My drive into work was just like any other. Well except that I had to turn the heat on. And I had to stop for gas. And it was 20 minutes later than I usually make the journey. I guess, what I am saying was that my drive into work was different than most mornings.
The usual exit, though, towards work - I climb the hill on the Kellogg exit and am stopped by the light. Sitting there idling, I check the clock. 5 minutes to 9:00am. I better make it to the parking lot before the rates change from bad to atrocious. I know I'll make it. I always do. Waiting at the light a man is guided across the street by the white painted dash lines. He's abiding the crosswalk perimeters but something is funny about this one. What is funny is that he is starring me down with crazy eyes. The 10 feet that it takes to clear my front end he doesn't take his eyes off of me for a second. He even turns as he passes to avoid giving me his back. Walking backwards away from me now.
The 30 seconds it took for him to cross my path, all I could do is stare back and wonder what the hell that guy was thinking. Something crazy, I'm sure. It wasn't the kind of inquisitive look you give if you think you know someone. It surely wasn't the eyes you give to someone you are attracted to. It was the look that says, "What the fuck is happening here?".
It occurred to me as I drove towards my $7/day parking lot that this was the image that crazy eyed man saw:
A figure in a dark hoodie. The hood is pulled up over their head, leaving the face in shadow. Over the sweatshirt is a zipped up, down filled puma vest. The music from the speakers of the vehicle is undoubtedly bleeding into the streets. The driver sits with one arm over the steering wheel, letting their wrist maneuver the car. They sit in a white minivan.
His ass thought I stole my car.
Or he was high and thought I was the smoke monster.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Unknown
Dear Unknown Number,
Next time you dial my number, will you please leave a message? Each time it tells me I missed your call, my stomach turns into nervous knots at the knowledge of who you potentially could be. I promise I won't be mad if you are a telemarketer. In fact, I will kiss you if you are a telemarketer.
Love always (is that an appropriate goodbye for you?),
Mary
Next time you dial my number, will you please leave a message? Each time it tells me I missed your call, my stomach turns into nervous knots at the knowledge of who you potentially could be. I promise I won't be mad if you are a telemarketer. In fact, I will kiss you if you are a telemarketer.
Love always (is that an appropriate goodbye for you?),
Mary
Monday, September 28, 2009
Bi-Yearly Series
I got caught up in a mess tonight. A fun mess.
Came home and thought I'd have a relaxing night by the fire... who knew the wood smoke would make me so productive. I went through 3 months of neglected mail, did some filing, renewed my tabs, started cleaning out the closets, wrote some checks, wrote some thank you cards. The Thank You's is what started the mess.
A doodle gone mad.
Inspiration.
Back to the closet.
Art supplies needed.
Mess to be made.
Someone close to me will be recieving a card with the original of this finished product. You will have to pretend it is a surprise and then hang it on your fridge as if it's worth something.
Visitors in my apartment usually notice the first of these drawings. In fact, it's usually the only piece of my own (among like 20 throughout my apartment [what a narcissist]) that gets complimented. I'll include all three of what has come to be a Bi-Yearly Series.
#1 Simple Hello
So sorry to ignore the ongoing narrative in my head tonight. I was hearing illustrations instead.
Maybe tomorrow I will tell you about how I continue to hike to nowhere in this place called Minnesota and how much I love the sound of crushing acorns with my Keens.
nite time
Came home and thought I'd have a relaxing night by the fire... who knew the wood smoke would make me so productive. I went through 3 months of neglected mail, did some filing, renewed my tabs, started cleaning out the closets, wrote some checks, wrote some thank you cards. The Thank You's is what started the mess.
A doodle gone mad.
Inspiration.
Back to the closet.
Art supplies needed.
Mess to be made.
Someone close to me will be recieving a card with the original of this finished product. You will have to pretend it is a surprise and then hang it on your fridge as if it's worth something.
Visitors in my apartment usually notice the first of these drawings. In fact, it's usually the only piece of my own (among like 20 throughout my apartment [what a narcissist]) that gets complimented. I'll include all three of what has come to be a Bi-Yearly Series.
#1 Simple Hello
#2 Simple Lasso
#3 Simple Hug
Lastly, proof of mess.
So sorry to ignore the ongoing narrative in my head tonight. I was hearing illustrations instead.
Maybe tomorrow I will tell you about how I continue to hike to nowhere in this place called Minnesota and how much I love the sound of crushing acorns with my Keens.
nite time
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Acclaimed Dancer
"Mary is an incredibly hard worker and does her job often with a smile, if not a song or little dance."
