You Aren't Perfect but You Make Life Worth It- KW

I stay awake all night to smoke a cigarette at 5am in near freezing temperatures to contemplate the fact that I'm in a dying marriage. We are all dying. We are born to die. This fact slaps me in the face when my denial shield is out of service. I was born into a world that promises happiness and hope. And while I desperately cling to both when Life's pendulum swings that way; I am no longer complacent in slaving myself into believing that the life I live is "happy".  My husband will probably practice infidelity the same way he practices apathy. I am no more than a noisy roommate to him. At best I'm a funny channel on T.V. that at times entertains him. If there is a morsel of love for me in his corpse it will eventually be devoured by resentment. He will hate me as much as I hate myself. Part of me is relieved at the inevitability of this bitter damnation. If I'm privy to the ending there is no reason to destroy my inner self to please a man who will be nothing but a stranger at the end. But my struggle lays in the perplexing emotion in which I love him. I do care so much about him, I unswervingly respect him. But each day, ignoring me comes easier and easier to him. I can prevail. I will be the best Monica Foy I can be, but that's all. It's not in my soul to change who I am...not for a man. Not even my husband; the man I'll probably pine for until my very death. How can this be? How is he mine and not mine at all? He is devoted. That's my only comfort for the time being. But how long does devotion last? How much longer can I keep him with my slowing mind and widening waist? I am almost out of friendly. I am digging my nails into the floorboards of sanity...

"On a bathroom wall I wrote "I'd rather argue with you than to be with someone else". I took a piss and dismiss it like fuck it, and I went and found somebody else. Fuck arguing or harvesting the feelings, I'd rather be by my fucking self. Till about 2am and I call back and I hang up and start to blame myself...Somebody help." -Kanye West

A Quarter Life Tale

I turn 25 in five days. I have no grand epiphany's or regrets to report of. I bought a puppy last week, and earlier this year I got married and bought a house. It's safe to say I'm fulfilled at the moment. No crisis here! Instead, I'm having a party! A big one. And it will be booze soaked. I planned a 3 day hangover-recovery process. :)

But I digress.

 I decided to pizzazz my backyard up a little, Martha Stewart Style. Home improvement craft time!!

I have a huge space for a backyard that I eventually hope to fill with trees and a fire pit and benches, but for now, I just need something functional. I scoured Pinterest for some ideas and this is what I came up with:

So off to Lowes, went the hubby, and he purchased four, 7ft wood posts and 2 bags of quick cement. It turned out we only needed 1 bag of cement, so now I have extra. Maybe I can use it on the fire pit! I hit up my local Dollar Tree to find some inexpensive buckets for the posts. I found purple plastic buckets and decided to experiment.

The plastice buckets held the cement well and I recommend it to anyone on a budget. After the posts were settled we spray painted them gold to compliment the purple.

(And you might notice our half-mowed lawn, sorry!)

Then I bought hooks to attach to the posts for something to hang the lights off:

Then I bought string lights from Target:

But you'll have to wait until the party to see the finished project! See you there!!

Earthly Friend

     "Do people still wear hats?" Caylee queried as she got dressed for work. "Well, they would if they had this one! This hat is fabulous! I feel like Princess Kate in this hat! Oh the color is just perfect! I mean, have you ever seen a more beautiful hat? Everyone is going to love this hat!"
     Caylee exited her front door in a bound to her  green Taurus, she was late to work. No matter, she wanted it this way. She had finally pulled off a fashionista ensemble and she wanted the entire building to notice. Her usual parking spot was already taken when she got to her nine-to-five. She would have to walk across the lot uphill to get to the front doors. Caylee took a humble moment to absorb the morning sky, already blue and busy with breezy birds. One of the birds must have gotten the worm because just as it flew daintily over Caylee's head it relieved itself right onto her ritzy hat. Caylee didn't notice, she was ardently trying to make her trek to her cubicle count as a work out. As she paraded through the doors, Caylee pulled her shoulders back and lifted her head proudly. She smiled at every passer-by until she sat in front of her monitor.

     Later in the floor lounge room, Caylee overheard a familiar assistant roasting her undiscovered faux paw, "Did you see her wearing that disgusting hat? It was awful! I swear I saw bird crap on it! Can you imagine, aha? She's been carrying a hat of bird crap around all day! The embarrassment!"

The moral of the story is: DON'T WEAR HATS.

Sun View Lane

     He bought the house on Sun View Lane on a bright day. I watched him move in his green couch and boxes from the attic window. He was tall, maybe even six feet, with brown hair and green eyes. He was mesmerizing. His yard was large but plain and begged to be gardened. He must have sensed this because that weekend he brought a few young trees home. The first tree to be planted was an Eastern Redbud. It was short and squat but would prove to be majestic when the season changed and the head was decorated with the loveliest pink blossoms. The second tree to marry the Earth was a sweet pear tree. Its branches were already swollen with growing fruit. The pears seemed to liven in color when he covered the trees' roots in soil and watered it's drying branches.  The last tree was the tallest and already mighty in maturity. It was a Pecan tree, no doubt bought to give shade from the relentless sun that gave truth to the street name. It's leaves were green and healthy, waiting to serve their new home.
      That day he turned his house into a home, and his yard into a garden. Five years later, he held me beside the Pecan Tree and made me his wife.

