My feet are so super dirty, I call them Superfeet. In my head it sounds like Sam Jackson say "Superfeet ... they're dirty." Anyway, the reason my feet are so dirty is because I spent the evening at Mayfest. The Cherry Poppin Daddy's played in a grassy nook amongst downtown Tulsa's versions of skyscrapers. Laura, Matthew, Ali, Sabrina and I had our spot on the grass. When the music started, my feet started tapping, my head started boppin and I leaned over to Sabrina and said "Let me know when you want to dance." There's a wide cobblestone path in front of the stage that had a clearing for swing dancing. I'd say it was about three minutes later that Sabrina hopped up and took me up there with her. We found a spot at the edge of the path out of the way of the dancers. I didn't realize it was so muddy until I took of my shoes from all the dancing. Sabrina and I danced for over an hour, twirling around, kicking the air, snapping our fingers. We don't know to swing dance at all, but by the time the last few songs rolled around, I was shaking my head to the beat with a smile on my face saying "Oooh yeah." My feet didn't stop moving the entire time. It was amazing. But now my feet are covered in mud and I'm too exhausted to wash them tonight.
I did, however, find enough energy to make a delicious midnight snack: Grilled provolone and salami sandwich with tikka masala sauce. Just think about it.
Is it me, or does the way that cheese melted down remind you of something ... drippy and opaque.
I just got home. Because the bars close at 2:00. And that means something to me because I'm now 21... =D
I wanted to embrace the bartender at Caz's tonight. Let me just say that I don't drink often, but when I do, I do drink well. I was just sitting in a bar stool wondering what to ask for. I'm also frugal. A frugal and picky drinker, that's me! Anyway, I saw they had pomegranate syrup at hand, and decided instantly that it needed to be involved in whatever drink I ordered. So my friend William I was with told the bartender, who is his friend, that I wanted a drink with pomegranate syrup in it. And what did the bartender do? He delivered. Amazingly. I don't know what the hell he put in it. Well, let's just say I lost track. I saw him put some ice and a glass, turn a bottle of Sky over it and after that, it was a blur and random liquors upside down over my glass and then suddenly he topped it with a cherry and set it down on the bar in front of me. It. Was. Glorious. It tasted like a tart pomegranate, which made me happy. I don't care if it already has a name, it should be called a Pomegranate Sweet Tart. I like sweet tarts, I like pomegranates. It was heaven.
This all happened AFTER I'd just spent an hour dancing to amazing rock music at The Marquee, a venue a block a way. I danced and jumped and swung my hair around like a mad gypsy and it was beautiful.
My attention span won't go further than that I'm afraid. I'm going to watch Daria now.
Tally ho, laddy!
Friday, April 23, 2010
I've been quietly sitting in my room to relax my mind. It's a long story, how I got to the conclusion I'm about to share with you. Maybe I'll tell you the details someday, maybe I'll never tell another soul, but I just want to say to myself and whoever else might be reading:
Whatever your beliefs, whatever your theories, only put your trust in what feels authentic to you. Without explanation, without words, appreciate what authenticity you find. It's not about what you think you understand about your beliefs, it is about what you know to be true within you. It is about leaving your need to understand behind you, and trusting a truth you instinctively recognize. Truth is genuine, and we are meant to be attracted to it, because the truth sets us free. We all want to be free, which is perfect because we are all meant to be free. Freedom is an instinct. We all know truth when we feel it. We can try to forget it or convince ourselves it doesn't exist, but our mind doesn't create truth. It just exists. Our attraction to it connects us all. There is no need to prove it. It just is. So if what connects us is true without words, why spin our words around to correct perfection? If it is true, it is true for us all. We are whole. But we don't believe it. We don't believe we are perfect, we believe we are very imperfect. But riddle me this ... if truth is perfect, wouldn't imperfection, in nature, be untruth? Does that not mean the imperfections attached to us, the imperfections that "make us human" are lies? Put your trust only in truth, perfection, and beauty. Everything else is a lie. The proof is in the freedom.
Oh I do love Spring ever so much. It always seems to have perfect timing. Maybe this is because winter can be so damn harsh, the warmth is always hoped for. This year I spent Spring Break with Andrew, I went to Arkansas to pick him up on a Thursday night and we drove back early Friday morning. And by "early" I mean, one o'clock in the morning. It was an adventure. We said our "Hello there's" as I like to call them, which end up with my hair looking even more wild than it had already been from driving for 4 1/2 hours.
