There's a fine little line betwixt and between
that moment of starting or keeping the future-
scary big and unforeseen
Many a time I dance that line
and race up the stairs to retreat into-
slumber.
For sanctuary I find
in comforters and pillows.
And then after I am well rested,
I wake up.
Decide I'm gonna do it anyway.
When I vault passed the line
anxiety or excitement
kicking dirt in fear's face,
I grow stronger.
It's not that I'm not,
I just forget sometimes.
My resilient, tenacious,
bright, bold, self.
Then fear chimes in
with the what if and what not,
and the shoulds and the shouldn't
and so on
And tell fear to fuck off.
I'm gonna do it anyway.
And then I do it;
growing stronger.
~A
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Saturday, November 7, 2015
Wednesday, November 4, 2015
“JustfineMa’am, thanksandyou?”
“JustfineMa’am, thanksandyou?”
My co-workers called him Jimmy Stanks. I always hated that. Granted, we never took the time to find out the names of most of our customers, and the homeless people were no exception. “Jimmy” really did stink. He stank baaaaddddd. He walked real slow around town, collected cans, and turned them in for more tall cans of his own. He never hung out with anyone else. But he was always polite. I always asked him how he was doing, and he always replied, “JustfineMa’am, thanksandyou?” Like it was two words. I don’t think he ever said anything else to me. Only nodded when I cashed out his deposits and placed his tall cans in a paper bag, and wished him a good day. When it was raining, he smelled worse, and I waited until he was out of the store and out of sight- and I’d have to spray Lysol in the air. I felt so bad. He was my favorite of all of the downtown foot traffic people. He was polite, quiet, and I never had to call the cops on him.
I worked at a Gas Station/Convenience Store that was a block away from a local concert venue, next door to a methadone clinic, in front of a drug dealers alley from heaven, and on a very busy street. Needless to say, shit went down quite a bit. I had some fun co-workers, but we were all young, dumb, just turned twenties and some of the customers, well...
Bucket Dan carried a 5-gallon bucket with him every where he went. No big deal, until he dropped trou and started taking a shit in the middle of the store in it.
There was a guy they called Boxcar. He had been 86’d from every store in town, ours included. AND, he’d been hit by every type of moving vehicle, except a tank. I think we ruled out a tank. He had really been hit by a train, had a glass eye, and was a staple on the streets for quite a while. I later found out his name was David.
There was the couple that tried to microwave a full sized- thawed out DiGiorno pizza. He was always rude to me, but one time she gave me a pair of earrings. It was so nice of her. But the baggy had an unidentifiable white powder in it.
There was the just-stepped-off-the-set-of-Grease....auditions guy. He had style, charisma, and didn’t seem like the streets were the life he chose, yet he kept making the street life choices.
All I know, it’s gotta be damn hard to live 2 tall boys at a time, in paper sacs, no roof, only the clothes on your back. And all these years later, I still remember them. And I wish I would have asked “Jimmy” what his name was.
~A
My co-workers called him Jimmy Stanks. I always hated that. Granted, we never took the time to find out the names of most of our customers, and the homeless people were no exception. “Jimmy” really did stink. He stank baaaaddddd. He walked real slow around town, collected cans, and turned them in for more tall cans of his own. He never hung out with anyone else. But he was always polite. I always asked him how he was doing, and he always replied, “JustfineMa’am, thanksandyou?” Like it was two words. I don’t think he ever said anything else to me. Only nodded when I cashed out his deposits and placed his tall cans in a paper bag, and wished him a good day. When it was raining, he smelled worse, and I waited until he was out of the store and out of sight- and I’d have to spray Lysol in the air. I felt so bad. He was my favorite of all of the downtown foot traffic people. He was polite, quiet, and I never had to call the cops on him.
I worked at a Gas Station/Convenience Store that was a block away from a local concert venue, next door to a methadone clinic, in front of a drug dealers alley from heaven, and on a very busy street. Needless to say, shit went down quite a bit. I had some fun co-workers, but we were all young, dumb, just turned twenties and some of the customers, well...
Bucket Dan carried a 5-gallon bucket with him every where he went. No big deal, until he dropped trou and started taking a shit in the middle of the store in it.
There was a guy they called Boxcar. He had been 86’d from every store in town, ours included. AND, he’d been hit by every type of moving vehicle, except a tank. I think we ruled out a tank. He had really been hit by a train, had a glass eye, and was a staple on the streets for quite a while. I later found out his name was David.
There was the couple that tried to microwave a full sized- thawed out DiGiorno pizza. He was always rude to me, but one time she gave me a pair of earrings. It was so nice of her. But the baggy had an unidentifiable white powder in it.
