merry christmas

losing so much and never expecting that you would have to go through it all alone,
you are warmed by your fake fire in your fake fireplace in a house that doesn't get cold.

Tis the season to be busy as crap

I have to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed the hour I took today to walk around the hood in the snow with my neighbor and her dog - including the random old men that approached us to pet said dog and to inquire as to whether or not we needed someone to "shovel our sidewalks". Needless to say, I was thankful that the dog was there.

There is something quiet and peaceful about snow. Sounds are muted but visibly, sights appear to be enhanced. My holiday spirit was enhanced today as I chewed a candy cane. I am a candy cane chewer, you see. I relish in nothing.

So now it is the season for me to drive all over the kingdom. I miss B. I want to cuddle and pull homemade espresso and make a gingerbread house.

First is a woodwind quintet recital. Then I commute to Iowa City for the weekend - super excited to rehearse with friends and do a recital Monday at U of Iowa. After the celebrations close, I am to travel to La Crosse, WI, for some Christmas symphony shenanigans. That will be my whole week - that and cramming in as many private lessons as possible. Finally, the coup de grace: my annual journey to Tennessee. I look forward to it and I don't.

I am currently resisting the urge to tally up hours in my car.

Manifesto 2: life is too short? (or F you)

Life is too short to be doing what I don't want to be doing. My life is too good to be complaining about anything - I am self-employed, I am getting by, I have my health and my family and a beautimous one. And a furry cat-rabbit. When I lose sight of this, when I feel anything less than grateful, I sometimes have to take a step back and reflect upon what it is that shuts me down.

So, F you, people.

F you all who are negative and try to bring me down because of your own insecurities. F my insecurities. F the fact that you get to me so much. F this town and all the Fing hipsters and yuppies and know-it-alls. F you. I can be a hipster if I want. I threw out all my effing skinny jeans and now I am going to wear all black. I am not alive today and I am not where I am because I am a "realist", so F you for trying to make me see the world for what it really is. I effing tried that and it was too damn depressing. F you for being so depressing.

F you, to all y'all who complain about your wonderful lives. Worse yet, you complain and you do nothing to change it. So F that. F you to the people who drive up on my ass and tailgate me and pass me and glare. F you facebook and F the status updates and the people who use it as a way to re-create themselves. F showing the world only what I want them to see and F the g-d "like" button. F the pictures where you pucker your lips and look all emo. I know how you look in real life.

F those of you who think success is being better than someone else. And F you for thinking you are better; here is news for you: you aren't. I hope that I can be the pile of dog poop that you fail to notice and step in. I hope that I fail in front of you, fall on my face and make mistakes and Fing laugh about it, because that is how people improve themselves. F!

F you for thinking that the south side of madison is a bad part of town. F you for turning your nose up at the g-d bus and better yet, F you for turning your nose up at me because I will drive my car .5 miles to get where I need to go. I am going to burn oil and I am not going to eat chicken unless I know where the F it comes from.

F you Anthem for charging me more because I fail to meet the optimum weight and F you weight for being higher than I want.

F you if I want to drink PBR. F you if I listen to stadium rock or F-ing folk music. F you if I care as much about one girl with a guitar as much as I care about dead white guys. F you, particularly, if you think classical musicians are dorks. I would learn the effing guitar if I wanted to, trust me. F Republicans and F democrats. F you irritating athiests, F you irritating Christians oh and F all the other religions.

F you, every major holiday. Including the bank holidays.

F you anxiety, insecurity, fear, hatred, anger, but even moreso...F you subconscious. F off trying to be all uppity about psychology when you have never even been to a g-d therapist. and while I am on the subject, F to you for telling me I need therapy. I have therapy in the fridge.

F anyone who tells me that I can't drink before 3pm. And F you if you think I can't eat dessert for breakfast or drink coffee after 3pm.

F YOU!

pp

my search for the perfect platform is over.

http://hatshapedhat.tumblr.com

I still avoid stepping on cracks.
not because I am worried about breaking my mother's back,
but because it is comforting to know exactly where my feet land.

These little obsessions and repetitions disguise themselves this way,
though they are born of an increasing anxiety whose origin I haven't yet pinpointed.
While I avoid the task of investigating,
I will eradicate every stray hair from my thoughts and my face.

