she fiddles as rome burns.

if life ended suddenly, i have nothing to show but plans. blueprints of how things are supposed to go. of the medical school i should be accepted to. of the calvin klein models whose notches should adorn my bedposts. of the weight my name should carry. of the beautiful little hearts i can bring hope to, of the lips i can bring giggles to, of the spirits i can bring rise to. little me, chris, the hippy girl from omaha. i can change the world. i can change... something. i'm old enough to be done with undergrad by now, but i'm not. these standards we set, these bars in the clouds. how will we ever reach them, if we fall asleep every night, to thoughts of all we have not done?

every saturday night i play violin on the streetcorner. every saturday night i make rent, playing things that there are not words to say, or eyes to cry, or knees to fall to. emotions so much more complex, but so much simpler, than the ones that can be expressed in these ways. every saturday night i am surrounded by a crowd, the concrete cold beneath my bare feet, my chucks allstars sitting out to catch falling change, my dress blowing in the wind, i see none of this. my eyes are closed. i am feeling. and in this moment i am everything i need to be. in this moment, i'm free. and i feel amazing.

why doesn't every moment feel this way?

i have learned one thing from my violin. i have learned that life is composed of little moments, like notes on the page, we cant tell what is next, how long it will last, or how much of ourselves we can fit into it. we can only play the note we see now, and we can only move on as soon as it ends to the next one. and most importantly, it is only at the end of the piece when we can realize how they strung together to create music, and that each note played it's part, one piece of yourself at a time.

may 1937. (sharon olds).

i see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges.
i see my father strolling out under the ocher sandstone arch,
the red tiles glinting like bent plates of blood behind his head.
i see my mother with a few light books at her hip,
standing at the pillar make of tiny bricks with the
wrought-iron gate still open behind her,
its sword-tips back in the may air.
they are about to graduate.
they are about to get married.
they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is;
they are innocent.

they would never hurt anybody.

i want to go up to them and say;
stop, don't do it - she's the wrong woman,
he's the wrong man, you are going to do things
you cannot imagine you would ever do.
you are going to do bad things to children.
you are going to suffer in ways you never heard of.
you are going to want to die.
i want to go up to them there in the late may sunlight and say it,
her hungry pretty blank face turning to me,
her pitiful beautiful untouched body,
his arrogant handsome blind face turning to me,
his pitiful beautiful untouched body,

but i don't do it.

i want to live.

i take them up like male and female paper dolls,
and bang then together at the hips like chips of flint,
as if to strike sparks from them, i say;

do what you are going to do.

and i will tell about it.

if i were a painter.

i think what hurts the most about remembering the things you thought were long gone, is the fact that they eluded your conscious mind for so long you allowed yourself to believe they no longer existed there.
forgetting pain is in itself one of life's greatest tragedies. some pains send us to emergency rooms, to asylums, some pains send us to church, to overgrown graveyards, some pains even send us to the doorsteps of those that lost us somewhere in the madness, to confront something that we never acknowledged but at the same time, never allowed it to leave our immediate thoughts. pain knows that human beings are by their very nature, selfish as hell. pain is fates way of saying, "okay asshole, you screwed up. fix it." and we do. not because we did wrong, not because we feel bad about it, but because it hurts- and we want it to stop. so much in fact, that we will assume the role of a loving, caring, honest and pure soul just to give our self-absorbed genetic material some momentary relief.

fate then, uses our asinine complex-holding human self-absorption against us, to make us better people. to make us stronger teachers to those who can't understand on their own. to make us more apt to understand why we need to use what we learn, to intervene the next time we see someone letting go too quickly, and most importantly-

to know when we should let them.

all the beautiful boys are in copenhagen.

i spend alot of time trying to figure life out. trying to figure me out. trying to figure everyone else out......... i spend alot of time failing miserably. i have finally reached that tell-all stage of young adulthood where one is so lost that it feels as if the only remedy is hopping some mode of transit and drag-and-dropping yourself in the middle of the outskirts of your comfort zone. for me, this mental ghetto, has always been new york city... until i met a charming little english jerk, and realized, the world is bigger than the continent on which i was born.
for most of my life i saw america as a prison of sorts, as if the fact that i was born here bounds me to be stationed here forever. not so. i have been around the world, but the trips i took remained that and only that: trips. i dismissed the idea of abandoning my homeland and taking to a new one, by reason of familial conditioning and here again-- comfort zones.
america is comfortable.
i want to be uncomfortable.
i want to watch my step and look up at the sky and honestly scream that i know not one soul on the continent. i want to run into strangers on the street whilst daydreaming and get cursed out in a language i don't understand. i want to meet people, so many people. i want to know what once were just foreign strangers and make silly videos of bonfires and play music i cant pronounce and just... live. on dreams. and spaghettio's.
so this is what i will do.
and it will all start with a ridiculously extended period of running leaps, little debbies... and freedom.