Even my boss can’t help but notice my groovin’ movin’. My place of employment isn’t spared from my whistling. I shake the stress away. It’s always been my way. I’d rather dance than worry. And I’d rather make someone laugh with my ridiculous moves than remain still and serious. We did an extensive annual review this year. After three sessions, the quote above was final say on my performance. Ha. That’s going in my permanent file. My boss then forks this written silliness over to her boss, but she doesn’t have a boss right now … so that sentence got handed to our President instead. It is now widely known that I am dancing on company dollars. Awesome.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Brainz
“Everyone wants to be readable in a society doomed by the parable of first impressions.” – Me
How was I smart? I wrote that sentence almost five years ago. Aren’t brains supposed to come with age? At least, that is what all our old liar-faced grannies keep saying.
That sentence came to me today as a string of words on my first read. I had to rewind the language for a minute and hit repeat. I knew I missed something the first time around. I found even more on my third read. Rolling those words over and over again in my brain … seriously, how was I smart? That feels so far away from my writing today.
I am surprised by my own eloquence. I love the play on literary language between ‘readable’ and ‘parable’. That a story is read. That appearances are the first story we tell to a new person, in a new environment, facing a new situation. Even before words are said. All we can hope is people correctly interpret our stories. Huh, that’s deep.
That sentence came out of my institutional years. College. Not mental hospital. I plucked it from a paper for a class I took called Politics of the Body. My essay babbles intelligently on the social status, race, sexuality, religion, etc. worn on our bodies and where that puts us in the world.
If you want to read something intelligent - I’ll send you the paper, but that’s not what I do here. I won’t be pulling those kinds of sentences out of my butt. I don’t even know if my butt has any more of those sentences stored inside. All I can do here is admit that I miss thinking that way. Critically, on assignment, persuasively, logically, structuring thought and presentation. I don’t really have much of a reason these days to talk about how if you look a certain way in our society you are automatically fucked. Wow. Way to dumb it down. Where did my brain go?
How was I smart? I wrote that sentence almost five years ago. Aren’t brains supposed to come with age? At least, that is what all our old liar-faced grannies keep saying.
That sentence came to me today as a string of words on my first read. I had to rewind the language for a minute and hit repeat. I knew I missed something the first time around. I found even more on my third read. Rolling those words over and over again in my brain … seriously, how was I smart? That feels so far away from my writing today.
I am surprised by my own eloquence. I love the play on literary language between ‘readable’ and ‘parable’. That a story is read. That appearances are the first story we tell to a new person, in a new environment, facing a new situation. Even before words are said. All we can hope is people correctly interpret our stories. Huh, that’s deep.
That sentence came out of my institutional years. College. Not mental hospital. I plucked it from a paper for a class I took called Politics of the Body. My essay babbles intelligently on the social status, race, sexuality, religion, etc. worn on our bodies and where that puts us in the world.
If you want to read something intelligent - I’ll send you the paper, but that’s not what I do here. I won’t be pulling those kinds of sentences out of my butt. I don’t even know if my butt has any more of those sentences stored inside. All I can do here is admit that I miss thinking that way. Critically, on assignment, persuasively, logically, structuring thought and presentation. I don’t really have much of a reason these days to talk about how if you look a certain way in our society you are automatically fucked. Wow. Way to dumb it down. Where did my brain go?
Friday, September 25, 2009
Honestly
A few days ago I was told my writing was honest. Honest and hilarious. Well maybe I am exaggerating the second H. Yeah, I definitely am.
Hmmm… maybe I should push that further and bust myself out a little.
Sure, I’ll do that.
The weekend before last I went on a quest to find a waterfall. (If I could properly format a footnote, I would tell you that I have become such a victim to commercial branding that I accidently spelled quest – qwest. Thank goodness for spell-check … that would have been embarrassing).
On that quest (with a u) I found the Hidden Falls. I had my camera with me. I clicked off a round of photos. When it came to writing about that venture … I had reservations about including the picture of the falls themselves. So I’ll do that now:
That was my reward for all that work! A trickle from a storm drain! The writing was still honest. I really did leave happier having found it. The water droplets did not bum me out in the least. I kicked the shit out of that waterfall!
But why didn’t I wear my victory proudly and share the image of conquer? Symbolic like Rosenthal’s image of the American flag rising over Iwo Jima. Ok, not like that. Really, not at all like that. Still, something kept me from posting that photo.
