This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine...

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Got to End Bee-otches.

Wow. It's been 1 hell of a month. For some reason the outcome of it is just hitting me right now. I haven't come in nearly a month. I haven't felt sexy in almost as long. I haven't been on any fun dates with friends or new interests.

Definitely not the best start to a summer.

And now that's got to end bee-otches. I am newly single! It is warm out! I have a renewed sense of what makes me feel good! I am out of pussy control!

It's Pride this weekend!!

Give the Kid Her Candy

Ways that I indulge, listen to, or notice my inner 5 year old.

Jumping as high as possible when the elevator in my office starts to go down. I swear I gain like 4 inches on my vertical. The possibility (however imagined) that I will land too heavily in the elevator and have a hair raising fall from the 25th floor is exhilarating every time.

Attempting perfect 360 spins on one foot in my dressy work shoes on the stone floors of the office. The possibility that an adult will happen upon me in the middle of this harmless game is part of the excitement.

Does typing at my desk at home in my underwear indulge my inner 5 year old? No, that's my inner exhibitionist.

How do you?

Monday, June 23, 2008

Brave New World, Summer Book Review

I found myself without a book to read during my morning commute a few weeks ago so I turned to the ol' bookshelf. I have dozens of reference books and books of unknown poets that are untouched, along with a few "gems" I was supposed to have read in high school or college, but never did. If I decide to give out meaningless and random awards to the books I read this summer, my 1989 paperback copy of Brave New World will win the ugliest cover award. The award for most likely to be judged by cover. (what you see here is far more interesting than mine.)

Brave New World is a classic from the past. It's one of those books that I enjoyed more than I expected to. Huxley was around my age when he wrote this novel, and his writing technique is sometimes slightly labored over. Enough so that I can pick out the tools he uses to get the reader into his world of bottled up fetuses and "everyone belongs to everyone else".

Written in the late 1920s, early '30s, the book is loaded with some impressive foresight on subjects like language, war, and machinery. Unlike contemporary writers of his time, Huxley doesn't beat around the bush when talking about sexual relationships or egos. He isn't overly descriptive. His character sketch of a complete, yet honorable, man centers around three male character parts: Bernard Marx - the overcompensating smart man who has a good heart but a bad temper because he is short, Helmholtz Watson - the star quarterback who goes to Harvard type, good at everything he does but unsatisfied with the easy life because it comes so easily, and John, "Mr. Savage".

John is the star of the second half of the book, his was born from an actual woman as opposed to all other "good civilized" people. Those people are made from sperm and egg, grown in bottles, kept on conveyor belts until they're 18 months and raised in child conditioning factories (schools) until they can go out in the world and join the ranks they're born into.

The only turn of plot that kept my attention held was the fate of Mr. Savage. I knew going into this book that a character would be making a choice between civilized comfort and unconditioned suffering (free will). Lucky for me, the writing was succinct enough to keep hold over me. If Huxley had written like others of his time I wouldn't have finished the book.

John "the savage", comes from a reservation in the American southwest, where he has been an outcast all his life for being white, to the bustling city of London where is a freakshow. He winds up being a Shakespeare quoting masochist who chooses to whip himself rather than 'have' his love (1 of 2 small female 'roles') Lenina. Lenina is pneumatic - a word that is used all too often in this book, to mean pretty much "everything nice". Not only does he whip himself for wanting physically but is used to make the point that suffering is the human condition and a condition worth fighting for.

No wonder The Canon loved this book. It ties up very neatly into the privileged White's order of honor and ethics wherein it's ok to scorn your mother for drinking and fucking and it's better to suffer nobly than to have sex with all the easy lays in the world.

This book was like a boring date. It wasn't all bad, we had a few decent moments together, but now it's over and I want to think about my grocery list with a bubble bath and glass of wine.

