Saturday Night or A Pocket Waltz

The Saturday Night smell of the city is solid. It tastes like the voices of a thousand people all talking at once about nothing in particular. I walk, un-hastily, on the side of Barton Springs toward the city, past the restaurants filled with hundreds of people that I will never know. The words tumble from my lips and onto the sidewalk. My thoughts, once expressed, do a little dance on the pavement before they hitch a ride and leave town. Some of them climb into a paper boat and sail into the gutter. Not all of them make it out fully formed and they are left on the concrete to be trampled on by other people with other places to go. The passing cars compress the air and make humming noises as they pass, Matt walks next to me doing his best to listen to my nonsense; it’s always endless and never embarrassed when he’s listening because he never complains about the lack of silence. The city presses into our pores, whispering things about what is left to be accomplished, singing slightly out of tune something familiar like the color of your nursery walls.

We are meeting people. Strangers mostly, but sometimes you do what needs to be done to get out of the house. We sit at a half empty table and build a small bubble around our corner. We talk about too many things to list. We laugh and our faces hurt. We take small pauses to find an appropriate "in" to another conversation. We talk about composting toilets and growing potatoes in our own soil and serving them to gusts with an evil grin.

The piano man plays "Imagine" and his girlfriend closes her eyes and sways. The room is quiet for a second while everyone stops to contemplate the song, each unfolding a picture from their pocket, remembering something that probably didn’t happen but almost did. I tell Matt a stupid story:

"I had a friend that works at METV- you know, the music station?" I say this in a voice that’s almost too loud, the restaurant is crowded and we sit a crowbar’s distance from the piano. My throat is scratchy from a week too full of worry. "A guy that he worked with, who also worked there, had to write a jingle for some Frito-Lays commercial- he had to write new words set to this song."

Matthew makes a face and his eyes smile right before he laughs out loud.

"Can you imagine it? I mean, the mad had to sell his soul to do that shit." I punctuate my words with sharp hand gestures. "I gave him hell about it too, I was like ’What is this, man? I can just see it Imagine all the Fritos…’" This makes Matt laugh even more. Jessica, the reason for which I am sitting in this restaurant with stranger-friends and Matt says "Michelle is so animated!" and then falls back into a conversation about work, which I don’t like to talk about unless I’m actually there.

Dinner, cake, and then the low thunder of heavy duty fire works. Like children we run outside, our hands all empty of the sparklers we remember holding a long time ago. I remember that I used to run around with my in my bare feet in the driveway. My mom’s echoed warnings of the inevitable burns I would receive from the sparks on the ground. I never got burned though. I have my dad’s luck: we stick our heads against the bottle rockets when we light them but we never get burned.

People outside momentarily forget their pretense of hippness and let their cigarettes burn to ash as the fireworks fill the sky with their secret writing. We all claim its in honor of Jessica’s birthday, even the strangers concede that it must be so and make good natured remarks that she must return again next year so we can see the fireworks again. For a moment you are connected to someone you will never know but they are now a fuzzy memory, someone you might see in a dream and think "why does he look familiar? It must be the fireworks guy."

The tab is split; I see a strange bug on the mirror in the bathroom. I see a woman shake the hand of a stranger as he walks away from her and the bar. I see an old man in an oversized American flag top hat, he proclaims loudly that he "bought it new!" and lumbers from the room. People are leaving, released back into the street we see cars pass, we smell orange blossoms and we talk about a pair of handcuffs I found in the bushes once when I was a kid. I tell Matt about how I put them on one of my wrists, the echoes of my mother’s warnings "Don’t put those on, we don’t have the key" in my ears. Of course they got stuck. I cried, the neighbors laughed and now it’s a cute story to tell when new people come over to the house for inspection.

