When all else fails...

April?! My last post was in April? Sweet Lord, I had no idea it had been that long.

My apologies, my sweet little crumb muffins. I lost track of time. I was busy soaking in as much sun as I could to delay the winter doldrums that are always just around the corner. I was driving through the night over the east-midwest and spending saturdays lolling around deciding whether or not I would get dressed. I was being in love, and going to work, and writing in Tudor City Park as many lunch hours as possible, and cursing the ever-present rain in June, and fighting mice to the death in the wee hours of the night. Really, there's no excuse. I was somewhere else. But I'm here now.

And I haven't got much to say, really.

I've made the decision, once again, to apply for MFA programs for creative writing this fall. This, of course, has had a seriously devastating effect on my writing, which has screeched to a nasty and frustrating halt. I sent the boy off this afternoon (which was particularly suited to writing--cool, rainy, not much going on) so I could write, and then spent the next 4 hours reading essays on writing, writing about how frustrated i was about writing, writing a paragraph or two on the story i'm working on, hating it, writing some more about my writing frustrations, getting a snack, doing some pushups, checking the scores of all the college football games...all to end up with 10 frustratingly scratched pages in my journal and loads of frustration.

And now, here I am. When all else fails, there is still blogging.

I'm trying to trick myself into finishing the story I'm working on, the story I'd like to submit to MFA programs, the story that now HAS TO BE PERFECT, by telling myself that I'm just writing, no big deal, it doesn't matter, I'm just getting ideas on paper. But inside, I'm wrung tight like a wet dishtowel, I can't let go and just let it flow through me, it's like when you're deep breathing through an injury--it doesn't take the pain away, it just distracts you a little.

Basically, I'm fucked.

printemps (springtime)

walking through dim stony corridors
the delicious cool warmness of new spring breeze
rolling across my skin
cross-hatching of sun-dappled avenues
the yellow-gray plaid of the city
speckled with a melange of wool-coated
and leather-booted pessimists, dewy browed,
and bare-forearmed optimists, the occassional
peeking set of toes or flash
of bare calf glinting in the sun
the occassional god
or goddess, perfectly suited
for the exact degree, percentage humidity,
miles-per-hour of wind,
and the rest of us wonder
how their contract with the devil reads
shimmering, slinky, silver, glass,
and marble gargoyle-encrusted towers
part perfectly just in this spot
the acoustics transforming
the churning, swirling belly of a cement mixer
into a humming choir.

the great library rises
swathed in bright yellow sun glaze
the steps pillowed with soft warm soaking bodies and
resurrection falls like fairy's dust from the buds
in the opening trees
we take a collective breath, deeper
and happier today than a week ago
amazed, perhaps, by the affect of a few degrees
and storm clouds on our outlook on life.

daffodils dance in evenly spaced clay pots
on the sidewalk, an approximation of spring
as the scarf makes the metamorphosis
from necessity to accessory
from tightly wound cocoon to floating butterfly wings
three carefully chosen hardbacks
tucked under my arm
the steps, the lolling masses wave for me to join them,
i long to lay for a moment,
to flip through these newly acquired treasures
i glance at the time and turn the other direction,
poems rustling as I walk about the nature of spring in New York.

Church of the MTA

My morning subway ride began like most others. I sat on the 4 or 5 train, whichever had come first, in my usual car, on one of my usual benches, iPod tuned to the Flaming Lips (after several weeks of Sufjan, while I read Lolita), reading The Loved Ones, by Evelyn Waugh. I noticed this morning my tendency to do this, listen to one artist while I read a book, switching only when I've finished.

As happens about once a week on this particular commute, a man entered the train somewhere downtown, maybe Wall Street, and began speaking. Usually when this happens, it is loud and annoying, and I sit in my seat, staring at the floor, cringing and waiting for it to all be over. Often, it is a man who says that he has sandwiches for the poor and homeless, and that he is accepting donations. Occasionally, it is a homeless person apologizing for the interruption and asking for spare change. Last week, it was a man who yelled loudly and somewhat incoherently, punctuating his words by slamming his fist into the ceiling, yelling that the immigrants needed to stop sending their money home and that the Muslims should go home, and New Yorkers needed to protect "the 'hood." He talked for so long and seemed so disturbed that I finally got up and moved to another car.