Incognito

How can I get off the grid when we live in a social media society? I've decided to take a step back and it's not just about shutting off my cellphone for a few days. Mistress Zoya is helping me take a different perspective to finding my inner self. The self that existed before family and friends bound me to roles I haven't been able to escape since they were assigned. Scape goat, black sheep, party friend, tenacious wife, etc. I introduce Plato's Mistress; Zoya:

How much can I avoid social media, really? I'm not doubting that it is possible, but how do I render these assigned roles? Am I brave enough to explore my past self and revisit what made me so  compliant? The old Monica loved being outdoors and so I, Zoya, am writing this post tucked away in a soft grassy spot on my front lawn. Lets hope my neighbors can chalk this up to being charming...

There Is No Future, There Is No Past

 I started writing this blog because I opened my bedroom blinds and discovered a tiny fluttering hummingbird just outside my window. The only other time I've seen a hummingbird was in Mexico City at my aunts 3rd story apartment. But even so, the stateside hummingbird seems more out of place here than in the 4th largest city in the world. Why come here? I don't have a feeder, my plants are nonexistent compared to my neighbors' yard of the month, AND it's raining. I've watched the rain from my bed twice this week. It's special rain. Not a ruin-my-hairdo, or cancel-softball-practice rain. This rain is falling around our house, which happens to be in the woods. But there is something magical about living in the woods. It's not just the gorgeous sunsets, dewy mornings, and eclectic wildlife. A person can breathe out here. Figuratively, since I'm sure no one has problems breathing in the suburbs. My mind is clear in the woods. There are no distractions. It's Earth, sky, and me. So simple, so swollen. And as the rain continues to fall I feel with any ounce of intuition I was born with, that my surroundings feel the same. The trees stand with integrity, the rain falls with purpose, the sun sets diligently and no outside force can interrupt them. Let me take a lesson from my visiting hummingbird (and quote RENT); There's only us, there's only this, forget regret or life is yours to miss...No other course. No other way. No day but today.

Expecto Patronum

     I've been seeing Mr. Houdini's shows for the past four years and I've never tired of the illusions, the spectacular mystery, or Mr. Houdini himself. Houdini is an artist, dare I say, enigmatic. His restricted affect intrigues me and I feel his cryptic hold on me. Houdini is nothing short of an underground wizard.
      It's been a year since I started shadowing Harry after each show. That first night I followed him to a lively cafe for an autograph and a moment in his presence. As he sat at a small round table with a crew of people, he accepted my request with a smile. Something I hadn't seen before in his shows. I spent the rest of the night across the street peering into the cafe window at the man I admired. Who was he off stage? I imagined him to be the kind of man I would be friends with.      
   And so I got to know things about Harry...private things. I knew where he'd be any day of the week, I knew his friends that he saw every Friday night, I watched him woo frequent women, I even knew which cologne he preferred. In the beginning it started as an innocent hobby, per se. I'd buy a ticket to his show, get there early and stay until the end. I would follow Harry as he left his private exit at the theater to attend champagne dances and lavish lounges. But somehow along the way, I got lost in the envy of his seemingly glamorous lifestyle. He ate at restaurants I didn't even know I should care about, and he wore suits I couldn't afford... Why did he deserve to be paramount and not me? 
   After months of coveting Mr. Houdini, my admiration turned into bitter resentment. My lust had transposed to a dark grudge. Tonight, I too would be an illusionist. I would make Harry Houdini disappear.

... Poor fellow didn't see it coming when I snuck up behind him and put a knife to his throat.

Bucket of Distaste

If people wanted you to write better of them, they should have behaved better.

"The first two hours of work always go by too quickly", Aaron thought to himself as he watched the clock turn minutes into seconds. In the past four years since he started working at Water Works, he had had little problems getting his work done. He had a good report with the customers, and the other employees admired his work ethic. But nothing is ever perfect, and in a few minutes, his imperfection would trample into the office and inhale anything positive within 100 yards. Her name was Marianne and she was a swine on the outside, but an ugly beast on the inside. She was disgustingly cynical and for the past four years, she had enjoyed denying Aaron of any joy. At work, Marianne was a gargoyle perched at her desk, ready to reprimand or condemn anyone elses' good job done. She was quick to castigate especially if she hadn't had a chance to say ten negative things before breakfast. 