I think it was this:
The language and emotion in that entry hung grandiose and triumphant. I couldn’t follow up my emotional merriment with a picture of a dying waterfall. Maybe I thought it looked like a contradiction in my writing. That my words painted a different picture than the reality of the water. I could have thought people would be unimpressed by my quest. I definitely thought the thing just didn’t photograph well.
I post it now to say … fuck all of you. I’m just a simple girl that can find happiness in a storm drain.
Post Script – Carrying on tradition by accident. Sunday while kayaking with my mom, we paddled alongside a man-made falls. I won’t have time for water play this weekend, but may find myself there on Monday. That’s my wet dream at least.
Hmmm… maybe I should push that further and bust myself out a little.
Sure, I’ll do that.
The weekend before last I went on a quest to find a waterfall. (If I could properly format a footnote, I would tell you that I have become such a victim to commercial branding that I accidently spelled quest – qwest. Thank goodness for spell-check … that would have been embarrassing).
On that quest (with a u) I found the Hidden Falls. I had my camera with me. I clicked off a round of photos. When it came to writing about that venture … I had reservations about including the picture of the falls themselves. So I’ll do that now:
That was my reward for all that work! A trickle from a storm drain! The writing was still honest. I really did leave happier having found it. The water droplets did not bum me out in the least. I kicked the shit out of that waterfall!
But why didn’t I wear my victory proudly and share the image of conquer? Symbolic like Rosenthal’s image of the American flag rising over Iwo Jima. Ok, not like that. Really, not at all like that. Still, something kept me from posting that photo.
I think it was this:
The language and emotion in that entry hung grandiose and triumphant. I couldn’t follow up my emotional merriment with a picture of a dying waterfall. Maybe I thought it looked like a contradiction in my writing. That my words painted a different picture than the reality of the water. I could have thought people would be unimpressed by my quest. I definitely thought the thing just didn’t photograph well.
I post it now to say … fuck all of you. I’m just a simple girl that can find happiness in a storm drain.
Post Script – Carrying on tradition by accident. Sunday while kayaking with my mom, we paddled alongside a man-made falls. I won’t have time for water play this weekend, but may find myself there on Monday. That’s my wet dream at least.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Oh Hair Redux
Two months short of three years ago I wrote this:
Oh hair…
You’ve covered my bed, my couch, and my floors.
You’ve interfered in smooching sessions.
You’ve clogged my drains.
You’ve let one strand fall down my shirt while I’m at work, giving me an agonizing itch and causing embarrassment when I try to stick my hand up my shirt without looking like I’m grabbing my boobs.
And yet … I think I’m going to miss you, hair.
This is our last weekend together. I think we’ll celebrate with a pony tail.
That was hours before going to my pixie cut. I spent the next 34 months sporting a style shorter than most boys care to go.
Or maybe I am just a sucky receiver of generous vocabulary.
But hey, I can almost put my tail in a pony!
Just for shits and giggles.
I think Ms. Jackson said it best….
What have you done for me lately? …
Really?
You’ve covered my bed, my couch, and my floors.
You’ve interfered in smooching sessions.
You’ve clogged my drains.
You’ve let one strand fall down my shirt while I’m at work, giving me an agonizing itch and causing embarrassment when I try to stick my hand up my shirt without looking like I’m grabbing my boobs.
And yet … I think I’m going to miss you, hair.
This is our last weekend together. I think we’ll celebrate with a pony tail.
That was hours before going to my pixie cut. I spent the next 34 months sporting a style shorter than most boys care to go.
Now, I am writing the inversion of that day. Today is a day where yesterday I stood confused in the hair accessory isle for the first time in years.
Accessories?
Hair?
These concepts have become unfamiliar to a point of unknown. What I am learning (or remembering?) is what it is like to have hair again. I am remembering the single strands that dust the bathroom sink. What I wish I had never forgotten is the texture of my locks. I recognize that I kind of like running my fingers through my hair. I am also quickly realizing the day to day struggle with what to do with it this morning.
I write about both of these days under the same light. This hair ‘process’ has given me too much attention. Obviously, chopping off all your hair doesn’t go unnoticed. Surprisingly, growing them back gets just as much recognition, even at its reduced rate. People have been commenting on my long (long meaning not short) hair these days.
The difference between 3 years ago and today is this: Three years ago I wanted to try a look I had never embodied. I had direction. I had an idea. I was confident in my hair wearing and knew why I was doing it. Change, primarily, however superficial that may be. A risk in appearence. When people ask about my hair today … I don’t really know what to say. It’s not change. It’s not something different. People ask if I am growing it out. I haven’t got an answer. Am I growing it out? I mean, I guess it’s doing that on its own. I have no hopes, dreams, aspirations or directions for this head of mine. Am I supposed to? Why and who made that rule? It’s just going somewhere.
