath me, the wind blowing through the leaves, the fallen blossoms are a culmination of you. I talk to you, and people, passersby, think I'm in mourning. They think I have lost someone. I suppose I have.

Sometimes I get into my car and I scream and sob at the wheel. And at the red light the people in the car next to me look into the window, and I feel like I'm in a movie. They don't know why I'm crying, and they probably come up with far-fetched, ridiculous stories. In truth, I'm only crying about you - as inconsequential as you may seem. When I heave in and out, my chest pumping, my breath shortening and my eyes filled to the lid with tears, I feel calm, I feel real. I feel at peace with you. I feel angry with you. 

Sometimes I look at the moon and the stars, when I am walking alone at night. I tilt my head up and feel trapped in a snow globe, and I wonder when you are going to shake me up again. When is the snow going to fall? I don't see the sky expanding. I see it moving downward, closing in on me. But I feel connected to the moon. I wonder if you look at it too. I wonder if we look at the moon at the same time, feel a sense of reassurance, a sense of beautiful sadness. I wonder if we feel poetic at the same time, and close our eyes together and feel the breeze ripple through our hair. I'd like to think we do. 

When I feel contemplative like this, I often wish I had some place to go. A quiet mountainside by the beach, with padded grass and daisies. Without intruders. Just me and a checkered blanket. I would play with the strands of fabric, thinking to myself, looking up at the sky, looking down at the earth, wondering how we evolved, and you would come. You - my saving grace from the world, my saving grace from myself. You would hold me. You would tell me that everything would be alright. That I didn't have to worry anymore. That I didn't have to question the world. But when I did, you would give me your thoughts and they would provoke me to new, profound levels. And we would sit, on my red checkered blanket, huddled in eachothers warmth, until the sun came up and we didn't feel alone anymore.

Barcelona, it was the first time that we met, Barcelona, how can I forget

I wrote this passage after a mesmerizing experience in Guadi's Park Guell in Barcelona. In the Spring Semester 08 I studied abroad in London and over my break I went to Paris and then Barcelona. Visiting the park grounds was one of the highlights of my trip, due to the tremendous scenery and the general sense of peace and serenity I gained simply from stepping foot onto the property. The photograph to the right is one that I took while looking out from the top of Park Guell. The man pictured was a stranger and unaware of my camera - I captured him in his true form - taking in the view, just as I did. 

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I climbed steadily up towards  the top of  a cobblestone,  cemented hill.  I passed small trinket stores, hearing American accents and English words. After beads of sweat began to form in the small of my back and on my brow (as I was covered in my down jacket), we finally reached the pinnacle. Roaming green hills and marble arches adorned with mosaics of blues and greens, a sea of rich, shiny colors, created a serene yet visually stimulating atmosphere. A statue of a lizard, a tile image of an octopus, splayed across the wall, among countless other creations, specifically imitations of trees, plants, flowers, and other kinds of natural foliage were interspersed and plastered on the architecture throughout the park. Large oak trees formed shade for observers while white manufactured halls and columns paved the way to several natural dirt paths. We walked in silence, except for the crunching of the earth beneath our feet. My eyes drifted outwards and scanned the Barcelona coast, the sun beating down across my face, the warmth feeling soothing and inviting. I saw the sea, sparkling in the light, behind a foreground of expansive buildings and construction sites. People were close to each other, involved in laughter and conversation,  wrapped in blankets, resting on hard benches, faces upward towards the sky. I found a spot upon a hill that spoke to me, somewhere in between the engraved cacti and rock-covered ground. I sat on a large stone and told myself to commit to one action: breathing. I inhaled solitude and respite - lingering on my own thoughts. My back was slouched but my head was held high. I was in a completely relaxed state, deeply involved in my interior world, yet not concerned with worries or fears. It was a time of reflection and a chance to let go and relinquish any baggage that had been weighing down on me. When it was time to leave, we walked in silence all the way back to the metro station, never questioning our desire not to speak, only reveling in the fact that we had all been touched by this experience. 

Only read this if you can keep a secret...

After a fun evening with a friend, this story came to me. With some imaginative help I have created the answer to an unsolved mystery. Read on...if you dare...MUAHAHAHAHAH

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Harold is small. And when I say small, I don’t mean short or thin. I mean he is a staggering two inches tall. But don’t ask him about his height. It’s a touchy subject. Because what Harold lacks in stature he makes up for with his HUGE and defensive ego. If asked, Harold puffs up his chest and proclaims his height as two and three-quarter inches. And if you so much as mention how ridiculous it is to add the “three-quarters” he will launch into an overzealous lecture in which he states that he is an honest man, but a man to whom every inch or three quarters of an inch counts.

Harold is also a Viking. And I don’t mean this as some sort of arbitrary metaphor either. Harold is actually a Viking…no, Captain of the Miniature Vikings. He wears a silver cap with two ivory antlers protruding from the sides. He adorns his diminutive body in full armor with dull spikes on the edge, thus making it apparent that he is merely trying to appear rugged and tough. He has a long, bushy chestnut beard that is the consistency or texture of a squirrel’s tale. Harold also has little beady eyes that cling to the bridge of his large nose, creating a permanent scowl upon his face.