This morning, when I heard a man's voice over my earphones, I thought, "Ugh. Here we go again." I was tired from working late and sleeping little last night. I was annoyed. But this guy wasn't yelling. He wasn't asking for anything. His voice was loud enough to hear, but it's tone was one of conviction and sincerity. I could see him from his belly down out of the corner of my eye as I stared at my book. He squeezed a dark knit cap in his pale left hand, which he raised and lowered as he spoke. I was curious. I stopped reading to listen to what he had to say. When I worked up the courage to look at him, I saw that his curly black hair was streaked with gray. He looked like he was of Jewish descent. He stared straight ahead as he spoke, not looking at me when I looked at him.

"Please consider," he said, "The love that God has for you. That he loved you so much that he sent his only son, Jesus, to suffer and die for you, so that you could be cleansed of your sins and have eternal life."

In a clear, even voice, he went through the whole story. God loves you. We are sinners. God sent his son Jesus to die in our place so that we could live eternally. God loves you. Life is hard, but at the end is eternal life if we believe in God, and repent of our sins. And God wants you to do so, because he loves you.

I have certainly heard this message in many ways, in many places, in many voices. I knew the verses he was going to quote before he said them, reciting them along with him in my head. But what I haven't heard in the more than two years that I've lived in this city is someone who is trying to tell people about Jesus do it in such a humble, unobtrusive way. I know that preaching on the subway is hardly unobtrusive, and as someone who hates it when people do this, I have to say that this man struck me, not only because he was obviously not mentally disturbed, not yelling, and not damnating, but because of his message of God's love in such a humble and sincere voice. The weight and burden of his message seemed to cause him almost physical pain.

Much of my criticism of Christians is that they make God look bad. I wanted to hug this man because he did not.

When I got off the train at 42 Street, he had finished his message. I believe he quietly left the car behind me. I prayed that God would bless this man who, counter to the many who alienate people with their, i'm sure, often sincere but misguided attempts at pushing God at the masses, is quietly preaching a message of God's love.

I left Grand Central feeling as though I had been to church.

i love a little (bad) poetry after supper

I am in love.

When I am in love, I write bad poetry.

See how that works? Love = bad poetry.

Want to hear some? I wonder if it's an inverse relationship? As in, the better the love, the worse the poetry? Maybe just for me.

This doesn't have a title, and I don't think it's finished, as in, I probably won't finish it, but if I were to finish it, it would need finishing. Also, please be gentle. Here goes:

I want to sleep in your belly
Make a nest out of your blood vessels
and use your heart as a pillow
Letting the soft thud-thud, thud-thud
Lull me to sleep.

I'll sprawl over you,
tucking my toes into your intestines
and wrapping my arms around your lungs
Letting the soft whoosh-whoosh rise
and fall be the tide of my dreams.

That's it so far. Maybe it needs another, um, stanza, or something. I dunno.

To keep or not to keep...

...the resolvements, that is.

So, as I was lying in my bed last night thinking some more about my new year's resolutions, I wondered about whether or not I could/would actually keep them. I'd like to, of course, and I think the problem generally is that resolutions are either

1) too unsavory
2) too vague
3) too un-documentable

to be kept. So, in all of the brilliance that is the moments right before falling asleep, I came up with a plan to document my resolution keeping.

Warning: we are going into serious nerd territory.

