they are of threaded glass.
those people.
like paper dolls stitched with red, only drop them and they'll shatter.
break their hearts and you break the whole silhouette.
like champagne glasses in a lush's hands
and suddenly those gingerbread friends are floating
in a bubbly stream of orange juice.
i never got the memo.
the photocopied version of that popular radio song.
the one with the chorus you could never remember
and the one with the line about letting me go
and letting me down.
your face is dripping down the counter
and her arms disintegrate onto a cold tile floor.
the spool unravels like loose buttons on a thrift store shirt.
those people.
i'm watching them disappear.
those paper doll cut outs of a life
of a memory
they are of threaded glass.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Check Out Chat
Friday afternoon was my first day back at Trader Joe's, the oh so spirited grocery store where I work part time. A woman with white hair, red lips, and dressed to the nines came through my line. I greeted her like any other customer saying:
"Hi! How are you today?"
She replied:
"Well, I'm happy, healthy, and still hopelessly in love."
I stopped scanning a bag of baby carrots in that moment, smiled, looked up at her and said:
"And what more could you ask for?"
She smiled back: "Exactly."
Now I remember why I love working at this store.
"Hi! How are you today?"
She replied:
"Well, I'm happy, healthy, and still hopelessly in love."
I stopped scanning a bag of baby carrots in that moment, smiled, looked up at her and said:
"And what more could you ask for?"
She smiled back: "Exactly."
Now I remember why I love working at this store.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
like a bird in flight
Seems like this lesson I keep learning over and over the more I live, the more I grow up, that endings are usually sad. Beginnings are comprised of both excitement and fear. But it's the middles that are the best parts. That's the good stuff, the moments to remember.
This is what I was writing when:
I noticed a little girl in a pink dress with white flowers making a puppet out of her purple polka dotted sock, which reminded me that I forgot to put socks in my carry on. I always get cold feet when I fly- literally. And as I watched her playfully swinging back and forth in a black leather seat, it was all I could do to park my divine sadness right next to her innocent happiness and just sit. I don't think I'd ever been so sad to step on an airplane in my entire life. I'd stepped on them feeling happiness, even fear, but not such supreme sadness.
It's like getting caught in gnarly surf, a giant wave engulfing you. It sees and claims you for no good reason at all except to violently enclose you in deep blue salt.
Pulling you down.
Stealing your breath.
Smacking you in the face.
It's all you can do to finally emerge toward light, gasping for air, eyes burning, completely drenched.
And so it was at gate 18, sitting in the terminal watching this little girl that I gasped for air, for anything to hold onto to just feel better.
FUTILE.
I found myself seated next to a man on the airplane with a severe fear of flying. Row 18. His long yet slightly knobby knees rebounded off of mine. He took carefully calculated breaths. He crossed himself several times before resting his face in his hands whispering to himself. He eventually turned to me with these sad puppy dog eyes and the voice of a young boy on a first date: "Do you fly often? What's the worst part?"
Needless to say, I spent the better majority of the next 5 hours talking to this man if for nothing more than to settle his fears and refocus his attention.
This man is from Pittsburgh. A landscaper. A tall, built, scruffy looking type. We talked about our fears, our hopes, our plans- like his, to move to Sacramento and begin a new chapter in his life. He is sweet, funny, and a gentleman. He turns off the air when seeing I'm cold and offers his shoulder if I should later need a head rest. We talk about playing the lottery, 2012 and Aztec prophecies, traveling abroad, and taking grand leaps of faith.
I wish I had asked him his name.
We're both fading in and out of sleep, our heads tilted toward one another, our shoulders touching. I don't know if he noticed. Eventually our forearms and the tips of our fingers are touching. I can feel the heat of his skin through my shirt and breathe contently in sharing this tiny moment, feeling like maybe we both just needed a little human contact. Maybe we both just needed to not feel so alone. We both wake up smiling. He hands my trash to the flight attendant and makes sure I'm warm enough as we make our final descent.
I smile as we land declaring, "You made it!"
He smiles, "Nah, we made it."
He leans over to look out the window and I breath him in. He smells of tobacco and peppermint and I am reminded of that scene from "The Parent Trap" where she makes a memory of her grandfather who smells this way. I desperately wanted to make a memory of him. I wanted to frame his face with my hands and take a mental picture. I wanted to hold onto this stranger and his kindness, his smile, his piercing green eyes and the intricate tattoo making a sleeve on his right arm. I wanted to hold onto his doubly pierced ears, his laugh, and the warmth of his skin... how he genuinely wanted to hear about playing ukulele, travels through Europe, surfing in Hawaii, and taking risks in life- at any time.
It was like opening little windows into one an other's souls for that brief moment in time, cruising above the clouds with a full moon in sight. We stepped off the plane and back into our own separate lives, but not before exchanging final words of luck and gratitude for sharing the flight, for making it out alive, and for keeping each other warm.
I wish I had asked him his name.
But now every time I think of Pittsburgh I will think of my landscaping friend. I will send him love and light and then drop it and move on, like Liz Gilbert says. But, Mr. Pittsburgh, if you're out there somewhere reading this, drop me a line. I'm thinking maybe we should be friends.
Now, can we also, just for a moment, talk about flight attendants and this whole routine they perform? Noting the information card in the seat back pocket? Pointing toward the exits? Demonstrating how to fasten my seat belt? It's like some strange little dance. A funny ritual of sorts really providing little to no actual assistance. How odd.
And can I also just mention how you have to pay for everything on flights now? Luggage. Food. Headphones. You can't even get a blanket for free. But maybe that's okay...perhaps it leads to more impromptu snuggling with sweet, scruffy strangers. And really, I'm okay with that.