of all the wine clubs...

never has one simple gesture caused so much screaming and wetting of pants.
i work. i learn. i sleep... occasionally. this is how my life behaves.
for months i have adorned hospital hallways with a furtive smile to all who may pass, regardless of one's inner emotions, we must always show the sick how happily we serve them. i take issue with this rule daily, though my conscience tsk's me for this, yesterday my deep down overruled my higher up. yesterday all hell broke loose.

i will dispense with the usual adolescent pity pot and jump straight to the point.
in short:

i saw a man of some great illness, old and worn and drained of what once must have been quite the vibrant youth. i did not smile. he did. i return his gesture with a simple wave. five words he said to me, "smile, it's a beautiful day". and i did. and i am.

if this man, grim, dying, being robbed of what is his, life and vitality, can find a reason as simple as a sunny atmospheric nuance to allow one's most primal expression of joy to spread from ear to ear... then who am i to pity myself for being overworked and tired? as i am youthful and vibrant enough to handle this... who am i to think i have it so badly?

i vote we all have a popsicle and find a reason to smile, right here, right now, if not for ourselves, then for the man now of no illness whatsoever-

john rajeski, 1927-2008.

outer space, bumblebees, and men

objects in mirror are not always what they appear.

if i were smart i'd lipstick this across my vanity (aka dirty window) the next time i feel like i know myself. everybody talks about "ah-ha" moments and life's purposes, and i say, whatever happened to good old fashioned not having a clue? i have been to hell and back so many times over this i have frequent flier miles... looking for who i am and what i'm supposed to mean in everything i see. and it took one final shovel-load beyond rock bottom for me to realize: it isn't about the big scheme for once. happiness is today.

i believe everyone has three main passions in life. mine just so happen to be outer space, bumblebees, and men. the order of which changes depending on the time of day. so many people spend their entire lives chasing one meaning, waiting their entire lives for it to bring them happiness. i say, be passionate about your day-job, but don't expect the holes in your punch-in time clock to suddenly add up and fill a void someday to make it all worth while. you'll be disappointed. so live for today, discover your passions, and remember;

if we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.

adventures in ice fishing: part one (proof that hell really does freeze over)

of all the things one can learn about life all alone in your apartment in the middle of the city in front of your only piece of furniture- the talking one- here:

three things one should know before joining the primative ice-men (spitting female repellant mercilessly into the frosty wind as it freezes into their beards) in the arctic tundra. and a dash extra:

1. the fish are just as deterred by the frigid cold as sane people
2. when your limbs fail, and they will, a pocketful of seal blubber will hire a tough little serpa to carry you on his back (they don't mind)
3. cross country winnebago-ing leaves one feeling either a) like being sealed upright in a formica coffin, or b) manly. one thinks... this is mine, and it's big.

forementioned dash: caribou does not taste like chicken.

so you may sit, drunken. starving. freezing. appalled. lonely. homicidal. crying, (for mommy), and longing for something called the bed n' bass (one of the finer fish-themed motels); but through the torture of a slow almost death, you learn. how to revel in good company, (besides your constant drinking buddy mr. beam), how to appreciate the little things, (like snack packs and non-canadian winters and the cold reassuring snout of a search and rescue mutt), how to know a good heart when you see one, and finally:

how to love like you mean it. and mean it.

for the dazed, the confused, and the downright loopy, here it is in short;

keep your freinds close, keep the liquor flowing, consider a flower, and for christ's sake, write a bucket list.

the upside of anger.