So now you know: Harold is a two and three-quarter inch tall Captain of a squad of other tiny Vikings. Think you’ve heard enough? No! You want more? Harold and his fellow Vikings have a very serious profession…

…They make the holes in Swiss cheese.

I know this because one time I saw Harold and he told me. However, I am breaking a promise by telling you this classified information. You see, I was supposed to keep my meeting with good ol’ Harry a secret. No human is supposed to uncover the mystery of Swiss cheese and I was to continue living life as if I didn’t know the answer. But it’s eating away at me (pun intended) and I must share this secret with you.

While the Cheese-makers are asleep, Harold and his gang sneak in and make the holes with special tiny circular shaped tools that resemble mallots. And what do they do with the excess cheese? Why eat it, of course! Well actually, they bring it home to their families. Yes, they have little 2-inch tall families (well the children are minuscule in comparison to Harold and his crew, just like human children are much smaller than their parents).

Now I know you probably think that this is all fictional. But I promise - this really happened. Pinky swear. One day I was watching my friend eat Swiss cheese at his dining room table. I know…I lead a fascinating life. He was peering through the holes as he held the slice between his fingers and I asked the fateful question: “Why does Swiss Cheese have holes?” He looked at me, smirked, and continued eating. As if this question was of no importance. Ha!

A few moments later, I looked behind his chair because something caught my eye. Perched on the ledge of a windowsill was a tiny Viking. It was Harold – decked out in his best and shiny attire – standing in all of his (little) glory. Naturally I was astonished to see such a sight and I thought maybe all my lack of sleep was finally catching up to me. My friend stood up to the go into the kitchen and, as he left, Harold leaped onto the table and looked me square in the eye. First, as a test, he whacked me on the cheek with his metal weapon AKA the tool he uses to form holes in the cheese. When I merely rubbed my eyes in dismay, thinking I was having a hallucination, he realized that I was harmless and not easily angered. He proceeded by shouting “HELLO, I AM HAROLD! CAPTAIN – SWISS CHEESE UNIT”. I told him that he didn’t need to shout. Just because I was larger than him did not mean I was also hard of hearing or unintelligent. So then he summoned me, to come closer, with his tiny, blistered hand and whispered into my ear. He told me everything I have just written and when I rolled my eyes in disbelief he demanded that I look behind my friend’s chair once more.

I glanced over and sure enough there was a small cluster of, oh, I don’t know, approximately, FIFTEEN tiny Vikings. One of them, in the midst of the group, shouted as he jumped up and down, greeting me with much admired enthusiasm. When he realized that he was the only one behaving in this absurd manner (all the other Vikings were quiet and still), he became quite bashful and with much awkwardness said “Hi”  under his  (cheese) breath. After this uncomfortable display, the other Vikings chimed in, saying “Hello” and “Hi” and “How ya doin, me lass?” (well no, not really, no one said that last one…but that would have been nice). They stood, huddled up, and shyly waved, as if they were young children forced to be polite to an elderly stranger.

Just as I was about to speak, I heard the floor-boards begin to creek. (Hey, that rhymed!) I looked toward the hallway to see if it was my friend or his pet cat. I’m not sure which would have been worse for Harold and his posse. Does Patches need a new chew-toy? Let’s hope not. Indeed, it was my friend returning from the kitchen, but when I turned back towards the window ledge to warn my new pals of the approaching danger, they were already gone. Where to? I’ll never know.

Anyway, now that I have divulged this information, please, for my sake, do not repeat it. If it gets out, I am worried that Harold will come back with his Vikings and attack me, probably during a much-needed afternoon nap, with their cheese weapons. In which case, the next time you see me I will know you cannot keep secrets, and consequently be covered in tiny Swiss-cheese-like holes. 

Oh, Otis

Inspired by the soulful, head-bobbing, body-swaying melodies of the one and only, Otis Redding. Specifically: These Arms of Mine, Pain In My Heart, and Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa-Fa (Sad Song). Let me just remind you that this blog is for my FICTIONAL creative writing pieces. However, that does not mean that I am not inspired by real life. Is this excerpt based on one of my past/current relationships, you ask? I'll let you decide. (Coy smile). I have to keep some things mysterious, right? Enigmatically yours, Victoria

 XOXO

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Sometimes I listen to Otis Redding and think about you. 

About red wine, some hash, and your lips - tasting of cigarette smoke and the 40's. 

I try to understand what drew me to you. 

Why you kept pulling me, like a pup on a leash. 

You were mean. Cruel. Yes, you were. 

But that Otis Redding, he kept crooning, kept singing to me, and bringing me back. 

We would sit in your inviting bed, your yellow hair covering your eyes, small and smug, and we would play. 