   In the mornings, the office Aaron shared with Marianne was a tranquil hideout. He would confirm and schedule appointments, file invoices, and in his downtime he liked to read poetry. But the peace was disrupted every mid morning when the barbarian arrived. There was no mistaking her violent tread, it could be heard from the parking lot. Aaron braced himself. This wasn't a game. It wouldn't be easy. His once youthful soul would be excruciatingly violated for the next five hours as a victim of Marianne's extreme pessimism. She never shared a kind word or a smile, in fact, her presence caused grown men to cry. As Marianne entered the office and took her usual perch, the temperature dropped giving Aaron icy chills. What had been a bright potential day, now turned gray and hopeless. For the rest of the day she would sit at her desk spewing a life's worth of distaste into the air.

**TO BE CONTINUED** (Notice the time...)

Rational Recovery

     There is no void. Society has, without a fuss, slowly silently removed love. Evolution called on us to advance, hence love was replaced with logic. In logic, there's no room for feelings, or our interpretation of them. 

    The Germans say it started in hospitals. Families were asked to make tragic decisions about donating their deceased's' organs. They were called to let go of feelings for an empty vessel that both comforts and confuses. To make straightforward rational decisions, people abandoned the idea of family all together. It was easier to not create relationships of love then to lose them. It was a simple conclusion. One that has surprisingly lengthened the human life span. Healthy organs are donated almost 100% of the time, crimes of passion have substantially decreased, and suicide is practically non-existent. We are a more civilized society without the sloppiness of love hanging about. When we teach our children about love in history class, they laugh at the archaic traditions of weeping at funerals. We see love filled relationships as a burden. 

     At first there was a crowd that fought for a society filled with love. They believed in hurting for starving children, ill elderly, and lost love. They became second class citizens who couldn't keep up with progression and eventually they were washed out. 

     Sure the idea of love is a seductive fairy tale but it has been removed for a reason; reason.

Forsaken

That's it, I've had it! How much loneliness is one wolf supposed to take? Day after day I'm tormented by the sight of  sheep in their social herds. They graze and play games and keep each other company. I'd bet my life that none of them have ever had a lonely day in their life. I wake up, I play, I hunt, I sleep in solitary, always unaccompanied. It's miserable, so pitiful. Most days I don't even comb my fur. My purpose is gone without a companion. Damn sheep. They're infuriating, treating their pack like a country club. Most people think sheep are generally charming, but they're wrong.  They are bullies. They run away anytime I come near, like I'm diseased or something. The nerve. I need a friendly "how do you do?". I need company dammit! These are desperate times, think, Wolf, think! Aha, a disguise. Yes,  I'll fit right in their white fluffy herd. Just tuck in the ears and the tail...that's it. Alright play it cool, you're visiting from the south, you heard about the green pastures, you're working on a screen play. Brilliant! That will impress 'em! Wolf, you are a talented, ferocious animal, don't forget it. It's time to get my feet wet. "Hi!".

Coherent

     Arid country was his living room now, he thought as he kept his steady pace aimed at the snow dusted Sierra's. His legs felt like steel underneath his purposeful body. Putting one foot in front of the other was habit now. It didn't require any thought. Thought. That was why he had been walking nonstop for the past 10 months. He started walking on a Tuesday. He had come home from the office, rigid with overdue work and incessant phone calls. He changed into his windbreaker, the blue one with white stripes, and running shoes. He had no intention of running, just going out for fresh air to "clear his mind". It was something that had been on his to-do list for a long time. As he passed Giovanni's Deli and made a left down 72nd his mind shifted with a breeze of clarity. He hadn't thought of a book to read or a show to watch, let alone have any room in his torn psyche for personal discovery since his sophomore year at University.  With each step he took his brain blasted through a restraint of conformity and social expectations. It felt good. It felt right. He wondered how deep his mind went, how much did he have to discover? He knew his walk wasn't over and couldn't foresee an end. Today was a start but it wasn't enough. It wasn't a decision about keeping on, it had just happened. Even when he wore a hole in his sole, it wasn't a decision. He put one foot in front of the other as if it were the only thing he knew.


*For any poetry fans, the title is homage to the author of J. Alfred Prufrock.

The Body

      The first thing you notice is her soul is dead. Estacy's gait is heavy with aggression as she stalks across the locker room. Her eyes are wide open and hot. "You know you're stinking up the whole room!" she yells at Emily. She stood as tall as she could, undoubtedly in love with her own profane mind. Her slick black hair parted down the middle falling down past her shoulders. Her eyebrows are thin with a lot of angle in homage to her naca roots. Her lips look so bitchy I think they might reach out and punch Emily on their own. Emily sits still on the bench, her head hung in fear. Estacy is relentless, first stepping on Emily's shoes and then ad hom; "You have a stupid haircut. I bet your mom cuts your hair, doesn't she puta?" I stand watching motionless just a few feet away, hoping I'm more invisible than Emily. When Estacy is done tormenting Emily she leads her pack past me out of the locker room. Nancy, the only ghetto asian of the crew, stops in front of me glaring with her black fervid eyes. She gives a heinous grin as she gropes my breast and shoves me hard against the locker before she storms after Estacy and her crew.

I'm going to enjoy watching them grow up into nothing.