Cluck

Last night I sat at the window on a stool at my favorite coffee shop, Bauhaus Books & Coffee, looking out to what could be seen of the skyline, mostly the Space Needle, as the rain came down in true Seattle fashion. Always wanna be one of those people sitting in the window looking out at the passersby, and it was finally time, as I’m upstairs most often. I was awash in pink and plum. I like to arrive having made it a point to wear something colorful as that place is often filled with moody glass-half-empty boys donning head-to-toe black. Nevermind that nearly half my wardrobe is black as well. It’s good to defy their status quo and win an occasional smile from the predominantly glum in heart.

I have the drive, the desire, the fortitude, the dogged determination

This week, I managed to reread through all my prior posts. Just over two years of them. Looking at the dates, it seems that I posted twice a week at times, and if not, at least twice a month, for the first year. How’d I manage THAT?! In taking stock, I see just how very much I’ve allowed myself to become side-tracked here and side-tracked there and generally cowered into a corner, like a big yellow chicken, instead of having completed the necessary tasks at hand already to get to where I wanna be. With every day that passes I check something off the list towards my greater goals, it just feels like I’m moving underwater as I go! How can I be so fearless and strong (says I) in some areas and in others, the ones that seem to matter most, be the complete opposite? I’m just gonna act my way outta this. Act as if I have the confidence to get up and over, which I totally do, I know full well what I can do and what I have to give, and I’m bursting to do so, but my fear lies in presenting it all, literally laying it all out on the table, only to be told, no. We don’t want you. We can’t use you. To not be allowed a place to plug in would near kill me. My comfort lies in telling myself I only need one “yes.” Just one. I suppose it’s very much like finding someone to love and be loved in return by, and I generally have no fear in that department, trusting that it’s all working itself out as it should in its own time. Another plus, I have the drive, the desire, the fortitude, the dogged determination, if I could just stop getting lost in myself along the way. Does that make sense? Let’s say, I’ve got potential. By chance I DO get lost in myself again and you witness no signs of victorious proof of progress, would you just slap me really, really, hard?

That brings me to the banana peel on my car windshield. Sat down only to look up and- voila! A really large brownish-yellow leaf kinda startled me in its size and peculiar shape splayed out on the glass. Le peel de banana! I envisioned some disgruntled morning commuter flinging it out in a moment’s frustration on the way to their bread and butter.

Saw Across the Universe, finally! You know, that movie of the musical variety, set in the 60’s to the tune of many a covered Beatles song. I was mildly disappointed, though, the cameos by Joe Cocker and Bono along with the scene including the making of messy, messy art involving strawberries (my current favorite fruit, if not food, even!) made it worth it.

Alcoves containing secluded booths draped in rich, deep burgundy

Lastly, devastatingly good Thai food! The night before last. Dinner with friends. New restaurant! Only problem? I love, love, love spicy food! It really kicked in somewhere around age 23ish and now comes in these fits of NEED. The friends were only up for 2 stars, though, as it was family-style dining, when I really wanted to give 5 stars a shot. Had 4 before and was approaching that happy pain mode. Curries! I’ve tried and tried to like them to no avail. Triumph, at last! Delicisioso! And the green beans, H-E-A-V-E-N. How I can despise canned green beans and have a mild love affair with those freshly prepped ones is a marvel. Sooooo, yuuuuummy. The atmosphere. Alcoves containing secluded booths draped in rich, deep burgundy and aubergine fabrics and lit with warm, glowing, glass sconces in jeweled colors. Multi-colored tiling in citron greens and pumpkin orange along the walls and deep mahogany woods for the tables and flooring. Candles galore. Quality chopsticks (I have a collection!), I so appreciate when others understand the importance of details! It can make a place. And an experience. ♦

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To Write All the Words That Still Can’t Speak Her Mind

My mind’s been down roads it shouldn’t be as of late. Following paths to a time unspent.
Building memories on words not spoken and generally laying mayhem in place of peace.

I may explode.
A fine mess.

Glossy pieces of sunny yellow hope and joy laid waste amidst shards of razored pink pulp wet with the breadth of me.

Can I get a little reciprocation?
Giving me opaque when I need transparent.

Been at it so long, tempered and even, wanting to break out, grasp on, tune in, turn up to the fullness of another.