We drive around, speculating at the ever changing positions of the streets downtown. I know where Trinity is, I say. Matt says he can gauge where he is by the position of the Capitol building, which is beautiful at night. I recall the rally I attended last month, I have pictures, I say, but I lost the cord to my digital camera so I can’t download them. Matt and I share a scowl at the inconvenience of such a loss. We walk 5 blocks, we pass college kids and old people and homeless people and scammers. We pass the Paramount Theater and I tell Matt about the time I saw "Man on a Train" and how they always show old pictures there during the summers. We find the Red Fez, I notice a person I know standing at the door way, an improve bouncer. I make some idiotic comment about this and share a one-armed hug. I enter after showing my ridiculous driver’s license picture. I am waved into the bar by a bored man that looks like sausage stuffed too tight into its skin. Matt and I drink beer, we try to communicate with the crowd but we’re left to our own devises. We listen to the music. We do the Pepper Grinder, the Bus Driver, the Cabbage Patch, The Lawn Mower, the Sprinkler. We make up our dances- we Make the Toast, we Drink a Glass of Water. We lost interest when a remix of an Oasis song comes on. We talk about scaling the wall fixture, freezing time and spitting in people’s drinks, we notice that after three minutes of idle conversation everyone has pulled out their cell phones to show pictures of other parties, games they like to play.

We release ourselves from the remixing. We wander towards Sixth Street thinking it might have improved but it never does. College girls in skirts too short and shoes too high wobble unsteadily before they’ve even had a drink. They are looking for something they won’t find but it’s not time for them to learn that lesson yet. We’ll see them later, surrounded by their friends, sitting on the sidewalk or in the gutter, crying about things that happened before they left home.

The Alamo Drafthouse is advertising the Air Sex Championship. We decide it is like air guitar but instead of playing an air guitar you have air intercourse with an air person. I do a tiny impression to cement this fact. Matt agrees and we shake hands with our eyes and continue walking. We find the bar he’s been looking for. It is appropriate. It is more our element. Less Dressed-Up Pretense, more Jeans and Chucks Pretense. We talk, get offered free beer, talk about what we talked about, get tired and decide to amble home.

I forget that I have to eat at IHOP. We are tired but we amble in and spread ourselves like butter on our respective benches.

                                    The IHOP Guest List:

1.      Young Black Couple

2.      4 Middle Eastern Men, all wearing sweaters in spite of the humidity, all engrossed conversing in a language that reminds them of home

3.      4 middle aged adults, tired, nearing the end of an evening that would have been better had it ended earlier

4.      Me and Matt, two people who still haven’t run out of things to say.

I order scrambled eggs, hash browns, sausage and a hot chocolate. I eat the sausage and drink half of my hot chocolate. I should have only just ordered whip cream in a mug and three sausage links but I want to pretend that I have a larger stomach than I do. It makes me feel productive. Matt drinks water, lets his eyes look tired.

We leave, we hug, we part ways the way good friends always do after a lovely evening.

9:46 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

FAQs

So, I receive literally five e-mails a year from people asking me about me, DEMANDING more information about me. Here are some of their questions.

Enjoy.

Well, I’m certainly glad you’ve taken such an active interest in my page...Nick. I think you’re the only one that reads this...but I appreciate it and all of the people who click on this page accidentally because they thought I was someone else.

Cheers!

6:58 PM - 4 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

The Devil’s work is never done..

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Today is one of those days where I feel small enough to fit in someone's pocket. Not in a bad way, mind you, just the way that tentative happiness makes you feel like a small bird in the perfect sized puddle.

Several factors contribute to this feeling:

1. The gorgeous music video for Iron and Wine's Boy With a Coin on in the background – how can you not love the mix of I&W with flamenco dancers? It's so amazing the grace and control these woman have over their bodies, despite their age or body size they are powerful and beautiful in a way that only a woman who is that strong can truly be. If you haven't read the Rilke poem Spanish Dancer, do it now, it has kept me up at night for 7 years..

As on all its sides a kitchen-match darts white

flickering tongues before it bursts into flame:

with the audience around her, quickened, hot,

her dance begins to flicker in the dark room.

And all at once it is completely fire.

One upward glance and she ignites her hair

and, whirling faster and faster, fans her dress

into passionate flames, till it becomes a furnace

from which, like startled rattlesnakes, the long

naked arms uncoil, aroused and clicking.

And then: as if the fire were too tight

around her body, she takes and flings it out

haughtily, with an imperious gesture,

and watches: it lies raging on the floor,

still blazing up, and the flames refuse to die -

Till, moving with total confidence and a sweet

exultant smile, she looks up finally

and stamps it out with powerful small feet.