So, you remember when you were a kid and you had a list on the fridge of all of your chores or whatever, and then every time you did a chore, your mom put up a gold star and then when you had enough stars you got your allowance? Or something? I don't. What I do remember is trying to implement a system similar to this one at least quarterly from the time I was maybe 8 until I was 12 or 13. The problem was not with me. It was with my mother, who just couldn't be bothered to put up a freaking foil star next to my (albeit meager) accomplishments, or to care at all except whether the bathroom had been cleaned or not. Also, for all of my efforts for a system of (what I believed to be more than fair) compensation for hard work, I maybe got an allowance once. Maybe.

Which brings me to the present day list of New Year's Resolutions. I've condensed them down to the really important, actionable ones:

1. No douchebags
2. No smoking
3. Exercise
4. Write
5. Once a week fun

My goals for exercise and writing are 3 times per week each. Exercise only counts if I'm in proper exercise attire and actually exercising on purpose (so, not walking around the block at lunch), generally at the gym. Writing is defined as FICTION writing, so blogging and journaling, which I will continue to do, do not count towards the three times a week (since I tend to use blogging and journaling as excuses not to write fiction).

Now, what if, every day that I do one of these things, I write the corresponding number in the corner of that day in my datebook? So, say, a day when I exercise and don't smoke and avoid douchebags, is a 1,2,3. And a day when I don't smoke and I write, and I avoid douchebags is a 1,2,4. And so on. And that way, I can have visible proof to myself that I'm doing what i said I wanted to do, while keeping it at the top of my mind by writing it down every day.

So Far!
Monday: 1,2,3
Tuesday: 1,2,4

I really don't know if this is going to do any good, and I haven't gotten to the rewards part of this yet, as monetary rewards don't really motivate me, nor do buying myself presents, so...suggestions welcome!

Happy New Year's Resolutions keeping. What are your resolutions? How are you planning on keeping them? Or do you think resolutions are stupid?

Resolvements

Ah yes, it's that time of year again, my fluffy marshmallows. Resolution time! During which I "spontaneously" make the exact same list as last year to be studiously followed for somewhere between 1 and 48 hours before unceremoniously forgotten, after, of course, the requisite amounts of consternation and guilt about not really planning to lose weight or quit smoking. I mean, I mean to do those things, but somehow, my resolve just isn't, I don't know, resolved enough. Or something. Or resolutions are stupid and just make people feel like failures.

In that happy, optimistic vein, then, I offer you my Lizzie's New Year's Resolutions 2009 Edition, in which I resolve to do things I know I should do or I really really want to do, but in such broad, vague terms that the actual doing of the things will require many many smaller steps that I'm not going to think about now, and then when those smaller steps come up to be done, I'll probably just ignore them. But resolutions are what we Americans do, and by dammit, I want to at least appear patriotic.

1. No more douchebags

Originally, this one applied to sex only, but I've since broadened it out to other parts of my life, like people I know, and people on the Subway, and world political leaders. See? Broad generalizations, the small steps of which I'm cleverly avoiding. No, but seriously, I'm tired of guy douchebags especially, and the plan is to be a little more careful in the coming year about who I date and etc. Also, the eradications of "friends" who are really just douchebags who know me who I'm not sleeping with. I won't go into specifics here, but let's just say that if you've been a douchebag in the recent past and I stop talking to you, you probably are on the list.

2. No more cigarettes

Sigh. If only they could make them healthy. But alas. This is something I will actually be working toward, in small, measured steps. I've wanted to quit forever for real for a long time, and though my smoking is generally sporadic, I'd like to stop for real. If only it weren't so damn enjoyable! Ah well, we all have to grow up sometime. Or get lung cancer.

3. The requisite resolution to work out more.

You know, because everyone is doing it. Resolving to, anyway. The truth is that exercising helps curb the smoking and is pretty much the only way I cut back and/or quit ever, so they're pretty entertwined. Besides, all the douchebags need to see how hot and sexy I am now that I'm not wasting my time on them. Yes? Yes. It is all about making boys jealous. Always. And other girls. That is where self-esteem comes from.