Those arms of yours, they provided a respite for me, but there was pain in my heart, and we were often silent, conversing without words, as the melody "fa-fa-fa-fa-fa" wafted through the stale air. 

I felt old next to you. Not old as in age. But I felt romantic and antiquated. 

When I walked into your home, passed the wisteria, through the barely-budging door, it was like stepping into another era - a Woody Allen movie, perhaps - a smokey room, jazz, burgundy and forest green. 

We would talk about philosophy and film and our world theories.  

But we never got along. 

I would threaten to leave, you would tickle me, I would succumb, we would kiss, and then I would walk out the door. 

It was tumultuous and you were an asshole - vulgar, but true. 

What is so mysterious to me - is that, even now, to this day, after all the shed tears, the hateful words, I still have a desire to go to your house, sit in your bed, cover myself in your red duvet, feeling the clean cotton against my skin, and listen to Otis Redding - watch you mouth the words, with your eyes closed, your hands draped around my naked body. 

That memory brings a strange sense of contentment. 

I often wonder - why is it that you keep resurfacing? 

I hate so many things about you. 

I despise your attitude, your arrogance, your stubbornness, among other more unappealing attributes. 

So why now, if you were to invite me over, would I be tempted to follow my feet to your couch and listen to you belittle me? 

It must be the Otis Redding. 

Ohhhh, Otis. 

Bringing people who should not be together...together. 

You devil, you. 

the (im)penetrable

A good friend of mine wrote a poem that spoke to me. I wrote a response to it - from a different perspective. And I will post it down below. His poem can be read on his blog at http://punctuatepoorly.blogspot.com. No, this is not a shameless plug. This is of my own accord. I really enjoy reading his work - but the poem that I am specifically referencing is entitled "a thicket: robert part two" and somewhere beneath this work, is "part one" which gives you even more of a sense, more of a significance of the words. Well here is my poem, which should hopefully stand on its own, but also takes MUCH, even direct quotes, from "a thicket: robert part two," by Michael Martin. 

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Vanity,

     I mistook 

     For virtue,

Is your downfall

Your demise

But that will not hinder me

I will not stutter or stumble or fall

No, you are not ageless

Not

     Immortal

Nor am I

And I will not waste another second

Alone

Gazing,

     Sadly,

Into the mirror,

Watching age sneak upon us

In the dark

We were younger once,

Thinner too

We belonged

     To eachother

But you singed me

     With your cigarettes

Burnt - I still maintained my innocence

Charred, but still delicious, you said

Vanity,

Is what makes your heart ache

You can comb your hair, straighten your curls

Alter your appearance

But that won't change

     The formation of your heart

Your heart

Is a thicket

Condensed

     Seemingly impenetrable

But I will break through

I will get scratched, no doubt

As I prune away

To reach your center

To till the fertile soil,

     Hidden underneath the brush

But I will nurture you

     Until Spring

Do you think about me? I think about you.

Inspired by and written to Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, Op. 23 by Janusz Olejniczak, "I Think of You All the Time" by Rachel Portman, and Evening Primrose's "Take me to the World". 

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Once upon a time I was in love. In love with a statue on a pedestal. In love with contradiction. In love with pain. In love with you. Although you did not love me back. You did not even know I felt this way. You were oblivious, your head in a cloud of dust, a grey cloud that orbited in circles. You were too busy with yourself. Understandable, I suppose. But you were too busy to notice my obsession, my infatuation, my simplest desires. Or maybe you did notice, but chose to ignore your discoveries. I am not sure which is worse. Regardless, I am still left in the dirt, my clothes tattered and worn, my heart ripped to shreds. At this moment, I am trying to mend, to heal. Everyday I sew each heart-shred to another. But as the needle pricks the fabric of my old, trampled devotion I am reminded of you - a romanticized image, maybe an ideal that never even existed, except in my imagination. Maybe what I dream of is not real. Maybe I have invented you, my love. Maybe you are nothing. Just like me. I am nothing to you. I wish this could change. I wish with every fiber of my being that I could alter your opinion of me. That I could capture butterflies and place them in your stomach every time you see me. That I could add life and excitement into your eyes, your buttery eyes, whenever you hear my footsteps. But I am only human, and incapable of such things. So I must suffer. Something I am akin to. Something I know all too well. Once upon a time, I was in love with the notion, the ideal of love, itself. I was in love with being in love. I was in love with the sickening feeling whenever you made me unsure or confused. I was in love with the peaks and valleys, the ups and downs. I was even in love with the anger, the frustration, and the sadness. I was simply in love with feeling. Feeling alive, feeling life course through my veins, feeling you affect me. It was powerful. It still is. And I am not sure I am ready to let go. To relinquish , to move on, would be to rid myself of feeling alive. And ultimately, I am utterly, unabashedly in love with life. Thankfully, that love is not unrequited. Life loves me with all of his heart. He has loved me since the day I was born and will continue until the day I perish. He is my only stable love. I suppose I can be content with that. At least I am loved at all.