-- Rainer Maria Rilke

                                     …now it's the National's song Apartment Story…..

2.  The realization that things that I have been working for might actually come to fruition despite my pragmatic fear of the ubiquitous "other shoe." Perhaps it's having grownup in a family who has many mottos but one of them being "Always prepare for the worst possible scenario…everything else will seem more than manageable."…but there's always that shadow though it doesn't prevent me from too much…well...you know, besides linking myself to other people…but that's a tertiary issue at this pont.

                            …now it's Jimmy Eat World singing Always Be…..

3. My mom asking me if I was addicted to "meth."

Sunday:

" Is everything ok?" she asks, urgently.

" Hmm. Yeah, I'm fine…a little tired but…" I shrug as if to say same old, same old.

"Well, you just seem to be in a rush all of the time and….nevermind." she walks away, shoulders slumped with the weight of her secret worries.

Monday:

The phone.

" Hello?" I'm at work but recognize her number on caller ID.

" Are you mad at me?" she asks tentatively feeling for an opening.

" No! Why? What was up with you last night?" curiosity has been tugging at my sleeve …how is it that parents are able to make us feel nervous and guilty despite a lack of motive?

"Well, I was reading an article." This never ends well…my mom should be ban from reading People Magazine profiles of harrowing family dramas just like I've been banned for using WB MD to self-diagnose" I read this story and in it there was a guy  who got addicted to meth. He was totally anti-social and have very few feelings for other people…that made me think of you…" thanks mom. After uproarious laughter on my side – who has money for meth?..well, besides meth addicts.

Good times. She cracks me up.

…………….Now it's the Shins singing Turn on Me……………………….

4. Word purging. Despite the fact that I talk almost constantly and miraculously without seeming to take a breath, I rarely say anything of relevance. Yesterday I was able to say something interesting which always pleases me greatly.

5. Client 9…because…c'mon……

10:06 PM - 4 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

more than fine

I used to think of this city as a closed fist, something menacing and exclusive, something that wouldn't let me in...but sometimes you just have to realize that you're closing yourself off instead of being shut out.

Tonight I moved out of my vintagy, old house and moved into something different. There's something about moving that makes you realize a couple of things: 1. you have way to much shit and most of it is useless as you didn't even know you had it until you realize buying  moving boxes just was not enough. 2. the memories you make and attach to a place don't stick there; they slip onto the bottom of your foot and follow you around like your shadow, awful and lovely. 3. change is always slightly terrifying, slightly tantrum inducing, slightly wonderful and always different than you thought it would be.

Maybe that last one is a theme. It's something I've noticed about our generation- the invention of the mid life crisis, the sudden realization that everything we thought we were entitled to wasn't actually going to materialize. My college degree didn't equal the $125 K salary that I imagined it would be. The boyfriend I left school with, the one I thought was "the one" is nothing more than crumpled up love notes in the bottom of a box used expressly for that purpose. I am not married with babies; I do not have a clear definition of my future with the same lifestyle with which I was accustomed...etc, etc. Why is it that we wander about so? Freedom, maybe. I don't know, I'm not really in the mood to expound too deeply on something we all acknowledge and talk about already.

There's not definitive end of beginning to adulthood anymore. I'm on the verge of buying a house, beginning my inevitable slip into something more like life than I thought life would be something more like a warm bath than a war zone. Is that too romantic? Is it too naive to think that I could feel exactly this content and alone and loved and oddly out of place and just right all at once? I don't have so many words stuck in my throat or crowding around my fingertips. I say them now. I am able to make a straight line from my brain to my mouth...though I'm nothing if not a reveler of circuitous thinking, tangents and sojourns into the bizarre. I'm starting to un-feel like a secret, if that makes sense. I'm done with being unsure or pretending to be amused or wanting to be more intelligent than my brain allows.

I think I'm actually just fine.

6:39 PM - 1 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

So this is the New Year?

So, this is the part where I say "Oh, 2007 is gone, look at all of the things that have happened."  Cue popular indie tune and commence slideshow.

