average joes, indeed

there are two kinds of men in this world: those who criticize women for using lip balm, and those who don’t. i find the former to be extremely irritating and borderline rude, especially when said naysayer is trying to make a good impression but it comes out as a persistent admonishment for lip hydration. this happened to me last night.

the dance between men and women is an incredible thing to behold, usually. everyone (in the gross over-generalizing use of the word) wants to be attractive to the gender they want. i, too, rank being attractive to men high on my list of priorities. this is probably due, in part, to the fact that i haven’t dated anyone since august, and i’m beginning to think that there is something horribly wrong with me, but this is an entirely different blog altogether. i digress.  i find the points of interest that people use as segues into conversation to be the best part of the gig: quick, how do i appear interested but not creepy-interested but walk that fine line displaying the finest qualities i have without overwhelming this sweet thing with my greatness? humble. be humble but spectacular. ah! let’s go with the kind citizen routine and save this lass from the perils of petroleum jelly over-saturated lips! that’ll clinch the deal for sure…

right.

and despite all of this, my heart feels a slight drop when i leave the bar (ahem) alone, laughing as though i planned it this way, making my way through alcoholism so thick you could spoon it into your aa coffee, wondering when, oh when, will it be my turn to give a complete stranger my phone number and all of the expectations it implies?

ok. all melodrama aside, i’m pretty happy to go home by myself, and i actually prefer it this way. the practice runs of conversation are ways to sharpen one’s teeth in the verbal maybe-i-like-you-maybe-you-bore-me banter, but certainly nothing upon which one can build a decent repartee. i mean, i’m not willing to sleep with someone based solely on the merit of complimenting my flip-flops. i have standards.

the most important thing you'll read all day

i feel very hopeless about people today.

where did we go wrong? how can we make the future ones better than we are, not medically or financially or educationally, but emotionally, rationally, spiritually, relationally.

we seek out fear, we seek the fear in the shadows and behind the furniture and under the bed. we bolt it out. we shut down all talk of god because it, too, cannot be seen or touched, and we are so blunt we can no longer feel it. we drink it away and drug and numb the pain. we use and hurt and rape and rob and beat and take and spend and burn and yell and scream and fuck and do it all over again.

all of this echoes in my heart, and it’s all familiar. every last cry rings hollow today, because i know these are things we have all chosen for ourselves. and we have chosen these things not because we understand the consequences, but the very opposite: we choose fear because we do not understand the consequences. we think what is safe today will help us sleep tomorrow. unfortunately, this is not the nature of the universe. what builds us today destroys us tomorrow. what nourishes us this week will poison us the next. we people tend toward the expectation that all of it will be the same from one day to the next, that we exert control over our environments and we have the final say. we make little, if any, allowances for the growth we all must walk in throughout our lives. we expect that each generation make the right decisions, not repeat our mistakes, but all they have learned is the familiar pattern: do not learn from your mistakes, shut them out and move on. ego is master, not god and humility. the children cannot do what we do not teach them.

i am afraid for the children. i wonder what they will look like 20 years from now.

why do we self-destruct, so?

where did we begin this?

more importantly, how do we change? how do we go from being ego-driven consuming machines to more spiritual, nurturing, humble people? i do not know the answer to this question, and it weighs on my shoulders.

what i do know is that it’s not necessary to start from scratch. not everyone is as fucked up as i tend to describe. there are people who change the world. these are people who believe, who do not run their own universe, but are merely integral parts of the moving pieces. they live and breathe and hurt and cry and get overwhelmed and lose track and dive into confusion and love and rage and sing and dance and bleed, yet they keep moving forward, toward their goal. what is the goal of not to help our fellows?

what use is material gain of no one else benefits from it? we need an intercontinental memo to go out, hold a meeting of every man, woman and child on the planet and discuss this, because it is the most important information we will ever learn: how to be real human beings, treat each other with dignity and trust. and treat ourselves.

when i think of the one voice that stands out among many, i feel lost, sad that it is so few. i forget it means one less container of energy flowing in the opposite direction.

please help me know what to do.