Or maybe I am just a sucky receiver of generous vocabulary.
But hey, I can almost put my tail in a pony!
Just for shits and giggles.* Brought to you by a ... oh fuck, I said shits ... nevermind*
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Normals
It’s funny how fast normal sets in. Post-Labor Day my work life went to normal fast. This is my normal. It came too quickly.
Within the first 15 minutes I am sweating. It’s 8:15 in the morning. I had just gotten out of the shower at 7:15am. Why do I even bother? People already excuse my clothing choices because of my sweaty profession. A t-shirt and jeans wouldn’t usually fly for the first day back, but when you are lifting weight and crawling around on your knees all day it does. If they already accept my slovenly attire, they should accept the funk as well. I think I just convinced myself to boycott the shower. It’s all for them after all.
As the first hour passes I am already bleeding. What? My skin must have gotten soft over the summer. I have strong feelings of dislike towards band-aids, but to stop my spurting and abide by hygienic standards, I begrudgingly bandage my thumb into unbendability.
The rest of the day goes by with hugs, kisses, welcomes and talk of summer, summer, summer time.
Day two kills the love with 10,000 spoons. I’d rather it be a knife. Tempers are back to normal. Missed family members are just plain family members again. Stress has begun circulating through the ventilating system. A bunch of Chicken Littles thinking the sky is falling. The muscles that had relaxed over the last three months are strung tight once again. That truth is worn by everyone’s posture.
The third day I am working on my day off. How quickly I am asked to give up my free time and how quickly I have no choice but to accept.
By the fourth day I am already rolling my eyes at my workload.
Opening Night fell on my fifth day and I remember what I do this all for.
Day 6 - End of week, I am logging overtime. Breaking the hourly laws.
The seventh day was the longest. My first 12+ hour day of the season. Totaled 13.5 that day.
Somewhere within the 8th or 9th day I gave myself a wicked blood blister. I had to set up my doctor station to drain it. Figured it was better to do self-surgery than to take the risk of ripping it open while working. It is weird that I am used to cutting into my own skin?
On the 10th day I was ten days deep in one of my classic no-day-off-stretches. A trip to Milwaukee should fix that….
Already on day eleven, I am working remotely from another city. I give up a few hours of my first day home to finalize materials that I spend lifetimes waiting for each week.
Huh … I don’t like writing out my normal.
*Brought to you by a Swear-Free America*
Within the first 15 minutes I am sweating. It’s 8:15 in the morning. I had just gotten out of the shower at 7:15am. Why do I even bother? People already excuse my clothing choices because of my sweaty profession. A t-shirt and jeans wouldn’t usually fly for the first day back, but when you are lifting weight and crawling around on your knees all day it does. If they already accept my slovenly attire, they should accept the funk as well. I think I just convinced myself to boycott the shower. It’s all for them after all.
As the first hour passes I am already bleeding. What? My skin must have gotten soft over the summer. I have strong feelings of dislike towards band-aids, but to stop my spurting and abide by hygienic standards, I begrudgingly bandage my thumb into unbendability.
The rest of the day goes by with hugs, kisses, welcomes and talk of summer, summer, summer time.
Day two kills the love with 10,000 spoons. I’d rather it be a knife. Tempers are back to normal. Missed family members are just plain family members again. Stress has begun circulating through the ventilating system. A bunch of Chicken Littles thinking the sky is falling. The muscles that had relaxed over the last three months are strung tight once again. That truth is worn by everyone’s posture.
The third day I am working on my day off. How quickly I am asked to give up my free time and how quickly I have no choice but to accept.
By the fourth day I am already rolling my eyes at my workload.
Opening Night fell on my fifth day and I remember what I do this all for.
Day 6 - End of week, I am logging overtime. Breaking the hourly laws.
The seventh day was the longest. My first 12+ hour day of the season. Totaled 13.5 that day.
Somewhere within the 8th or 9th day I gave myself a wicked blood blister. I had to set up my doctor station to drain it. Figured it was better to do self-surgery than to take the risk of ripping it open while working. It is weird that I am used to cutting into my own skin?
On the 10th day I was ten days deep in one of my classic no-day-off-stretches. A trip to Milwaukee should fix that….
Already on day eleven, I am working remotely from another city. I give up a few hours of my first day home to finalize materials that I spend lifetimes waiting for each week.
Huh … I don’t like writing out my normal.
