almost there.

in


it's quite early this friday morning.

and i am waiting for the coffee pot to fill.

my tree is looking a bit lackluster.

but i leave for home tomorrow morning (for the first time in a year {have i emphasized this enough?}.

my driver's license is renewed. and my bags are packed (well, not really, but everything i am planning on taking is in one dresser door and that's close, right?).


however, right now? right now, i am facing a full day of work.

and because people sometimes get nasty at this time of year, i am wishing i could click my red shoes (louboutins, preferably) and get home that much faster.

we'll see how i feel with that coffee in me.

happy friday!



image via tweexcore.

real age.

in


my mother has been pestering me for weeks now about my christmas wish list.

and last week when my skin fell apart (rosacea's return) i realized that a humidifier was a must.

so my list reads something like this:



reading chair

humidifier

new sneakers

bread pan



and upon actually writing it, i realized i have the wish list of of a 70 year-old-woman.


my mother on the other hand is asking for the wii.


hmph.

if only i could. peek, that is.

in

to my one-day-pal,




did you do school plays as a child?

do you remember the heavy velvet curtains through which you'd peek just before a performance?

ours were green. hard to pull apart.

those moments just before were the most exciting, weren't they?

the lights backstage all off.

peering through to a lit theatre, or auditorium, or cafeteria: rear-window in reverse.

i always peeked. did you?

i remember looking out during my first-year discovery project at juilliard. there were no curtains. no dimmed lights. open-air. i was in love with a boy then and wanted only to know where he was sitting.

and i remember a production during my fourth year, looking through wooden slats and spotting kevin spacey. word spread quickly and more than one performance was charged with that knowledge. silly actors.

i think all actors do it. peek and peer. no matter the performance space or the cost of the ticket. if they don't i'm quite sure i wouldn't care to be friends with them--too uppity about it all.
it's one of those necessary rituals. theatre as religion.

the moment just before.

that's what everything feels like right now.
like you're on the other side of that heavy, green curtain. and if i could just push it to the side and catch a glimpse--poke a small hole through the black paper covering the window.

like i'm in the dark room waiting to emerge in the light.





love, love,

me





image via sabino.

beans in the elevator.

in ,


i'm not quite sure when i became so honest.


well, actually that's not true.

i think i've always been honest. but upon request only.

my truths were mine--they were private things.

i suppose the extent to which i have relinquished my privacy (by making these truths public) has everything to do with coping with a disease--the truth of which made manifest in my body each and every day.

much as i wanted to lie, much as i wanted to hide--my body exposed new secrets each day in fresh ways--the puffiness of my cheeks, the snugness of a favorite sweater.

it was ned who changed the game. he made the battle a public one. and my willingness to fight back with honesty is more response than anything else.

so yes. now i am forthcoming in hopes of staying a step ahead. of controlling the story, if you will.

and i rarely ever lie. (which is not necessarily a good thing. lying {like flirting} is a skill which can prove important and necessary at various times).

so when i do, i am out of practice. and i flail a bit.

there had been a stench coming from the kitchen for a while. more time than i'd care to admit, actually (omission). and i kept returning to the fridge. trying to suss it out (correct usage? oh, who cares.) where was it? what was emitting foul odor?

i threw pounds of stuff away. stuff that was not mine. frozen meat that had been there for years. (remember i moved into an apartment where girls had lived for many cycles of the moon). questionable milk. rotting vegetables.

and still the scent persisted.

and i despaired.

i took the trash out.

i lysoled. baking-soda-ed. scrubbed. put my nose right up to...everything.

i finally found the offender.

black beans. perfectly normal looking things. no visible mold or rotting. but one sniff (and after coming to) i knew.

so i pulled our a trash bag, dumped them in, and hopped in the elevator to get to the outside trash receptacles.

and just as the doors were closing, leaving me alone with the beans for a mere three floors, totally doable in light of the odorless freedom on the other side, a girl stuck her hand in the rapidly diminishing crack, halted the door and got on.

three floors with rotting beans, myself, and someone else in a small enclosed space? not doable, no matter the prize.

the stench was...horrific. and i was...mortified.

so i lied.

i lied like it was my job.

"flowers gone bad," i said. for indeed that's what it smelled like.

she smiled coyly. and honest to God, i don't even think she spoke english. a waste (play on spelling intended, thank you very much) of a lie.

so here's the thing. i'll tell the truth about anything. my feelings. my past. all those skeletons that bernard shaw recommends we teach to dance. but a rotting can of beans? nope, no way. it was the beans that brought me to my knees. forced me to lie. the truth of them was just too much to share.

i mean, my God, what 24 year-old let's a can of black beans go bad to the point of turning putrid (because indeed the beans were mine.)?

i told you, i'm really not skilled in the kitchen.


confused as to who ned is?
or want more info on him?
check my sidebar.