OHALL NIGHT, AHH-ALL RIGHT

i found the missing link for the macon playlist…

and it’s journey.

so, the end revision is this:

she wants revenge-these things

journey-any way you want it

36 mafia-poppin my collar

the doors-la woman

pretty ricky-your body (yes sir)

led zeppelin-black dog

d’angelo-devil’s pie

marvin gaye­-what’s goin on

wheat-i met a girl

prince-kiss

please let me know if you want me to burn you a copy; i’ll be happy to oblige.

eff this business

i’m just mad right now. pissed off at someone’s behavior, pissed that i got lost on the way home, pissed that someone jumped out of the car in the middle of the road and dared to call me passive aggressive, pissed that the panhandler who wanders in and out of the hotel keeps using the same lousy excuse that his car needs gas. scared at how quickly an angry person shuts down communication, which is the only thing we humans have. scared at how uncontrollable it makes a person.

today was, by all accounts, a good day. a full day, lots of classes, followed by an evening at third street stuff hanging out. there are times when i just want to sit and observe rather than record all of it, and i need not feel guilty then. the coffeeshop is bright and happy, and the same dreddie behind the counter yesterday called my sweetness today and we clowned for a minute. he is a nice, nice man, and it’s evident in the relationships he has with his customers, especially the regulars. it’s just good peopling, good business. it felt good to be there.

marli and i had dinner at joe bologna’s, garden veggie pizza and a 2 foot long breadstick and a salad whose base plate kept spinning in a circle when i pierced a leaf or a tomato. idle conversation about the kids we grew up with, where our lives are taking us, that sort of thing. she bought a house, and i felt a pang of jealousy at hearing this, like i should be somewhere like that. my choice all along has been to not do that, so no sense feeling jealous when someone makes the opposite decision i do.

i was going to see v for vendetta or go shoot pool or check out caribbean night at third street, but i’m not. instead, i’m going to get some sleep on these effed up mattresses. i want to go home.

third street day

third street café, a warm coffee shop up limestone from the hotel, painted like something right out of timothy leary’s deepest acid trips. the big dreddie behind the counter called everyone sweetness, the roasted vegetable soup and veggie sandwich were right on for today’s freezing rain and snowy weather, especially after i marched around for 20 minutes looking for a goddamned open restaurant, my sockless feet numb in green suede flats. i’d make a terrible homeless person. my plan is to return tomorrow and pick up some of the great eclectic jewelry they sold. plus their soy latte was pretty damn good.

i have half a mind to move back to Lexington and raise a family. this place is as great as i (half) remember it to be. downtown is gorgeous, the people are friendly, the arts culture is warm and pervasive; i really enjoy it here.

neighbors arguing about how they’re arguing about nothing. dropping eff bombs.

i visited my old school today. i felt really overjoyed to walk into the building and see the familiar low ceilings, the glass partition leading into the upper school, the same teachers in the same classrooms. the first thing ms stith said to me, though, was why aren’t you writing? my silent reply bled with guilt, shame, embarrassment. i tried to cover it by stammering how i write, a little bit, but “haven’t gotten around to the publishing piece,” tried to mitigate it with an explanation of my upcoming los angeles move, that sort of thing, but it does nothing to cover the feeling i have every day that i am not professionally doing what i want to do and what i am talented at doing. i guess this is what compels me to blog like i do. and then this afternoon walking into third street, a big glittery sign announced a welcome for all local writers to submit their work. a few shelves held the creativity of other lexingtonians, and my heart pulled. i can do that is the common lament. i can write a few pieces, put it on a table or a shelf somewhere, distribute some leaflets. and i guess i can, i know i can. there’s a lot of i know’s and etc’s involved, and i hark back to my artist’s way days. it’s bullshit for me not to go for it. period.