Summer Book Review! Low Down

The bike riding season had made a noticeable dent in the number of books I read; then with all the e-dating and wellness drama I didn't pick up another spiny backed friend for several weeks. Candy Girl, by Diablo Cody, got me back into the game; a quick read with some laugh out loud moments, an "aha" moment in which I related to the author/narrator, and the best line- from when she talks about another day walking in strippers' heels: "In direct opposition to the 1987 Swayze edict, everybody puts Baby in a goddamned corner."

Oh, books. Hooray for them.
So I picked up another one after speeding through Cody's fluffy bildungsroman. Holding the paperback calmed and focused me, reminded me what quality time is all about. Predictably, I'm calmed for one moment by the written word and the very next popped in the kisser with an idea:

Subterranean Fire's Summer Book Review
(woo hoo!)

the Gist: give me titles! synopses! recommendations! I'll choose a book, make it my duty to read at least two a month, and review each of them based on my exquisite taste and beta training.

that brief "caste" mention above is the perfect segue into my first review.
and now you, reader, drop me a comment with a book suggestion, so I can start me next read!

Friday, June 20, 2008

The Littlest Bird Sings the Prettiest Song

I told him that I walk up and down 46 stairs several times a day. I can do it really well now. I walk to the train and back once a day. I see how all the walls around me change.

The challenge is in retaining my anger and sense of wrong done while using that to fuel the creation of peace. I am being a warrior for my own strength and future. I remind myself, relax your shoulders. I tell myself, go get exercise. I prod myself, look around you.

It's not a pretty place, but parts of it will be home. I want parts of Chicago to sidle up to my heart. I don't have plans yet, but my green future is out there. When I go I imaging taking pieces of this city with me and remember how the highway near by made a nice white noise and how all the activity when muddled together is so impressive. I love riding my bike SE on Milwaukee and watching the big skyline loom up closer over the bridge that crosses the Dan Ryan highway. I like sitting in Humboldt Park's grand Rose Garden near the iron Bison set down a hundred years ago. I love walking the shore in Rogers Park where the yippies live and quietly looking for beach glass. The pigeons (rock doves) coo me to sleep at night, the wrens and other warblers wake me up in the morning.

Feeling alone when so much is happening around you can be depressing. However, savoring stillness, in my brightly painted corners, while the world whirs on is also delectable.

On Reviving Myself

Adam instructed me to be a warrior. He said, "You want what isn't there. Start wanting what is." He doesn't mean settle he means work. Work for what you want. Figure out what you want to work for. At night, when I'm high, my pessimistic thoughts cave in on me. No one can be trusted, my muscles are all knotted. Rain has clogged the sewers and this city smells like shit. I tremble and it's 80 degrees out. I shake, not knowing why.
It's when my eyes dart mercilessly and my heart beat rises. My spine feels crooked, I swear I hear it creaking, thanking life for teaching me the difference between a gunshot and a bottle rocket isn't funny comforting any more. The irony drains out of me and I'm pale with negativity.
Adam, though, Adam instructed me to be a warrior. No one ever spoke to me like that. No one ever skipped over puffing me up about smarts and articulation before passing advice. No one ever cut through the bullshit quick enough to bypass my hard headed stubbornness. His equal opportunity insults spared no one and seeing his open heart took years.
I tell myself to breath normally. I tell myself to walk fucking tall. To lead with my tits. I tell myself to lead with my tits because they naturally stick out farther than any other part on my front and it makes sense to my spine and energy. I tell myself to teach the ways of my woman the way we taught preschoolers - gentle and positive. Leave the "no" out of it and give clear instructions. I lead with my tits and tell myself to focus my eyes. I need glasses and to stop medicating this drama with weed. My eyes become lazy, red, and half lidded by the end of these days and I tell myself. Breath regularly. Look straight ahead. Look with your third eye. Look into they eyes of passersby if you want to.

All the rules of society women are taught go against my nature. I look people in the eye at night in the city in a dress. I show off my curves because it makes me feel great. I use words like cunt, cock and pussy without batting an eye - no because I'm making a point. I say cunt because there is no other word in the English language so honest and concise. Cunt is a beautiful word. It's like hard powerful sounding German with a soft Latin NNNNNN keeping it real.