However, I won't reminisce. In fact, I've cleaned out my proverbial shelves and placed the event of 2007 in a drawer. It wasn't a benchmark year but it certainly had some excellent moments, spectacular heart aches, and lovely Sundays.

This year is something else entirely. I forgo the making of resolutions, mostly because I cheat and set boundaries I know I can accomplish easily ( i.e. " No more crack" or "Cut back on the NASCAR") and also because I'm not entirely sure you can simply change you life because it's gone from the 31st of one month to the 1st of another.  What does it take then?

I can't sleep. The things that I want to do are tugging at my sleeves, giving me no peace, making my hands wring ceaselessly.

This Fall the city was a clenched fist and I wore holes in my shoes wandering around in the woods, talking to myself. Well, maybe I didn't wear holes in my shoes but I did wander in the woods and I certainly talked to myself.

I've learned some things and since my 25th year on this earth is about to begin, I've decided to wear my new pearls of wisdom on a string around my neck, have them out where I can touch them when I'm thinking of a solution to a problem.

My life lacks passion, somehow. It's kind of odd though as I have a tendency to be very passionate about whatever I'm doing...aha. I'm not really doing anything. It's only recently that I started writing again after almost a year of nothing new. I recently started painting again after my tubes if acrylic spent a sad 365 days in their case, in the dark. I started smiling for no reason at all, simply to exercise my muscles. Most importantly I stopped caring about things that don't matter, I stopped giving my time and energy to people who didn't want it. Last year, like every year, I had a handful of people that took pinches of my flesh and pulled me out in ribbons. I let them do it but I've take my kitchen shears and cut the ties, the bandages are in place and soon enough I'll be able to cauterize anything still bleeding. It feels.........better, already.

I won't say "This year will be different." but I do think I will be different this year.

9:07 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Best e-mail EVER

This is literally the best e-mail I have ever received:

"So, I'm putting together an event and might need someone to saw in half. 1) would you be interested 2) how tall are you?

Brad"


I love my life. :)

4:34 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

An Open Letter to All Hoes

Dear Ho-

I'm simply writing you to let you know that you're getting a little out of hand.  Now, I know were not close but I think someone should say something. Yes, you do distract the lesser men from hitting on us because they're too busy staring at the bountiful bosom you have stuffed so expertly into a shirt you borrowed from your three year old sister and I appreciate that. However, is it too much to ask that you don't invade every bar in the city? Perhaps you could meet in a central location and gather there regularly so as not to bother everyone else. I know that brothels are technically illegal so we had to get around the law and re-name them "sorority houses" but that's not the only exception we've made for you and I think it's time you gave something back.

 Could we also ask for a little variety? All blonde, all the time, skirts so short you can see the pockets sticking out from the bottom, and that hideous tattoo you insist on getting that every other ho in the world has? If you're going to spend your allowance on something at least try to make it something that doesn't end up looking like ass hair poking over the top of your jeans -you want to try to avoid being a stereotype.

Some tips:

1. Perhaps you'd have a bit more luck finding your soul-mate (as you claim is your aim) if your lips weren't stuck to his dick within the first 15 minutes of meeting him. Listen, I'm all about casual sex- if you want to do it, by all means, go to freaking town. But DO NOT interrupt the quiet murmur of my coffee shop chatter with your incessant whining about not being able to meet a decent guy or why you can't for the life of you figure out why you have no self-esteem at all. If you fuck him before you know his last name and he doesn't even bother to call you back after your twenty voice mails- it isn't because you're ugly ( he probably wouldn't have had sex with you to begin with...unless he was really drunk and/or on the rebound) it's because you're a ho and most guys don't like to bring those home or talk to them. There are ALWAYS exceptions of course, so if you're really persistent you might get lucky. Just be aware of what you're ready for and what you aren't.

2. Don't get pissed off if a guy cannot stop staring at your breasts because you literally have them shoved in his face. I can't stop looking at your breasts if they're going to be in my face, and I have my own.

 3. Also, don't get pissed off if people are staring at your ass because you either have it hanging out OR you have something written on the butt of your pants such as "Juicy." Again, even I'll stare at your ass, not because I think your pants are going to be profound but it's going to be like "Hmm, words. What does it say?" So, again, don't roll your eyes and get all fucking crazy because people are making comments; if you don't want to be viewed as an object than don't objectify yourself.