bangs fall piecey into my eyes walking back from the café, clutching container of coffee and local writer’s booklet. thinking all the while. toes numb. it’s snowing in Indianapolis, i remind myself, stepping over discarded cigarette butts circling the steps behind the French restaurant on the corner. every time we pass that door, a bandanna-ed guy in chef whites is huddled with a collared shirted waiter, discussing the finer points of their recent video games or the plight of their roommate and his whore girlfriend. typical foodie smoke break fare, and i don’t miss a word of it.

my roomie kicked me this website: http://www.nataliedee.com/index.php. he thinks it’s cracked, i kinda dig it, really.

oh, and last night i finally signed up for photobucket and downloaded picasa. photobucket allows my to post stupid pictures on my friends’ myspaces, and picasa lets me organize said stupid pictures.

i think this is enough for now.

home is where the what is?

i’m in that weird place between wired and exhausted, hanging out at the gratz park inn, lex.ky. looking forward to an evening of sleep, though, after a full week of semi-debauchery and all-nighters. from pool with theresea to two Bloomington trips, lodge, Lonnie, collin, the binkleys, avoiding duke like an infected sore, and the many and varied exploits therein, i’m still wiped out. and it’s monday.

it’s nice to be back in Lexington, though. it’s so beautiful here; i’d be wont to raise a family here if my travels ever bring my through. the sprawling neighborhoods and compact, cosmopolitan downtown, the great schools and nice people, the fact that this evening i switched the radio station to a will smith song, and the bum on the side of the street was walking in time to the beat, the way the girl at the meeting pronounced spon-tser: all of it amuses me.

i remember so little of it, though, and that makes me sad. granted, i was really young living here, but 10 plus years is enough to get to know a place, regardless. it strikes me how suppressed, forgotten, these memories are. i was driving out on Versailles road yesterday to pick up my colleague at the airport, and it suddenly struck me that the school i went to (TLS WHAT) was right around the corner. intuitively, i knew that. cruising these streets in my royal blue chevy HHR rental, though, i am verging on lost at every turn.

i had a fantastic evening with laura, a family friend whom i have not seen since we moved those 8-ish years ago. fantastic. we went hunting for bridal gowns, and i encountered that awkward sitch where the salesgirls thought i was the bride to be; checked out her home, which is classically beautiful Kentucky home with the beautiful full backyard and sunken living room and good mojo and a happy Buddha garden statue; we had a great meal (ok, i had a great meal, i think hers was average) at bella notte. laughing and talking and enjoying the company completely.

back home, to a meeting (the website was right! quelle surprise!), and here i am. i really want to go out and shoot pool, check out the dame, which looks like a rad-ass indie club, and tool around the streets, but pragmatism kicks in and i realize i need sleep. lots and lots of sleep. on these weird tempur-pedic mattresses here. the bed has no bounce, which is a weird feeling. overall, this hotel is mediocre. more shabby than anything. and the lobby smells like 150 years of someone blowing farts into a bowl of potpourri. the breakfast server was pretty hot, though, in a i-shoot-heroin-and-use-a-bad-fake-english-accent-to-better-serve-you kind of way. ah, hometowns.

good spring music

http://www.electricsoftparade.com/

check out “cold world.”

i am on my way to indy cd and vinyl post haste to see if they have the ep.

more later

this serves as a gate change only

workin on a macon mix tape

yes sir pretty ricky
tom sawyer rush
black dog led zeppelin
come together the beatles
poppin my collar 36 mafia
strange days the doors
(that song by foreigner) although it’s not really a foreigner song, i think.
what’s goin on marvin gaye
devil’s pie d’angelo

these are the weeks that make me really happy to have the job i do. great school, fun kids, awesome colleague, a rainy warm friday, it can’t get much better. currently sitting in the atl-hartsfield airport, listening to rush and working on a bio for a speaking gig. egads, i hate writing about myself to impress. i’ve never done it before! i have an entire week off, though, and i plan on using it to the fullest. ha, i almost used the word utilize, but stopped because i ranted to my colleague about the misuse of that word. i think it might be better in that sentence, but effit.