There was the just-stepped-off-the-set-of-Grease....auditions guy. He had style, charisma, and didn’t seem like the streets were the life he chose, yet he kept making the street life choices.
All I know, it’s gotta be damn hard to live 2 tall boys at a time, in paper sacs, no roof, only the clothes on your back. And all these years later, I still remember them. And I wish I would have asked “Jimmy” what his name was.
~A
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Wondering While I Wait
"I wonder how many asses have sat in this chair."
I hate waiting, but I detest waiting rooms. To help ease the discomfort, I entertain myself with questions and made up stories such as these. Just how many asses have sat in the same chair as my ass is now sitting? And just what kind of asses have they been? Plump or petite, toned or potato? Diaper covered toddler butts? Diaper covered dementia parents whose adult children are exhausted from elder care? Cellulite that has been angularly shaped by the drivers seat and truck stop/bus stop food from long haul driving? What about important derrieres, those business suit CFO and lawyerly types? Punk rock kiss my asses, Prim and proper I'd rather not think about the fact that I have an as at all? Stepford aerobic class tightened glutemus maximises, and the moons that debuted in homemade movies? Bodacious booties that bounce with confidence? Flat no-cushion types that are always covered and never coveted? Scholarly asses with sciatica pain from poor posture due to hours upon hours of lecture hall hard chairs and too many upright hours? Asses of kind people, loving, nice, warm, affectionate, folk. Asses of nasty mean jerks who think highly of themselves, misunderstood, but are really just, pardon the reference-- assholes.
Someone calls my name, and saves me from waiting, the waiting room, and the ponderance of all the asses. I follow through a door, step on a scale to find my numerical relationship with gravity, and follow yet again to room number three. The nurse takes my blood pressure, makes some notes, and hands me a gown.
"Go ahead and get undressed, and put this gown on. Have a seat on the exam table. The Doctor will be with you shortly, though we are running a bit behind today. It shouldn't be too long. There are magazines over there if you'd like." And they walk out.
I look down at the gown. I look over at the exam table. I see flimsy tissue paper that is practically translucent and think,
"I wonder how many asses have sat on that exam table."
~A
I hate waiting, but I detest waiting rooms. To help ease the discomfort, I entertain myself with questions and made up stories such as these. Just how many asses have sat in the same chair as my ass is now sitting? And just what kind of asses have they been? Plump or petite, toned or potato? Diaper covered toddler butts? Diaper covered dementia parents whose adult children are exhausted from elder care? Cellulite that has been angularly shaped by the drivers seat and truck stop/bus stop food from long haul driving? What about important derrieres, those business suit CFO and lawyerly types? Punk rock kiss my asses, Prim and proper I'd rather not think about the fact that I have an as at all? Stepford aerobic class tightened glutemus maximises, and the moons that debuted in homemade movies? Bodacious booties that bounce with confidence? Flat no-cushion types that are always covered and never coveted? Scholarly asses with sciatica pain from poor posture due to hours upon hours of lecture hall hard chairs and too many upright hours? Asses of kind people, loving, nice, warm, affectionate, folk. Asses of nasty mean jerks who think highly of themselves, misunderstood, but are really just, pardon the reference-- assholes.
Someone calls my name, and saves me from waiting, the waiting room, and the ponderance of all the asses. I follow through a door, step on a scale to find my numerical relationship with gravity, and follow yet again to room number three. The nurse takes my blood pressure, makes some notes, and hands me a gown.
"Go ahead and get undressed, and put this gown on. Have a seat on the exam table. The Doctor will be with you shortly, though we are running a bit behind today. It shouldn't be too long. There are magazines over there if you'd like." And they walk out.
I look down at the gown. I look over at the exam table. I see flimsy tissue paper that is practically translucent and think,
"I wonder how many asses have sat on that exam table."
~A
Monday, November 2, 2015
A Toast of Hopes
We need to talk. I know, I know, no one likes to hear these words, but– if I didn’t care I wouldn’t take the time. There’s something very important that has been happening our whole lives that has gone undiscussed, and it’s high time someone brought light to the subject. I promise it’ll be okay, it”s just one of those things that everyone does, in private and in public– yet no one talks about it. We all love it, we do it at different times of the day, alone or with other people; we take part in it so often that its normalcy has underwritten its importance. Some people don’t do it correctly and some people have very calculated procedures about the whole thing. Some take a minimalist approach, while others require various accouterments to be satisfied. People will partake more often when they feel under the weather or earlier in the morning. Basically, we all do it, we all love it, and it can no longer be a secret. We ALL. EAT. TOAST.