And if I am melancholy it is because I am sorry that your mom died.

What is missing?
The aching radiating out through my fingertips.
There is something else, but what?

You don't fit in anywhere. Not at that hospital, alone.
Square pegs being forced into round holes.
Blood pulsing through the veins at a steady tempo of 72-85
makes me nauseous, makes me hot.

Feeling her pulse against mine must be a great thing,
but I like to think that I don't have one.
It is easier than having to admit that I am alive.

I need a stiff drink.

away from the lens

Sitting up here in the tree house, I like to watch the mean squirrels skitter about and the occasional cardinal or blue jay perch briefly outside my window, the yellow leaves a nice frame for the bay. I love this season but dread the onslaught for which it is the prelude. On the bike to New Glarus I could smell death. It is the dry, brittle smell of winter and I am torn between breathing it in, welcoming and accepting it, and wishing I was a Jewish octogenarian snow bird making my way to Florida in my Winnebago.

I wrote a poem about winter back when I was in high school, over 10 years ago. I wish I had kept better track of it, but I am terrible about saving such things for posterity. They were so private and too embarrassing so it would be better if those creations were to evaporate into the ether, leaving no trace.

My ability to hang on has improved since then.

steed of another sort

I have had three cars in my life.

To have fifteen years of car-driving experience under my belt, that seems like a lot. But why is it that having more lovers than cars is more desirable as age 30 looms? Aren't both situations somewhat of a "money suck?" I can't complain about my car-life, but I will. Everyone does.

The hunks of metal of my past have been memorable, even lovable and I think back fondly to those times that we had together. The car with which I learned the art of driving and struggled with as a teenager, was already in the twilight of its life with 250 thousand miles and a front end that threatened to fall out on the interstate. Isn't that the story for almost every Honda Accord of the late 80s? The cigarette burns in the backseat were endearing, as were the stories of forgotten cheese burgers from my elementary school years. My parents ordered it in 1986 and it traveled to the US on a boat, one of the last, truely Japanese Hondas. But a love like that won't last forever. So we parted ways, and I knew that it would always occupy a special place in my heart, despite our diverging paths. My life was taking off, but the Honda, the Ghettosled, would have to stay back in the hills of Tennessee.

My second car was lovingly referred to as the 'fart cart'. The odor, our odors, and its lemon-like ability to destroy the day combined to make this nickname increasingly more appropriate over the years. The pee-green (yes pee, the overly asparagus, vitamin-laden type), baby-poop yellow, officially champagne Altima was lacking in the mileage department but not lacking in freak-style mechanical errors. And luck. I was rear-ended 3 times in one week in various locations within the DC metropolis. When my parents took it off our hands for $1, I shed narry a tear. It was nice to see it go. It was not to be trusted. That may explain why they turned around and sold it for cash without telling me. I did Mom a favor and removed the HRC sticker, but the CoExist sticker remained and I think it stayed there, along with the power T and the black, stock mirror. How did that mirror thing happen again?

Now my Subaru... my current car, my third car, what I wanted to be my last car is making its mortality known and well-apparent. I never thought that I would have to have a contingency plan. I always thought that it would live forever. The run has been good, Subie. At 163k it has to have its first major, devastating repair (devasting primarily for my wallet). The clutch finally wore out. Now, that is impressive. What is depressive is that the gasket head must be replaced and this defect is common in all Subarus; Subaru owners brag about their wagons with 300k miles, how they would survive the nuclear holocaust ... but just like everything else, they wear out. They are not immune to this world, if anything they are more susceptible to its elements than we are. I have driven it into the ground, so to speak. Is that any way to treat someone so important?

Given the prognosis, I panicked. My first reaction was extreme hopelessness. When my car wouldn't move, I cried and dropped a few f-bombs and thought that beating the living hell out of it would help. I became angry and I refused to forgive the car and Googled all of its downfalls and decided that it was good for nothing, good for scrap and that my state of poverty would leave me carless, would complicate my life. This car isn't even mine. I didn't buy this car and yet, it means too much. I am stuck with it and when I cough up the money, albeit plastic money, tomorrow, I will probably cry and fall into a state of agitation, stare into space and grieve.

But I'm ready for the future now and know that if I truly love it, then I must be prepared to let it go.