Show me everything.
Then take my all.

Out of the blue. And into the red. Can I turn it darker, a crimson before it fades to black once more leaving me my peace until another time when I can unfold it.

Yes, tuck it all back in for another time.
It’s a blossom out too soon.

A racket in my head now, not heard in so long. A low hum built to a clanging that has me caught up, gripped. Please just murmur. Soothe my hard-pressed thoughts.

It’s different than I knew. I looked and looked. Seeing too late is seeing too soon.
Sweet and dirty. Just what I need. ♦

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This IS Happening

Last night I had plans that were rescheduled at the last minute. The holiday season ahead is quickly filling in with engagements, and that coupled with the pace at which I’m pushing myself to move up and onward in life had me happy for a quiet night home alone. All at once, there was a knock at the door to the rhythm of shave and a haircut, minus the two bits. Before I’d even halfway reached the door another knock came, shave and a haircut …

I don’t always answer the door if I don’t know the person on the other side, instead cautiously approaching knowing that movement and the floor settling are telltales. It so happened that I hadn’t turned the bathroom light off so the light flooded the entrance way leading up to the door backlighting me as I approached the peephole. I knew to look out meant that the light would obviously be blocked, a great indicator that, why, yes, someone is indeed home.

The emotional connection is what makes it worth it, as with the best things in life.


I’ve been such a good girl this month, no scary movies in the theatre or at home. Okay, with the exception of some movie called Paranoia 1.0 the night before at one in the morning when I couldn’t sleep. But it starred Jeremy Sisto and Lance Henriksen and had a decidedly noir-ish tone so it simply HAD to be seen. I love scary movies as I’ve mentioned once before, though, I try not to, I love the rollercoaster of emotion, the heightened anticipation of what’s to come, good or bad. A metaphor for life. Sure, I could shut that off and approach it as a work of fiction, an illusion, but that wouldn’t be me, the emotional connection is what makes it worth it, as with the best things in life. The gore I’m not good with at all, hence my absence in films like Saw II-IV and Hostel I & II where torture is more the menu than the suspense. There’ve been two films that come to mind where there was so much blood that I began to actually enjoy it, blood lust at it’s peak- Kill Bill Volume I and High Tension. For the most part, leave me the sound effects and my imagination and it’s a much more delicious and satisfying route. I’ve been careful to especially dodge every opportunity to view the movie Halloween until the day of, or before, the 31st because it’s the only one that will have me looking backwards as I walk in the dark, or stealing glances over my shoulder towards Tina’s open-doored bedroom while on the couch. Apparently movies or no movies, I was about to have my very own scary movie of sorts …

I heard mumbling just before I looked through the peephole. A young guy, probably late teens, wearing those awful super baggy down-to-there pants, with mammoth sneakers and a large cream coat with a fur-rimmed hood stood squinting back into the peephole. That’s when I could make out the mumbling. “You’re at home, I saw you, you’re at the door, I can feel you, you’re breathing, I can touch you.” Oh. My. God. He repeated these words over and over and over again in a sing-song voice as he leaned in pressing his ear and hands to the door. He batted at the doorknob several times, me jumping with each hit. I stood riveted to the spot, the hall mirror reflecting my face with a sickly half-smile fueled by the thought and question of “This is happening. Is this really happening?” I didn’t dare move. It’s like I was fixed to the floor and I began “Please, please, please, please leave,” in my head. He groped at the door, now fulling pressed up against it, while knocking multiple times off and on. Each time, shave and a haircut … Seven times total. Seven minutes. The clock from the bathroom told me so.

I was so glad to still be fully dressed with my shoes near the door instead of in the closet as they always are. A stand filled with umbrellas, the long, full kind with the handle in the shape of a “J” and sharp pointy ends was to my left. A pocket knife on my keyring inches away, and a cellphone in my pocket. I stood there kicking myself for not attending the crime-watch meeting the complex held last week, and thinking how my neighbor a floor below had never felt so far away.