i had an opportunity to sit across from my colleague as he broadcast live on the majority report air show while we were at dinner. good stuff. the most difficult thing about this moment is balancing this damn laptop on my legs and not have them fall asleep. horrendous problems, huh?

so i have an opportunity to spend the summer in los angeles for cheap cheap, and i am planning on taking it. it will be a dream come true. wow.

the louder you yell...

i am not a fan of spoken poetry. i feel it would be dishonest and deceitful to leave that part out. just once. just ONCE, i would like to go an entire evening without dramatic empty pauses, nonsensical vocab words thrown in for good measure, and some poor girl screaming and crying about how she IS beautiful goddammit and if you don’t like it, well nigga you can kiss her beautiful black ass. that being said, i found myself tonight at the Jazzplex in Macon, Georgia, listening to said poetry. And it wasn’t bad at all. Spitfire, a group from Savannah, came up, and they were not bad at all. This guy named Santiago spit about being in Iraq and sent his poem out to everyone around 9/11 and George Bush and soldiers (because he is one) and it was not bad at all. In fact, it moved me deeply, it was profound, it was exactly what I would expect Spoken Poetry to be about. It’s not a matter of yelling the loudest or screaming the most vulgar or holding your aborted pauses until they die in the air, panting for some fresh idea. It’s about using the art and rhythm to breathe life into your ideas and thoughts and pain and joy and beliefs. I dislike poetry the most because it is the most abused. This cat Bored had one today about hating Poetry. But in the end, he couldn’t leave Her. He used Her to talk about Her. He loved Her.

All of this was observed with my hairsprayed bouffant and my tightrolled jeans and Tea and Crumpets t shirt and flip flops. The only white chick in the crowd. Being called an oppressor and a lyncher and a slave driver and a tainter of ancestral African blood. I felt really uncomfortable at first, but it took me a minute to realize that hopefully, these were not words written about Me. I am not those things, I am not that White Man. These are words of rage, expressing the howls of a culture that has been raped in ways I will never Ever comprehend, and who is Still picking up the pieces, with no help from the other White Men. And then I got hit on by a guy who looked like LL Cool J. It’s an interesting moment to think about.

Earlier this afternoon, My colleague and I went on an ADVENTURE WALK. What, pray tell, is this ADVENTURE WALK? Well, Citizen, so glad you asked. Basically, we walked around, exercise-like, exploring on street-level, the town. It turned out to be a really magical walk. At one point I put a broken Turtle shell at the edge of the wood, since it was lying in grass on the side of the road, and not 5 minutes later was graced to see a Turtle swimming in the river 20 feet below the bridge. Beautiful. We were welcomed by a pair of dogs who just wanted to be played with before returning to their home like friendly children, and we were able to talk and bounce ideas off of each other about life and work and recovery and goofy shit. Applebee’s for dinner and I finally found a meeting. What a good day today.

Check out this Link from Harlan. It’s free books, etc, online.

pissed. why the hell is it so difficult for narcotics anonymous to have an accurate meeting directory online?? i ended up at some grizzled oldtimer aa meeting, where the chair stopped the meeting to ask me if it was my first meeting. i was late after going to the location for the nonexistant na meeting, and was directed to a meeting which turned out to be said geezer-fest. feeling very very uncomfortable and wondering if they'd kick me out for mentioning na, i kept my mouth shut and listened to the 8th step sharing, reminding myself that there is a reason i was there. i am currently struck down with exhaustion and a plugged ear, can't hear anything, a deep vibrating in my skull when i hear bass. i ran a good 3 miles today, so at least i'm doing something productive. glad to be in macon, though. it's beautiful.

back in the aught-six

today is 06 march, and it is my 39th day of travel this year. i haven’t kept track of flight delays, but i am not experiencing my first today. so i take the opportunity to fill out myspace surveys and blog. thank you for joining me.