4. No suicide

Since #1 is going to take a serious toll on my love life, and #2 is going to take a serious toll on my social life, and i know that being in shape isn't everything, I figure a resolution is in order to make sure that my resolutions don't kill me.

5. No homocide

Or anyone else.

6. Do one fun, new thing every week by myself

I figured I'd throw in a semi-pleasureable one because a) no one ever resolves to do anything fun or exciting and b) I need something to do to keep me from smoking and sleeping with douchebags. And no, I don't know what I'll be doing yet this week, though I'm probably going to hit up a museum after work Friday.

Oh, and 7...

7. Write more, write consistently, stop being so goddamn self-loathing about writing, and maybe think about trying to publish something.

Ugh. We'll see about this one.

Pre-traumatic stress disorder

I have noticed, over the years, that in the weeks preceding my going home for any extended (read: longer than two days) period of time, I lapse into a curious verbal mood--that of complaining about my mother. I don't really mean to, and it's not like I sit around thinking about how much I don't want to go home or how much I dislike her (because I don't really mind going home, and i don't really dislike her), but the idea of going home, especially for Christmas, for an entire week, carries with it a certain amount of stress.

Granted, all families are crazy and stressful. The holidays are nostalgic, frustrating, beautiful, frenzied, happy, sad, terrible--they are your childhood and your teen years and the breaks from college, and now that you're an adult, all of those things piled up and mashed and sifted through your memory and I stand in my grandmother's kitchen surrounded by people who I am completely comfortable with because they know me as well as anyone, even though they may not know the current me, they know my history, they are my history, and so we are familiar, and in that familiarity is comfort and discomfort, a longing for the past and some discomfort with the present. I see the new lines around my mother's eyes; the slightly less coherent sentences of my grandmother; my teenage cousins who suddenly look like adults; my nephew who has grown two feet every time I see him. Every year, I am further away from this, from them. Every year, the small shocks at the things that have changed since I've been home get bigger. And yet...this is home, even though it is no longer home, it's as close as I ever get, and even though I can't talk to my mother without her getting that quiet, strained look, or without her not responding to something I said because she doesn't want to be judgmental, though she doesn't realize that her silence is judgment enough, and so we keep everything superficial and we avoid the hard things, but what i really want to do is scream at her all of the things that i've ever wanted to say.

i suppose this is where the stress comes, beforehand...the knowledge that these silences are coming, the silences in which we do not say all of the things that we would need to in order for us to have a good relationship. i cannot say to her that i feel that she resents me, or that i think she blames her unhappiness on me. i can't say to her that there is nothing that i will ever do, no amount of success that can ever make up for her mistakes, and in any case, that it is not my responsibility to atone for her sins. i don't understand how, as an adult, our childhoods affect us so much still, even when we have tried and tried and tried to either forget them or forgive them, or if nothing else, to let them go. I see that all of those things that I felt and learned as a child affect so much of my life now--that believing i was unwanted informs my relationships (or lack thereof) with men and with friends, that believing that I could somehow do enough to make it worth their while, that if i was only good enough or successful enough, that somehow i could earn their love...that leads me to feel now that there is nothing i can ever do to be good enough. not for me or for anyone.

These are the things I think about while I'm Christmas shopping, while I wrap the scarves and earrings and children's toys i've bought. i think about those silences and what they mean. i think about all of the things that i can't quite understand, as if my mind now cannot understand things beyond what my six-year-old mind could understand back then.

and i know that i will go home, and it will be familiar and comfortable. and those silences that i dread will only come once or twice, and they will pass, as they always do, with nothing being resolved. But maybe there are things we don't want to know. And maybe there are things better left in the past. And in the end, I know it's no different for most people, in similar ways--family knows your beauty and your ugliness, and love you. They believe in you whether or not you do the same. They tell you the truth, if you're lucky, and support your decisions whether they agree or not, though sometimes with more stoic silences than others. And in the end, they are as close as you can get to unconditional love. And if the price of all of that is those goddamn silences, then I guess I'll take them along with all the rest.