Toast is the unsung Hero of the breakfast world. It’s the side-kick that makes the crime solving possible. It’s the glue that holds the fabric of the meal together. Why does it not get the proper respect, attention, and love it deserves? I have been plagued by this question for years. It’s my duty to break the silence. I love toast, I love my toaster for making toast possible, and some of you out there have this nonchalant approach to my beloved that must be stopped.
I was reared in a toast respecting house. I was taught to butter the bread all the way to the edges of the crust, as to not leave the eater with any double dry spots. I was aghast when I first encountered second-rate toast butterers. Cold butter pats, half smeared on broken and torn toast, dry edges. Monsters. As I encountered more toast in the world, made by half-assed, get the food to the table, oh yeah that plate needs toast for table 3, I began to notice that it was more widespread than I thought. Dare I say, an epidemic. My Momma taught me proper, and here there was this big wide world of toast making and eating people, with no reverence for crisp hot bread morality. I went out to breakfast the other day, and my “toast”- wasn’t. It was warmed bread. At least they got the butter right. Heathens in the kitchen. I still tip 20%.
On to the top. Put whatever your hearts desires. I am not the arbiter of that debate. Butter or margarine, jelly or jam, bacon or marshmallow fluff, pile it all on. Make some bruschetta, onion marmalade, sweet or savory, or a piece of each. I’ve been known to dabble in the cinnamon & sugar, when I’m feeling fancy I might reach for some local blackberry preserves. I know a peanut butter and bacon on wheat toast woman, and a day old stale toast Nana. For a quick delicious desert, I’ll butter some toast and add melted dark chocolate. Yummm.
Let us be clear about one very important thing. When you take two pieces of toast with your choice of toppings of delight, and face them together, pressing them into one, it’s called a SANDWICH! You’ve stepped into another realm– a celebrated, exalted, and socially aware culinary concept. Also known as lunch. Yes, stacking toast with something in between is a sandwich. I am the arbiter on this. I can provide a certificate of expertise should you require verification.
So, my darling, my plea to you– respect the toast. The humble breakfast servant. The goes great with hot cocoa or tea. The secret is out. Let us congregate and conversate about our shared experiences and love of all things toasted. English muffins, toaster biscuits, buttermilk, whole wheat, rye and the like. Let us ponder how you can order a steak medium well, or well done, but there is no option to order your toast with the same gradient option. I once had toast so exquisite, I ordered another. That’s some damn good toast. I don’t remember the name of the café in Portland, or the rest of the meal, but I remember the toast. All four, gloriously buttered, perfectly browned, crispy chewy bites of all four pieces. Yes, this place did it right. They actually had an employee who was designated to just make toast. And seven years later, I still remember. Seven. years. later. Tell me of your toast of yore, and your hopes of toast for tomorrow.
~A
Toast is the unsung Hero of the breakfast world. It’s the side-kick that makes the crime solving possible. It’s the glue that holds the fabric of the meal together. Why does it not get the proper respect, attention, and love it deserves? I have been plagued by this question for years. It’s my duty to break the silence. I love toast, I love my toaster for making toast possible, and some of you out there have this nonchalant approach to my beloved that must be stopped.
I was reared in a toast respecting house. I was taught to butter the bread all the way to the edges of the crust, as to not leave the eater with any double dry spots. I was aghast when I first encountered second-rate toast butterers. Cold butter pats, half smeared on broken and torn toast, dry edges. Monsters. As I encountered more toast in the world, made by half-assed, get the food to the table, oh yeah that plate needs toast for table 3, I began to notice that it was more widespread than I thought. Dare I say, an epidemic. My Momma taught me proper, and here there was this big wide world of toast making and eating people, with no reverence for crisp hot bread morality. I went out to breakfast the other day, and my “toast”- wasn’t. It was warmed bread. At least they got the butter right. Heathens in the kitchen. I still tip 20%.
On to the top. Put whatever your hearts desires. I am not the arbiter of that debate. Butter or margarine, jelly or jam, bacon or marshmallow fluff, pile it all on. Make some bruschetta, onion marmalade, sweet or savory, or a piece of each. I’ve been known to dabble in the cinnamon & sugar, when I’m feeling fancy I might reach for some local blackberry preserves. I know a peanut butter and bacon on wheat toast woman, and a day old stale toast Nana. For a quick delicious desert, I’ll butter some toast and add melted dark chocolate. Yummm.
Let us be clear about one very important thing. When you take two pieces of toast with your choice of toppings of delight, and face them together, pressing them into one, it’s called a SANDWICH! You’ve stepped into another realm– a celebrated, exalted, and socially aware culinary concept. Also known as lunch. Yes, stacking toast with something in between is a sandwich. I am the arbiter on this. I can provide a certificate of expertise should you require verification.