Somehow I kicked him hard enough (placement, people, placement)


Were Bean home with me, or a friend over, I could so act the part of protector. For myself, that’s a different matter at times. Something similar once happened back in junior high where a supposed friend of mine walked me home from the school bus stop like most any other day only to jokingly ask what I’d do if he broke into my house to which I replied, “Pht, why would you break into my house?” As we walked up the front steps he followed me inside instead of turning to leave. When I asked what he was doing he said, “What do you think?” With much urging I got him back out the door so I could get on with what needed doing that afternoon. A minute later, he was at the sliding glass door in the back, pulling it open, as it was unlocked. I was smiling, confused, thinking he was just playing around. I tried to shut the door saying he really needed to go when he reached in with one hand and grabbed my top pulling me in close saying, “Today I’m gonna rape you, and you’re gonna enjoy it.” He smiled. A sinister smile not like I’d ever seen before. “Don’t be stupid, no you’re not,” I said, with my heart in my throat, as I rammed the door into him repeatedly. He was halfway in by then and I knew if he got his foot in any further I’d be screwed. Ha, screwed. That was the first time I realized that guys are just naturally stronger, the way their shoulders are built, their frame, even if they’re shorter. My top ripped and I spit on him and then he was just plain livid, digging his nails into my wrist as I scratched his face. Somehow I kicked him hard enough (placement, people, placement) that he moved back in such a way that I could shove him out and shut and lock the door. I was pulling the drapes closed when he mouthed the words, “The window.” I’ve never run down stairs faster in my life as I raced to get to the basement window before he did. I did. He ran around the outside of the house pounding on windows and doors here and there and then left at last. I called my best friend from childhood, who lived just across the way. A year older and her sister three more, they knew people. He was taught a lesson the very next day. Applause! It’s good to know people sometimes. Back to last night …

The guy finally turned to leave. Finally. He stood at the top of the landing and whistled Zippity-Doo-Dah and then sing-sang, “Nobody’s home, but I saw you, I saw you” and smiled over his shoulder back towards the door as he walked down the stairs. I went to my bedroom that was dark and watched him cross the courtyard. And then, the street light went out. Geez, Louise, the street light went out! What timing. I’ve sat at the window just about every night before bed for over the year and a half I’ve lived here and that light chooses now to go out? So, I can’t see where the heck he is, but I can still hear him whistling. Apparently he was sitting on the stairs leading up to the road. After twenty minutes passed in which I felt like a captive and only when I found myself crawling along the floor down on my knees in order not to be visible, did anger well up inside and give me the strength to stand up and walk through my home to turn the right lights on, the wrong lights off, close the curtains and generally continue my night. I could hear his whistling from the living room. I called my dad. I briefly told him what was up and I found solace in his words: “I’m coming over. I’ll shoot him.” It made me laugh and I was immediately more myself. During the wait, I went back to my window where I looked out to see the guy approach my stairway and then pass below my window walking off into the night. Then, the flippin’ street light went back on! My dad teased a little about how I must of imagined the street light business. After my dad left to return home, I watched as he walked to his car. The light went out again. Ha! He turned and waved up at me.

No one likes to be confronted with their weaknesses, I guess, and that one hit me in my home


So, this young guy, I’ve given him every benefit of the doubt. Was I an unknown participant in a psychology assignment for class? Did he get the wrong apartment and expect his friends to open the door and think they were just messing with him by not letting him in? He didn’t try knocking on anyone else’s door, though … I’d hoped he was some looney kid who lived across the way who was just being lame because then come daylight, I’d traipse right over and introduce myself properly. The wanker. Such nonsense. It rattled me, and I hate that. No one likes to be confronted with their weaknesses, I guess, and that one hit me in my home, violating me without even touching me, without even looking at me. At least, face to face.

I love sleeping with my window open (with screens, no bugs, yay!) to let the sound of night in. But the shuffle of the usual footsteps kept me restless, kept tearing me out of sleep and I longed for someone to keep watch so that rest could come. I laid with the laptop near me for a connection to the outside world, false security, and only fell asleep when I heard the beginnings of a shower head running, sometime after the break of day. ♦

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Minimal Viewing

There’s rain pitter-pattering outside my window tonight and a strong wind has set the wind chimes to tink-tink-tinkling. I’m reflecting back on a summer gone before it began it seems. Sure, there were a handful of trips to the pool, but I’d have preferred more. A summer with many an hour spent perched in front of the computer, working, working, working. All towards a worthy, but not yet reached end product. Thankfully, have laptop will travel, so I’m not day-glo white in skin color. For the many times spent at home, though, the TV became a constant companion, my view of “Kill your television!” going by the wayside. So, I painted the little TV in the Spare Oom a vibrant pinkish lavender with little black and white flowers just for the heck of it, and then got to viewing.

