Text-Based

Month: November, 2011

/∆\

microcosm = a little world
macrocosm = a great world
maicrocosm = a great little world

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on shopping.

I find I’m happiest in thrift stores and consignment shops. I’m a sucker for a bargain, and the digging, finding pieces you’d never find elsewhere, and range of amazing to awful are components crucial to getting lost in a day of retail rapture.

hide

horizons hide her eyes inside //∆\\ inside her eyes horizons hide

rain

alone now.
balcony.
to chest,
fold knees.

tucked hard into brick,
her back warms in pain.
trying not to get wet.
wanting still to feel rain.

nightmare | where there’s smoke…

I eat something hot. Not any hotter than I’ve had before. But shortly after ingestion, I feel a burning under my sternum. It’s probably nothing.

Looking at the back of my hand, I begin picking at what looks like a whitehead emerging from my oddly-transparent skin. I am able to actually pinch what’s coming out and start pulling. Over two feet of substance comes out, but it’s unlike anything I imagine naturally produced in my body.

It looks like white smoke–like a beautiful, thick, milky, opaque, curvy, twirling length of smoke, as produced by a incense stick the size of a baseball bat or something, but it felt like rubber. It floated and moved like smoke, but it stayed perplexingly horizontal.

_____________

I become aware of being at a house with a few people I may know. And this heat in my chest grabs my attention again. I can feel it actually causing burns inside my ribs, and my sternum is hot to the touch.

It hurts physically, because I’m burning from the inside, and it hurts psychologically, because I know I was the one who put this attack inside my body. And once it was in there, I couldn’t get it out.

At the center of my chest, my skin is thinning, and I realize the food is burning a hole through my chest to get out of me. I frantically ask people what I ate, while trying to remain visibly calm, because I’m not sure anyone else can see what’s happening.

Because I’m not actually sure it’s happening.

The burning finally reaches the surface. Imagine holding a lighter under the center of a piece of construction paper and watching what happens from above. Blackened skin, curling outward from the center. A flame rising triumphantly. The hole spreads to a few inches in diameter. I look up for help or to see if anyone can see what is happening.

And I wake up.


When I Grow Up.

When I was a child, I wanted to be a mermaid. I had no delusions about being a ballerina; my mother was sure to squash those quickly by letting me know just how big I was going to be, bless her. There’s a movie about a kid who turns into a mermaid when he turns 13, and I hoped, at a soul level, through my own thirteenth year that I would turn too.

Coming to terms with the reality of being human for the rest of my days, I then wanted to be a mom. Through high school, all I did was try to be older than I was, and I worked with kids as much as I could–babysitting since age ten, peer counseling, youth group leader, working in a daycare for two years and eventually managing it, full-time nannying, Sunday School teacher, etc.

Toward the end of high school, I wanted to be a band director. I was already basically running the band program, was well-known region-wide in the band and drum corps circuits, and could command 200-member ensembles like I’d been doing it for years. But eventually, I realized I didn’t want to deal with shitty sixteen-year-olds every day. I hated playing my instrument, and all I wanted to do was conduct and teach. Music degrees don’t work that way. So I completed my year at a private Christian university and didn’t go back.

Then, I just wanted to be happy.

I garnered an intense and unexpected interest in fashion, and I realized my writing really was different than others’. I wanted to see my dad. So I moved across the country and found my current job. I was employee number seven, so we were all playing multiple roles in the company. Hired for my writing ability, “people skills,” and social media agility, I started in customer service, writing on the company blogs on the side. I eventually took over working with bloggers, and now I am completely out of customer service, doing marketing, promotions, and search engine optimization full-time.

And I’m pretty happy.

I’m relatively comfortable with who I am, though I wish I could be better for those around me. I believe I contain the most contrasted juxtaposition possible between endless empathy for others and utter selfishness. But it’s not spiteful selfishness. It starts as “just how I feeeel ” and is revealed by those I love, all of whom are smarter than I, it seems, as completely ridiculous.

So I guess I’d like to be less selfish and more secure when I grow up. Loathe myself less. Require less punishment.

We’ll see how I do.

You implied I was smart.

You may have these delusions, and you’re welcome to think I could, technically, be intelligent.

But the last thing I’ll ever try to do is convince you I am also sane.

“So the definition of luxury changes. Because luxury is always the opposite of commonality, in every facet of society. The working class poor could scarcely afford food, so the rich Edwardians were luxuriously fat. Processed and average quality food is now so accessible that organic and ‘pure’ foods, the polar opposite of what you find in the freezer isle and at takeaways, are now considered the luxury. Cheap food is now so accessible that waist lines have bulged and obesity has become an epidemic, thus it’s perceived by many to be a luxury to be slim.

Across society, luxury is defined by the polar opposites of what is most common and what those without a particular attribute, an attribute that is sometimes wealth but just as likely to be skill or knowledge, can have.”

— Daniel P Dykes, Fashionising

CONSIDERING THE SELF-DEPRECIATIVE NATURE OF MY HUMOR, ONE MIGHT PROJECT AN ELEVATED COMFORT WITH SHARING THE TRULY SHAMEFUL.

ASSUMPTION BECOMES YOU NOT.

him: and so much feeling of “familiar.”
is that the drug? familiarity?

her: hah. “thug is the drug. that make ’em fall in love. when love don’t love no baaahdaaay.”
love is the drug. familiarity is the catalyst for relapse.