Andrew packed so quickly, all we had left to do was to get some pants on and use the restroom. We ran some errands, which included some late-night library book returns, which made me melancholy that I'm no longer allowed to borrow books from the Tulsa Library (long story). We snatched some Wendy's then we were on our way back to Oklahoma. This is often our routine whenever we can afford enough time to see each other. Long distance relationships are tricky. But we have a blast. I played some Andrew Bird he'd never heard and I helped him keep an eye out for deer near the road that twisted and curved through the forest. I like being in the passenger seat on that highway, so I can look up at the stars and reassure myself we're not in some woodsy tunnel that goes on for hours. Also, because the starts are beautiful, and I miss them when I'm among the cluttered bright lights of Tulsa.
As the night and the driving went on, we kept ourselves awake with music we loved singing to. Besides making a stop at a little gas station for a 5 Hour Energy shot for Andrew and a Pepto-Bismal for my road-dizzy stomach. We listened to dozens of songs from bands like Built To Spill, Bowie, and the soundtrack to Hedwig and the Angry Inch. We sang and danced and smoked cigarettes and chewed gum and got into Tulsa around 5:00am.
Here's something not too many people know about me: I cry often. So after Andrew and I had gotten in and collapsed on my bed for awhile then got out of my creaky bed to say our Hello There's once again, we returned to my very creaky bed to sleep at last. I stayed up looking at the shadows on my ceiling and rested to the feel of his breathing on the back of my neck, listening to the music he'd put on.
I cried because I was thankful for that moment. After lying there for awhile, I got my notebook and took these notes from the moment.
"The road to happiness is flooded with tears.
Be here now.
Oh my stars.
Tears are highest gratitude.
Sing not only for each other, but most intently for yourselves, so that the beauty will be purified from within and flow out through your very being, so that your very touch will sing with love."
Hooray for spring! Finally my ability to see things with poetical randomness has thawed. Now, it's well passed Spring Break, and I'm getting myself back to my daily life, without Andrew - or Lori =( - to spend my days with. I have to spend more time with myself than usual. This is also because I don't have the money to go anywhere. So this beautiful weekend I've spent cleaning my room and reading Fables. Don't get me started. It's a graphic novel that I love. Also, I've been listening to Jeremy Enigk and Mazzy Star with the window open while burning candles and incense and laying in bed. I have no complaints, except I wish I had enough gas to go to the park and lounge. But ah well. There will be more beautiful days, I hope.
That Friday was the last day of winter, and it was the sunniest, breeziest, most beautiful day of the year. Andrew and sat and ate outside an Italian-Mediterranean Fusion cafe, he took pictures of our food and jotted down his review in his Foodie journal, and I played Sudoku. Later that evening we went to our friends Kim and Brenton's house to have a cook out. Kim and Brenton are some of my favorite people. They're very spiritual, and quirky. Brenton has hair down to his lumbar, a keg on tap, a wii, and the most contagious laugh I've ever heard. Kim is always smiling, she makes jewelry and dresses, and loves dancing and smoking cigarettes. That night we sat on the back porch and drank wine and laughed and watched the sun set. At some point of the evening, Kim and I got to talking about ourselves as young girls, and Kim leaned over to me and told me delicately "No matter how old you get, or what happens, you're always that girl. It's just a matter of seeing it." This is why I love Kim.
It rained that night while we were still sitting outside. By the next morning it was snowing. On the first day of Spring. Seriously?
Anyway Andre and I had a good spring break. We were really young and playful this time. One day we went to eat at Mr. Taco and ate delicious greasy food, then went to Starship Records and looked through all the records we couldn't afford. Another day we went to see Alice in Wonderland, ate at Schlotzky's, went to the Library, then went to Toys'R'Us and fought with foam swords, and then got ice cream at Baskin Robbins. On another day, we got gyros and baba ganush and had a picnic in the park and cuddled. We also have gotten into the habit of calling each other Baby. Whew.
Unfortunately Andrew missed some of the lovelier days spring had to offer. This weekend has been beautiful. I've hardly left my room, but I've been sunbathing all weekend so who can say I haven't been enjoying the weather? Dear lord, I think I'm a human cat.