i had a great weekend at home. friday i saw connie and Erica, the two chicks who keep me from looking like a grizzled hag. nails and eyebrows, respectively. then i got the bro and we ate pizza and watched wedding crashers with the rents, and then i was down for the count. saturday began with the breakfast club, followed by a touch of shopping, the getting of new sneakers followed by the running in said kicks. i am now totally enamoured with the new she wants revenge album, and i have been listening to it repetitively, as it turns me on. shmoops and i went to see three burials, which was kick ass. i particularly enjoyed the acting, and the power tommy lee jones (mr aught-6, muz) commanded in his performance. dig it. stayed out all night with muz watching dumb tv, had area first thing sunday morning, got way overdressed for an Oscar party that changed formats about three times, and spent some time with pmeyer. slept for 12 hours and now it’s cold and snowy-sleety-rainy in indy, and i’m just trying to go to Atlanta.

damn, i miss my friends when i’m away.

currently, my ass is asleep from sitting on the floor of the airport, next to the only available outlet. arrgh.

last impressions of earth, or mexico

03.03.06

early morning.

a Mexican rides in the back of a pickup truck, bleary-eyed wrapped in a blanket.

the sun begins its day beneath the horizon-a strip of apricot begins to grow, silhouetting a lone plane, mountains, volcano, bushes.

the lights of the city glitter in the hills, birds chirp inside the glass terminal. a verdigris-covered fountain splashes, it is cold. cool enough that i must wrap my sweater over my bare arms, cold enough that my toes feel a chill.

the who, Elton john on the PA

passers-by who chose not to face east wander up to the glass in wonder and amazement at the dawning day.

the world shakes to life.

i can still taste my vending machine  express café con leche y azucar, the cheap milk coating my tongue. i feel fatigued, thrilled to go home, listen to English voicemails, see my friends.

it's not even 5 in the morning. this is inhuman. adios, mexico. mucho gusto.

Muchas Gracias

Rule Number One of International Travel: Learn how to say “Thank you” in the language, and use it often. Manners are paramount, and it burns my ass when men don’t open doors for elderly women or eat like fucking pigs with their elbows on the table and generally act like Neanderthals and openly talk about other people’s money. Read Emily Post if you have questions.  

This is my last night in Puebla, and I am, per usual, delaying packing. Listening to Puccini’s Tosca, reading the comments from today. It still amazes me that people consider me a professional and a great teacher and all that. I guess it beats the alternative, though.

I picked up a Puebla football jersey this afternoon and spent some time at a café with Laverne and Shirley, sucking down frozen mokas to kill the headache I picked up around 3rd period. We ate dinner at a pretty great restaurant, I had shrimp empanadas and white fish in a corn fungus (smut) sauce, which left a little bit to be desired, but it was good nonetheless.

A lot of talk about politics today. Being solicited for my opinion a few times left my feeling very trepiditious. How do you say “shitbag” in Spanish? Luckily, it was possible to steer the convo toward a diplomatic, fairly innocuous direction. I am going to look up Marcos, tho, who is apparently a guerrilla commander who is touring Mexico and giving lectures about the elections coming up in July. Fox is on his way out, and apparently the race is a rough one. This Marcos(image) fellow is supposed to be an intellectual who is doing more of a public service in his lectures than trying to be incendiary. Here are some sites for his information:

http://www.csudh.edu/dearhabermas/tchessay03.htm
http://flag.blackened.net/revolt/mexico/marcos_index.html
http://www.inmotionmagazine.com/chiapmumesp.html
Wikipedia Definition

I’m not really feeling the ski mask. It’s like the “P” in P.Diddy. It comes between the man and his fans. He should really consider dropping it.

I have developed a taste for Bonafont Levite in Brise Jamaica. It’s water flavored with berries, and it’s damn delish. I have really enjoyed this week in Mexico. It’s way cooler than I had expected.

I need to pack; we leave the hotel at 5:15 tomorrow morning, which is akin to torture. Really. Buenos noches!