I’ve watched what feels like nearly everything. Such a mish-mash! Bad Lifetime movies followed by really bad Lifetime movies, HGTV and the DIY Network to no end, and so many music videos, that the novelty finally wore off. I think. I hope! Disney Channel’s High School Musical only to be followed by High School Musical II which led to a bizarre fondness for The Suite Life of Zack & Cody. The Girls’ Next Door early on and Rock of Love just recently. Larry King Live and Dr. Phil. Anderson Cooper 360. Nancy Grace, for all of ten minutes. Oprah, here and there. Mythbusters, How It’s Made and Survivorman -the limits a person can push themselves to for survival, fascinating.

The limits a person can push themselves to for survival, fascinating.


I’ve discovered some interests. Through Flip That House and a slew of similar shows, what is a lifestyle and living to some has quickly turned into the latest fanatical fad for many. Well, add me to the list! I already adore refurbishing old cars, and I’m crazy about decorating and organizing and gardening. Roll that all up and let me have at it! Give me a partner to handle the none too glamorous paperwork end of things.

The Travel Channel’s No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain– a fan I’ve been since his book Kitchen Confidential– is a favorite! His biting snarkiness and sometimes overly critical analysis break at moments giving way to appreciation for life with insights that have me laughing and crying all at once. A show consisting of food, writing, and travel, things that make the heart beat faster, this heart anyways. Perfection! Bizarre Foods, with a similar premise, traveling to foreign destinations to consume unusual foods to that of the American palette, has none of the depth brought from Bourdain’s musings, but is nonetheless, delightful! Asian fare I find utterly fascinating, in particular, from Vietnam and the Philippines. To walk through one of their open air markets would be a dream! Both shows have heightened my desire to travel to a whole new level. Top Chef has me anxious to learn what the term “flavor profile” means, followed by which ones are considered classic, trendy, horrid, and unusual.

I’ve developed a few heroes, of sorts, along the way. Like Dog the Bounty Hunter‘s Duane “The Dog” Chapman, a big, mulleted teddy bear of a man. And the crew on Ghost Hunters for taking their work seriously by debunking so many of the paranormal claims that come their way versus just accepting and promoting them as fact. Tyra Banks for consistently sharing her imperfections, in hopes of obliterating the illusion of perfection that wreaks havoc on the worth of so many females. Further more, for reminding her audience that it’s more than okay to be imperfect, too. Lisa Ling, a woman whose career I’d love to have in another life (minus her stint on The View). She’s been involved in some of the most newsworthy of topics, exposing and bringing to light problems needing attention. China’s Lost Girls, the New Orleans hurricane aftermath, the Lord’s Resistance Army in Uganda, and child trafficking in Ghana come to mind.

I’m sad to have caught glimpses of the up and coming fall line up, because more than a few shows caught my eye. Pushing Daisies, Journeyman, and Moonlight, in particular. Bigshots, Chuck, and Life, maybe. Kid Nation, Children of the Corn-esque, though, it is. Are these to survive, I shall add them to the Netflix list with the likes of Veronica Mars Season III, Dexter, Ugly Betty, Cold Case, and Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends.

I’ve temporarily lost a sense of something in all the jumble


In this plethora of programming, I’ve felt a mess, a tangle of over-fed stimuli and as much as I feed on pop culture and being in the know, I’ve temporarily lost a sense of something in all the jumble. A peace maybe, a sense of, I don’t know, being clean, I guess. There’s such a feeling of inundation! Like if I were to take a picture of myself right now, my eyes would be buggy and my teeth bared and I’d be a garish green or purple. The photo wouldn’t lie still, but instead, reverberate. The mirror tells me differently, but my mind does not. The countering of the vapid and the inane with that of what matters, the people. People with less than even their daily needs that I’ve seen in far too many reports during my hyper tuned-in summer. It eats at my heart. I’m all the more resolute in the statement that I much prefer to live life then watch it. I shall now return to minimal viewing, that of Survivor and Heroes, for the time being, Project Runway in November, and with January comes, Lost and 24. ♦

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