Meow.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Ohhh springtime is here at last! It stormed so hard this morning the thunder set off a car alarm.
I wish I could embrace Hedwig from Hedwig and the Angry Inch. I think I may have to go to the nearest gay club and hug the first drag queen that looks like her just to get my fix. I've been listening to the soundtrack from the movie every day since I saw it in its entirety the other night with Andrew, my special man friend. When I say "with" I mean we watched it simultaneously while speaking to each other over the phone. It was romantic. I lit candles in my room, he didn't fall asleep. I loved it. He's got narcolepsy, you see, so I really appreciated that he was still conscious when the credits appeared before the movie. I may be exaggerating in some way, but I'll tell you, it's in a very very minuscule way. He can sleep in trees. It's inhuman. I'm dating a photographer/chef with a handlebar mustache who can sleep in trees and does not find my wit or my eyebrows intimidating. And I didn't even have to sell my soul to Satan. Take that, you hipsters!
Moving on.
I really enjoyed the movie. And yes, I do have an addiction to the soundtrack. I'm listening to it now. But how could you do anything but love a soundtrack with a song that says "It's my first day as a woman, and already it's that time of the month!" Let's not kid ourselves here. The point is, I'm enamored. And I think that if you're the kind of person that would read my blog, then you are most likely the kind of person who would enjoy this:
Ahh the origin of love. Love is my favorite word, next to Honeysuckle. I didn't realize Honeysuckle was my other favorite word until last night when I was trying to blog and just ended up typing some form of memoir. You know, I just realized something. I was about to say that I have been blessed with such opportunities to love, while others go a lifetime without love. At least, that's what I've been told. And now that it comes up, I don't believe that to be true.
It's true that I have been blessed with thousands, no, millions of opportunities to love in my life. Probably even billions. I'm in my twenties now after all. I have more experience under my belt. But I don't believe anyone who has ever lived has ever gone their lives, no matter how long or short, without experiencing love. It's a pompous thing to say. It's something I used to hear people from church say about those less fortunate, or rather, those who don‘t “know The Lord“. People, apparently, are capable of going their entire lives without knowing The Lord. Or rather “Our Lord” because “He’s Our Daddy and Everyone’s Daddy, but he’s not really your daddy unless you call him by his real name, and you can only know his real name if you believe what we believe.” This behavior is bothersome to me, mainly because it bothers me when people become walking oxymora.
Not that Christianity is an oxymora itself, but its groupies sure can be. And that can be said about any radical religious group. I see the major religions’ prophets as rock Gods in an Elvis, The Beatles, The Stones, Michael Jackson sort of way. I see the radicals that come along with those religions as the desperate fans throwing creamy panties on stage. As for the lesser guys - the cult leaders - they’re the boy bands that are stuck with the young, blossoming crazies who are only tolerable after you slip them a couple roofies. Fanatics are the kind of people who dance to songs like Every Breath You Take at their weddings, and think it’s okay. I’m going to save my opinions about radical religious groups for a later time. I’m not very good at making my points quickly. I already said I was a rambler. My point is, that when I realized Honeysuckle was my favorite word, I was remembering a subtly significant moment in my childhood where I felt at peace.
I was probably five or six, my hair was long and curly, I was barefoot and I was standing alone out by the small chain link fence that separated my big, beautiful back yard from the outside world. It was a warm day, but gray, and I remember the green grass looking especially green against the grayness of the day. Along the fence grew flowering honeysuckle. Peacefully, I walked along the fence picking the flowers and sucking the juice from them. It was sweet, exactly like honey, and there were hundreds of the flowers blossoming along the borders of my wonderland. It was in heaven. It was love. And it was provided to me with no strings attached.
Yes, I was innocent and all that. I hadn’t fucked up on purpose, or on accident enough yet to have to purchase the love. When you get older, it’s still possible to get coverage, but you just have to pay more, because your God/Insurance Agent is now acting like you ran over some little kid in a school zone and He/She’s just one dead minor away from dropping you completely.
At least that’s what Radicals feel like when they grow up. When you're a non-radical grown up, you get to do whatever you want to do to little kids in a school zone, and feel no remorse whatsoever! Or is that just when you're a Catholic grown up? Booya.
Well, I will have to end this nonsense here, and go continue it somewhere else.
Until next time, Mr. Blogger Sir. It’s been a pleasure.