So, my darling, my plea to you– respect the toast. The humble breakfast servant. The goes great with hot cocoa or tea. The secret is out. Let us congregate and conversate about our shared experiences and love of all things toasted. English muffins, toaster biscuits, buttermilk, whole wheat, rye and the like. Let us ponder how you can order a steak medium well, or well done, but there is no option to order your toast with the same gradient option. I once had toast so exquisite, I ordered another. That’s some damn good toast. I don’t remember the name of the café in Portland, or the rest of the meal, but I remember the toast. All four, gloriously buttered, perfectly browned, crispy chewy bites of all four pieces. Yes, this place did it right. They actually had an employee who was designated to just make toast. And seven years later, I still remember. Seven. years. later. Tell me of your toast of yore, and your hopes of toast for tomorrow.
~A
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Kettle Mourning
"Shit, shit. I'm coming! I'm coming, goodness."
This is a common string of frustrations I blurt out, directed at my screaming tea kettle every morning; pre-caffeine of course. I set the kettle on, grind the dark beans of life giving energy and nestle the grounds into the bleach-free filter. It all starts out very innocent, The Morning Coffee Ritual. I start looking forward to my morning cup of coffee the night before. Just the thought of the first hot, comforting, creamy cup in the handmade ceramic mug brings me hope that tomorrow will be glorious. Sometimes, the thought of that morning cup is the only incentive I have to go to bed at a reasonable hour. My husband thinks it's cute, my pre-coffee enjoyment. I call it Fair Trade Organic Caffeine Dedication.I do live in the Pacific North West after all; and besides bottled water wars,plastic bans and all other eco related rights-- Coffee is what we take most seriously. Which brings me back to my kettle.
So after I've pre-rinsed the filter to get the paper taste out (as to not alter the taste of my beloved nectar of life) and set up the drip cone atop the glass coffee maker on the stove burner, I sleepily attend to my other a.m. tasks. Pet the cat, check my email and social media accounts, get lost in thoughts of the to do's of the day, attending to the calls of nature-- when the kettle starts its cry. My kettle doesn't whistle, it wails. That dramatic little turquoise bitch spits and sputters water and screams as though it's auditioning for the role of epileptic ambulance in an art students mid-term activism project. It turns my morning coffee into a Mourning Coffee. I hurry to make the awfulness stop, and I apologize to my kettle for causing it pain. It seems appropriate somehow. And then the making of the coffee commences. And all will be alright in the world, in five more minutes. As I snuggle with my first cup on my front porch, the glorious has begun.
~A
This is a common string of frustrations I blurt out, directed at my screaming tea kettle every morning; pre-caffeine of course. I set the kettle on, grind the dark beans of life giving energy and nestle the grounds into the bleach-free filter. It all starts out very innocent, The Morning Coffee Ritual. I start looking forward to my morning cup of coffee the night before. Just the thought of the first hot, comforting, creamy cup in the handmade ceramic mug brings me hope that tomorrow will be glorious. Sometimes, the thought of that morning cup is the only incentive I have to go to bed at a reasonable hour. My husband thinks it's cute, my pre-coffee enjoyment. I call it Fair Trade Organic Caffeine Dedication.I do live in the Pacific North West after all; and besides bottled water wars,plastic bans and all other eco related rights-- Coffee is what we take most seriously. Which brings me back to my kettle.
So after I've pre-rinsed the filter to get the paper taste out (as to not alter the taste of my beloved nectar of life) and set up the drip cone atop the glass coffee maker on the stove burner, I sleepily attend to my other a.m. tasks. Pet the cat, check my email and social media accounts, get lost in thoughts of the to do's of the day, attending to the calls of nature-- when the kettle starts its cry. My kettle doesn't whistle, it wails. That dramatic little turquoise bitch spits and sputters water and screams as though it's auditioning for the role of epileptic ambulance in an art students mid-term activism project. It turns my morning coffee into a Mourning Coffee. I hurry to make the awfulness stop, and I apologize to my kettle for causing it pain. It seems appropriate somehow. And then the making of the coffee commences. And all will be alright in the world, in five more minutes. As I snuggle with my first cup on my front porch, the glorious has begun.
~A
Thursday, June 2, 2011
a life sentence...
If I believed what I saw on TV, I’d be a fuckin millionare; my home based internet business would let me afford that super mega trillion GHz system with true surround sound to organize my life and order at my fingertips a pill for my mate that’ll make me come, and that wonderful silver necklace that’ll make me shine with my overpriced make up to make my man stay if I exercise more and clean everything with pine scented cleaners and futuristic gadgets that make my life easy to fix any problem with the switch of a button, undone with plastic breasts my life could be better when I buy real estate and stay up too late, TV sucks my ass.
~g
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