*Brought to you by a Swear-Free America*
Monday, September 21, 2009
Seen on 94
I've made this drive so many times. I hardly have to watch the road unraveling before me. The minivan's alignment is perfect for hands-free coasting along this barren strip of interstate. There is hardly a site to be seen along this five and half hour journey home.
I don’t know why I always stop in Black River Falls. It’s perpetually my pit-stop of choice. After fueling up my tank, I head through the glass doors of the BP. There is no need for a sweep of the eyes to find the bathroom, I know just where I am going. A woman cuts into my bee-line. A larger woman with a graying mullet. The kind of woman you don’t want to enter a bathroom after. I secretly hope she’s not going my way. When her hand hits the lady’s room door, I think “Damn, this is one fart I don’t need to hear.” Those were four held-breath minutes I really didn’t need in my life.
Lots of construction along the Interstate. A good fifty miles worth of orange barrels. A few years ago someone pointed this bit of info out to me and now I look up at every crane. Off-duty construction sites use cranes as their U-Locks. Any removable equipment gets hoisted in the air to prevent its theft. You’ll often see generators and pneumatic tanks hovering above ground. Bored on the highway, going the reduced 55mph, there’s no place better to be looking than up.
I laugh everytime at the westbound sign for Bosshard Bogs. What am I? Twelve? Bosshard just has a chuckle quality. I think Boss-hard needs to become common day anatomical slang. I know I am always looking for new descriptors for erections. Twelve years old, seriously!
The first hour towards Lake Michigan surprised me with color. Not just that the leaves are starting to change, but they are somehow changing differently. The hues along the highway seem to be bordering unhealthy. The reds are dingy and dried. There is an overbearing presence of brown tracing along trim line. Glucose and the change in photosynthesis may not be the only color changing factors here… these trees are in serious need of that hydrogen + oxygen combination. Dry, dry, dry.
Lots of construction along the Interstate. A good fifty miles worth of orange barrels. A few years ago someone pointed this bit of info out to me and now I look up at every crane. Off-duty construction sites use cranes as their U-Locks. Any removable equipment gets hoisted in the air to prevent its theft. You’ll often see generators and pneumatic tanks hovering above ground. Bored on the highway, going the reduced 55mph, there’s no place better to be looking than up.
I laugh everytime at the westbound sign for Bosshard Bogs. What am I? Twelve? Bosshard just has a chuckle quality. I think Boss-hard needs to become common day anatomical slang. I know I am always looking for new descriptors for erections. Twelve years old, seriously!
Lastly, I refused to make my return trip be a driving day. The sky opened up as I passed three signs. Food. Fuel. State Park. I decide I need all three. I accomplished all three in the order stated. Brought my sandwich up a bluff and took a minute to forget about the confines of my vehicle on a beautiful day.
*Brought to you by a Swear-Free America*
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Today Got Me
I honestly couldn't find any humor in today. It was hiding in the circular clothing racks at department stores like we used to when we were little kids.
There's a good possibility that I was blinded to the humor all around me by the shooting pain I woke up with and proceeded to carry with me all day. I tried the usually tricks - pain meds, food, sugar, pain meds, caffeine, pain meds. Nothing could take this hard edge away from my existence.
My brain simply could not find laughter. My brain lacked its usual witticisms on every day life. The only thing my brain could do is pay attention to my screaming skull.
Not a particularly bad day, just a day when I couldn't function properly. A day where everything was a little off kilter. Even in conversation, I found myself trying to avoid my own voice. When addressed, my hesitancy to respond made my voice come out unfamiliar and then sat in the air for longer than it should. Do you know that voice?
I have probably been walking around with a migraine all day, but my tough-guy nature won't give in. I'll give in when I crawl into bed after loading a truck at 10pm. I hope when I give in, sleep will agree with me.
There's a good possibility that I was blinded to the humor all around me by the shooting pain I woke up with and proceeded to carry with me all day. I tried the usually tricks - pain meds, food, sugar, pain meds, caffeine, pain meds. Nothing could take this hard edge away from my existence.
My brain simply could not find laughter. My brain lacked its usual witticisms on every day life. The only thing my brain could do is pay attention to my screaming skull.
Not a particularly bad day, just a day when I couldn't function properly. A day where everything was a little off kilter. Even in conversation, I found myself trying to avoid my own voice. When addressed, my hesitancy to respond made my voice come out unfamiliar and then sat in the air for longer than it should. Do you know that voice?
I have probably been walking around with a migraine all day, but my tough-guy nature won't give in. I'll give in when I crawl into bed after loading a truck at 10pm. I hope when I give in, sleep will agree with me.
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