a woman had a husband.
he disappeared. took only his wallet.
she thinks he left her for his secretary.
she has a neighbor. a single, lone, happily bitter man. her age.
he wants to drink with her.
not have a drink, not buy her a drink. just... drink.
she lets him in.
they drink together... and drink together. they become friends.
they think.
she's bitter. she's angry. he lets her be.
she hates him, she asks him to drop dead, and then stay for dinner.
he stays.
he doesn't like going home. it's empty there and he likes the way her house smells.
one night, they retire. to the same room. her room.
the one her husband left her in.
and they sleep. she on one edge. he on the other. never touching, never trying.
just sleeping.
separately together. just how she likes it. just how he lets it be.
one year.
one year passes. the same way every night.
then there is a knock at the door.
the police have found her husband.
his bones rather, he'd fallen in a well.
not ten yards from her door. he died in that well.
she feels... vacated.
she can't believe what she has been told.
she walks into the kitchen, and gets the vodka down.
she leaves it sitting on the counter and she walks upstairs.
she gets into her edge of the bed. and she stares.
suddenly, she moves. backward.
further. further still.
she has silently joined him.
on his edge.
he puts his arm around her.
she pulls it tighter.
and she cries.

a case in point of anger's ability to change us is her mother. her mother was always the sweetest woman i ever knew. she was the sweetest, most honest woman anyone that knew her ever knew. then things changed. then she changed. she got angry. good and angry. anger has turned her mother into a sad and bitter woman. if she wasn't her mother, she'd punch her. she would. she'd look her straight in the face and tell her what she really think of her...

and then run really fast in the opposite direction.

the human race doesn't know how to love. they bite, rather than kiss. slap... rather than stroke.
maybe it's because we realize how easy it is for love to go bad. to become suddenly impossible.
unworkable. an exercise in futility. so we avoid it, and seek solace in angst. and fear. and aggression. which are always there and readily available. or maybe, sometimes, we just don't have all the facts.

anger and resentment can stop you in your tracks. that's what i know now. it needs nothing to burn but the air and the life that it swallows and smothers. it's real though. the fury. even when it isn't. it can change you. turn you. mold you and shape you into someone you're not. the only upside of anger then, is the person you become. hopefully, someone that wakes up one day and realizes that they're not afraid of the journey. someone that knows the truth, at best, is a partially told story. that anger, like growth, comes in spurts, and fits. and in it's wake, it leaves a new chance at acceptance.

and the promise of calm.

one tequila two tequila three tequila floor

thirty minutes she sits a-ponder, mortality and banana split filled thoughts in tow. life is not getting easier, she tells herself. her gum has lost it's flavor. damn carefree, capitalistic bastards, false advertising on the promise of freeing the minds of many from human anxieties. she thinks too much. and now.... she stands.

too many times have I been subject to the perpetual miss-bliss of harsh reality. i have always been good at imagining, at keeping my head in the clouds alice in wonderland style, because real life is terrifying. in the land of overpacked volvo's and daily new horizons, decisions are never more difficult than the purple polka-dot rainboots or the black rainbow-striped ones, the spicy nachos or nachos just. in that world problems don't exist longer than the amount of time it takes to drive from one edge of town to the other. in that world, the rearview mirror is behind you, so a glance inside it fills you with lofty ideals and giggle-fits induced by a future of only the most uncertain sort. no, this world is oblivion and happy face license plates and cookies for breakfast.

this world is simple.

i find myself now in the secret solitude of my favorite willow, chewing pen caps and contemplating seattle. in particular, fleeing there. i don't know exactly what i'd find there but another road to follow (chase?) to somewhere else. all i know is i don't have a clue.

and if there is something wrong with that, there is definitely something wrong with me.
(pause for faint sound of flask crushing on the occasion that is is empty)

(applause)

such is product of combining cough syrup and mass quantities of twonkies...

young people these days, with their tweets and their rave-hop... i, too, have fallen victim to the venomous vortex of modern day technology. damn proud of it too. i'm chris, and this is my blog.

i have small issues with myself that have sent me into tizzy-like sherry swills (of the imported sort). as most anyone passing by my being on random streets can attest to, i spend a great amount of time trying to figure myself out. uneven memories weighing on my conscience and other such unpleasantries have helped to form the magic that is me, and it's confusing. albeit unfortunate, it's true, such is reality for most of us. it all comes back to one's personal abilities to cope, i suppose, and one is only as able as he is practiced.

my thoughts in summation: live like you mean it. and keep the snack packs flowing full-force.