"At this age they lose confidence in themselves, they become very uncomfortable with their voices, often practicing alone at night in mirrors to find the voice that sounds sexy, but not too sexy. Strong, but not too strong because everybody knows that boys don't like girls that are bitches. Soon, their natural voices get lost behind the performance, the constant performance, the constant depersonalization mindfuck of the performance. It's exhausting and it leaves you empty and unsure."

When I was still a girl purple and pink were my favorite color. I sang at the top of my lungs, wore dresses with mud on them, ate mushrooms and followed the moon. I wrote stories about aliens, poems about boredom and wished on the first star at night. When I was twelve I started singing quietly so no one could hear. I decided my favorite color could be blue or maybe black. I stopped eating mushrooms and wondered how the moon still knew where I was every night. I got older, stopped wearing dresses, started memorizing booty shakes on MTV and wrote only about boys I liked and girls that spited me. The stars became secondary and I tried to forget Luna's name.

words above remind me of all those times and point me in the direction I still travel. I've finally circled back. I'm 13 two times now and my voice is coming out of the closet. It brought gifts with it from the past. I sing as loud as I please, at bus stops, at home with my flimsy walls. Purple is the color of the dresses I wear and the color of my strap on harness. My girls, those I've known and those I'll meet are the base for me now and Adam knows my real name. He says "Kung Fu is all about practice. You do something everyday, do it enough times and you're going to be good at it. You've got to be a warrior."

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

The Plan Is Full

The moon will be full today.
It takes me so long for some realizations.
The plan is: use Chicago to learn myself like I learned the trails of the North Woods.
Then, flee to Woods (Northwest?) ASAP.

The plan is: live for each day, not for each weekend. Even if work is work.
The plan is: read more
The plan is: smile more

The plan is: it's optimism's turn now.

Plus I feel good because some internet human I don't think I know outted Devyn & his particular STD on his blog. Mirth and spite - they can get me going in the morning at my desk.

The plan is: notice how gorgeous sunrises are again

Blogging, texting, long distance e-dating...It's all so weird. So detached. That's one of the reasons I liked it I guess. All the intimacy without any of the compromises.

There are many reasons to be optimistic.
Tonight, stop and feel the sweetness of the Strawberry Full Moon

Sunday, June 15, 2008

On Being A Warrior

The only war I'm fighting for is the one of my own success. A sense of accomplishment from this weekend. I didn't break. I didn't let sadness pull me down and out. I finished some things that needed finishing. I flirted and forgot for a second about this shitty situation. I stood and orated and forgot about this shitty month I've been dogged by. I wrote some poems. I sang some songs. I got some sun. I pulled some weeds and my friend reminded me to be a warrior in the present and make the best of the here and now.

Now bed.

Saturday, June 14, 2008

5 days later

the irony of 5 years of promiscuity
cantering about, on two legs.

so bury me in wood
and i will splinter

the irony of vows i meant
his roses are less than dirt.

bury me in stone
and i will quake

i broke up roots in the soil.
i pulled yarrow from the garden

bury me in water
and i will geyser

and laughed at myself
with mirth. the tarot card reader,

the fenced in metaphors...

bury me in fire
and i'm gonna phoenix

i'm gonna phoenix

lyrics from "say valley maker" by smog

Friday, June 6, 2008


New Song to Love:
Vein of Stars by The Flaming Lips.

I wish I was lying on the ground by a small morning fire in the sunlight. Will I ever get over camping? I hope not. I hope it continues to dog me, to leave me feeling parched, until I return to the woods that birthed me.

There is nothing I love more than the earth and her bounty. Lying directly on the worn dirt of a campground is heaven. It is rich, whole, right. It coats my skin in dust, fills my nose with reality, and quiets my head then heart then whole. I say nothing because there is so much to be heard living. I study the tiny green speck bugs ambling along their vast deserts. I listen to the birds calling back and forth and discern which directions they are in. I watch the sun chase the moon chase the sun and know where I am and where I am headed.