 4. Being an idiot can be cute and humorous (Jessica Simpson is a millionaire because of it) but it is not always the way to go. Yes, it amuses me to watch you fumble your way through even the most banal of conversations, but after a while it gets a little old.  You know how your mother was like "Don't make that face or it's going to get stuck that way!"? Its sort of the same thing with stupid, so if you must use it, use it sparingly.

5. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT throw things. Nothing gets on my damned nerves more than a drunk ho freaking out and throwing shit while I'm doing my best to get quietly drunk and enjoy my evening. Keep your gum in your mouth, keep the patio furniture on the patio and for the love of all that is holy don't waste precious alcohol by throwing your beer bottle at someone who has pissed you off.

6. It is not necessary to turn every outing into a Girls Gone Wild episode. Don't try to make out with me because you like to turn guys on with the whole "hey, look, I can kiss a girl" routine. We've all been there but it's only hot if you're actually into it and not looking out of the corner of your eye the whole time hoping someone is watching. The reason I'm not a lesbian is not because I hate the vagina, I just hate what's attached to it (most of the time, there are exceptions to every rule).

Again, Im not against you. I appreciate your position in the social chain of being just as you appreciate mine. Who would a ho have to talk shit about if it wasn't for us pseudo-intellectual indie girls? You are here for a reason- half the guys I know wouldn't think they were half as good in bed if they hadn't had a couple dozen of you to practice on.  I guess what I'm trying to say is- be careful, take care of yourself. There will always be a guy out there who will want to have an all night anonymous fuck-fest. Pace yourself.

Sincerely,
Michelle

8:36 PM - 4 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

Disturbing Personal Quotes of the Week...so far
Current mood: quixotic

Monday at work:
 My Boss: I met your dad last week when he came in for his event! He's so wise and sweet and I couldn't help bet imagine him naked. How was your vacation?"

Manager: Michelle! You're back! I didn't even know you were on vacation, I thought you had died until someone told me where you were! I was relieved- have you gotten that paperwork done?

Tuesday at Work:
My Boss: Oooh, Michelle. I found out that next week at Dillard's they're doing free make-overs! It includes a facial and a make-up application and a hair style.
Me: Wow. That's awesome, and it's free? That's really cool.
My Boss: Well, the only thing is that it's appointment only so I made an appointment for you for next Tuesday at 11am.

Tuesday afternoon:
Me: I've been sick and ever since I've gotten hom from my vacation my hearing has been rapidly declining and when I woke up this morning I'd say I've lost about 80% of my hearing. I'm really getting freaked out, I can't even hear the phone on my desk ringing. I need to come in as soon as possible to see the Doctor- it's affecting my work and I'm really afraid that it will get worse.
Nurse: That sounds really serious. Let's see...we can get you next Tuesday, is that ok?

Tuesday at the dinner table:
Dad: Yeah, we'll talk about all those lesbians butt fucking, it'll be great!
Mom: Kenneth, they muff dive not butt fuck.


Wednesday at lunch:
My Boss: We were all talking about what your new job title should be. Ann and I like "Event Coordinator" but Paul liked "Director of Fun" which is pretty cute sounding.
My Other Boss: Yeah, we went to an event at some resort and the girl helping our group was a Director of Fun..she was a waitress.

ps: i put my mood as quixotic because I'm really curious to see what kind of emoticon it will make...nerd alert...

8:11 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

My Birthday Wish...and my Zombie Action Plan ( ZAP)

This is what I want for my birthday- confirmation that I am NOT the only totally insane person out there.
How did I decide that I want this?
Observer- a random snippet of conversation from earlier this evening:

Me: Am I insane? I have to have a mental illness to be able to think about these things.
Remy: What?
Me: For instance- I think about the possibility of a zombie attack. Like I actually spend time thinking about it. I've decided that the attic is the best place to hide because the door is in the ceiling and they can't get to it as long as I remember to pull the cord into the door. So, technically it's safer.
Remy: Uh huh...
Me: And then I think that I should probably put together some kind of survival kit so I can survive in the attic during the time it takes the zombies to die- but how long is that? Furthermore- what happens if I run out of food?  Is the attic then really the best place to hide? If you think about it - of all the scary movie scenarios Zombies are the closest to something that could really happen.
Remy: I could see that...I guess...
Me: You don't know what's out there, Remy. You don't know what people are doing.
Remy: I guess you're right...I mean, it does deal with the brain ...
Me: and now that we have the "new" zombie it's even worse. At least before they were pretty slow moving and you could get away from them- but now...
Remy: You've got the crazy fast zombies.
Me: That's RIGHT! It's really scary- with the old ones you could survive unless you were surrounded- now they can run faster than you.
Remy: hmmm...
Me: Am I the only one that things about these things?

Crazier still- I got off the phone and thought about the whole zombie/attic idea even more. I thought about this house and how the entrance to the attic is in the garage and could be easily penetrated because the zombies could climb up on the junk in the garage and reach the door. I also wonder about how I'm going to get all of my animals up there and how to discard of their waste. I think that I have never actually been in the attic of this house and I might feel better if I have a looky-loo and see if there's any type of window for ventilation in case we're stranded there for several days. Then I think- hmm, maybe I can drill holes in the ceiling in various places so I can keep an eye on the house to make sure there are no zombies inside...but if there are, would they hear me drilling the holes? Would I give myself away? Then the desire to see the attic grows even more. Just in case, you know? But then I couldn't find the flashlight and I thought about that scene in the Grudge and decided that I should wait until tomorrow just in case the demonic shell or a murdered Japanese house wife is waiting in there to rip my jaw off.

Now, keep in mind that I’m not feverishly thinking about this all of the time- nor am I afraid that it’s going to happen. It’s one of those things like “What would I do if I got attacked by a bear?” Just sort of a morbid curiosity thing…except instead of a bear it’s the re-animated corpses of my friends and neighbors.


SO- for my birthday I want everyone to write in the comment zone designated for this blog entry the crazy-ass thoughts they have that made them feel as though they might be insane- until, of course, you're just read this and realized you're not alone...and not only alone but not NEARLY as insane as you thought you were. Think of it this way: you can't be embarrassed to post now because nothing can be anywhere near as ridiculous as what I just wrote- so do it!

10:22 PM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

eh....

 So it's almost one a.m. on a saturday night/sunday morning and i find myself, once again unable to find sleep anywhere. i've spent the last couples of hours watching bits of movies...the dreamers....garden state...napoleon dynamite...
if you're looking for something intelligent are cathartic....stop reaing now...this is just the random, meanding typing of an insomniac...

today was an interesting day....i was reviewing resumes for  a recptionist positions that needs to be filled at work...i was amazed by the general lack of...well...everything in some of the applicants...I got blank e-mails with attachments that had no cover letter or explanation....some people just threw together a list of things they've done in their lives...walked a dog....got the mail...chose not to sniff glue....went to elementary school...

on tv is a commercial for one of those chat lines where you supposedly pay nothing at all to talk to the most gorgeous people in your city- who like you, for some reason, have nothing better to do on a saturday nightthan wait for someone to call them.....and talk about the most banal issues possible...then again...i'm at home watching the commercials and then writing about them in my blog.....sigh....at least i actually wanted to stay home after a long day at work made longer by incompetent people...

i'll avoid sounding bitter.
my hands are cramping because they want to be doing something creative...i have a half a million paintings and drawings that should be finished...but also a pervading sense of lethargy....i want to sleep but i can't...does that mean that there's something i should be doing but i'm not? probably...i find myself wandering aimlessly with little thought other than to pause at random increments and ask myself " now...what was I going to do.." i think it's exhaustion more than anything else....exhaustion stemming from that feeling you have when something is about to happen...except...nothing is happening...is this the point in the conversation when i'm supposed to realize that i can't simply wait for something to happen but instead i must be making my own future? creating the universe blink by blink as gardener would have us believe....probably...but it won't be happening tonight....instead i'm going to sit here in front of this glowing box and wonder what i have in the pantry that would make a good midnight snack.....

10:44 PM - 2 Comments - 1 Kudos - Add Comment