My doctor has basically prescribed that I move to a different place, one where I can have myself whole again. Others have said the same; profession makes no difference, they are right. Do they know that I'm fully aware? That I prescribed this myself years ago?

But I have to learn the hard way. I have to test my limits. I have to put on all these hats, costumes, and duties just to find out they're not right. I have to test out all the things I am not, before I can return to the things I am. It's a sadly exhilarating task. Chicago and I are just not finished with each other.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

Under the Weather

It's been three crazy weeks since I crashed my bike and landed in the hospital. I'm learning that I do, in fact, possess that folly of youth: unconsciously thinking I'm indestructible.

I've been feeling physically like shit since the crash. For several days, over a week, I didn't really pay attention to it. Then it bit me in the ass and I'm still paying dues. I should have called in sick to work earlier this week so I could spend a day in bed and sleep as much as I need to. Yesterday we got a temp that I'm in charge of, so I knew I couldn't call off today, no matter the fact that getting out of bed after a solid 8 hours of sleep was astronomically difficult.

I bit the bullet and told boss lady that I'm taking the afternoon off because I'm exhausted and it's killing my productivity anyway. I can't wait to go home. My bed is calling me.
But first I have to trek to Lincoln Park to the doctor to see all what may be causing my troubles. A very unenthusiastic yay.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Oranges in the Break room

"Let's take a break." I said
so we took the elevator up.
The fruit she'd brought inspired me
and I passed along the three
golden rules to choose an orange.

First, the orange has to be the best
color of the bunch. Bright and even
like a marigold. Second, the orange
should be firm and without soft spots.
Finally, most importantly,
the naval should be small.

A pin-prick is best; it shows
that the orange was allowed to
live on its stem, at home among
the leaves and branches
in the wind until
maturity and best juicy,
sweet taste.
"In Phoenix," she said "in March,
you can smell orange blossoms
in the air.

It smells like
gardenias or expensive perfume.
I forget what it is sometimes,
when I return home
that time of year.
I used to pick the fruit
for my choir teacher to get them
off the tree before they fell
and rotted and browned."

She looked at her orange, "I got these
from Costco, in a box."
"Let's do a taste test"
I suggested "to compare the method of choosing."
Her orange,
from a box congruous
to all the others that came,
flown from the south
or southwest, chosen indiscriminately,
tasted better.

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Speaking of Wings

How's this for awesome serendipitous?!

Aquarius Horoscope for week of June 5, 2008
Scientists used to believe that a butterfly has no recollection of its previous life as a caterpillar. The pupa breaks down into primal goo during its metamorphosis, they said, erasing all trace of its caterpillar brain. But new research suggests that there is in fact continuity. At least some of what the caterpillar learned remains available to the butterfly.
As you carry out your own personal mutation in the coming months, Aquarius, I believe you will experience a similar process, thus ensuring that the New You has most of the wisdom that the Old You possessed.

I get the Free Will Astrology report every week. I recommend it. He's good as well as funny.

Monday, June 2, 2008

Re-Up On All Fronts

June, June, New Moon.

With turbulent spring May coming to an end I'm trying to look at what I've accomplished and what my goals are. Physically I've been feeling like something the cat drug in after a nasty alley fight with an errant raccoon. (I'm also reading Diablo Cody's Candy Girl as of this lunch hour, so watch out for overtly clever analogies to come.)

What with the detox in early May, followed by the bike crash and subsequent nutritional crash my body has yo-yoed back down to the dark side of sluggishness and headaches. Top that off with some Greyhound-ride-inducing exhaustion, some relationship redefining with Devyn, and a family birthday weekend, and I wound up with an eye twitch and lasting migraine by Sunday morning.

So it's time again for re-upping my energy levels on all fronts. This quarter-life crisis will either kill me, or I'll emerge at thirty with beautiful fucking wings.

(Purple, I want them to be purple and iridescent...

Not unlike Prince's Purple Rain.)