This is what I was writing when:
I noticed a little girl in a pink dress with white flowers making a puppet out of her purple polka dotted sock, which reminded me that I forgot to put socks in my carry on. I always get cold feet when I fly- literally. And as I watched her playfully swinging back and forth in a black leather seat, it was all I could do to park my divine sadness right next to her innocent happiness and just sit. I don't think I'd ever been so sad to step on an airplane in my entire life. I'd stepped on them feeling happiness, even fear, but not such supreme sadness.
It's like getting caught in gnarly surf, a giant wave engulfing you. It sees and claims you for no good reason at all except to violently enclose you in deep blue salt.
Pulling you down.
Stealing your breath.
Smacking you in the face.
It's all you can do to finally emerge toward light, gasping for air, eyes burning, completely drenched.
And so it was at gate 18, sitting in the terminal watching this little girl that I gasped for air, for anything to hold onto to just feel better.
FUTILE.
I found myself seated next to a man on the airplane with a severe fear of flying. Row 18. His long yet slightly knobby knees rebounded off of mine. He took carefully calculated breaths. He crossed himself several times before resting his face in his hands whispering to himself. He eventually turned to me with these sad puppy dog eyes and the voice of a young boy on a first date: "Do you fly often? What's the worst part?"
Needless to say, I spent the better majority of the next 5 hours talking to this man if for nothing more than to settle his fears and refocus his attention.
This man is from Pittsburgh. A landscaper. A tall, built, scruffy looking type. We talked about our fears, our hopes, our plans- like his, to move to Sacramento and begin a new chapter in his life. He is sweet, funny, and a gentleman. He turns off the air when seeing I'm cold and offers his shoulder if I should later need a head rest. We talk about playing the lottery, 2012 and Aztec prophecies, traveling abroad, and taking grand leaps of faith.
I wish I had asked him his name.
We're both fading in and out of sleep, our heads tilted toward one another, our shoulders touching. I don't know if he noticed. Eventually our forearms and the tips of our fingers are touching. I can feel the heat of his skin through my shirt and breathe contently in sharing this tiny moment, feeling like maybe we both just needed a little human contact. Maybe we both just needed to not feel so alone. We both wake up smiling. He hands my trash to the flight attendant and makes sure I'm warm enough as we make our final descent.
I smile as we land declaring, "You made it!"
He smiles, "Nah, we made it."
He leans over to look out the window and I breath him in. He smells of tobacco and peppermint and I am reminded of that scene from "The Parent Trap" where she makes a memory of her grandfather who smells this way. I desperately wanted to make a memory of him. I wanted to frame his face with my hands and take a mental picture. I wanted to hold onto this stranger and his kindness, his smile, his piercing green eyes and the intricate tattoo making a sleeve on his right arm. I wanted to hold onto his doubly pierced ears, his laugh, and the warmth of his skin... how he genuinely wanted to hear about playing ukulele, travels through Europe, surfing in Hawaii, and taking risks in life- at any time.
It was like opening little windows into one an other's souls for that brief moment in time, cruising above the clouds with a full moon in sight. We stepped off the plane and back into our own separate lives, but not before exchanging final words of luck and gratitude for sharing the flight, for making it out alive, and for keeping each other warm.
I wish I had asked him his name.
But now every time I think of Pittsburgh I will think of my landscaping friend. I will send him love and light and then drop it and move on, like Liz Gilbert says. But, Mr. Pittsburgh, if you're out there somewhere reading this, drop me a line. I'm thinking maybe we should be friends.
Now, can we also, just for a moment, talk about flight attendants and this whole routine they perform? Noting the information card in the seat back pocket? Pointing toward the exits? Demonstrating how to fasten my seat belt? It's like some strange little dance. A funny ritual of sorts really providing little to no actual assistance. How odd.
And can I also just mention how you have to pay for everything on flights now? Luggage. Food. Headphones. You can't even get a blanket for free. But maybe that's okay...perhaps it leads to more impromptu snuggling with sweet, scruffy strangers. And really, I'm okay with that.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
the syntax of things
I am told that once upon a time there was such a thing as courtship- that men, at one time in history, actively participated in the pursuit of women. They made efforts to get to know a woman, treat her with kindness and respect, cultivating a relationship with sound foundation even before any romantic intimacy ensued. I am told that such behavior did in fact exist and I understand that once upon a time women were truly valued in the realms of romantic relationships. We were seen as sweet, endearing, beautiful creatures worthy of affection, attention, respect, and effort. Women were courted.
Granted, I can appreciate that such practices and traditions are seen as antiquated today. Perhaps they do not coincide with the modern day woman's ideals and philosophies of strength, independence, and self sufficiency. Yet, I'd like to know what practices the men of today engage in and are they really working for them? Because, well, they're not working for me.
I have been in love once in my life. Truly in love. I was 15. And 16. And 17.
Somewhere around 21 I stopped being in love with him and at 22 realized that I'd perhaps spent much of that time being in love with an idea rather than an actuality. At 23 I've had a few lovely beginnings. But I've yet to truly be in it. I've yet to actually be in love and know what it is to be loved by someone else. I've yet to be in it. (And that's okay: I'm young, I realize this...there's ample time.)
And in the place of real experience I hold onto past memory like a box full of love letters kept in a trunk at the foot of my bed. I escape into the fictional realms of other worldly love and the fantastical day dreams I create frequently. I live vicariously through the details and stories of girlfriends and even strangers, holding onto the hope that the universe will one day pay it forward.
I suppose I am what many may call a hopeless romantic. I kid that I was born in the wrong era. I crave courtship. But more so I think it's about finding that soul who so beautifully responds to yours. It's about finding someone who's just as strange and complex and surprising. It's about allowing someone to see you with your morning face because you know they're going to dive into every conversation and thought and ideal and belief you express no matter how seemingly small or trivial. They exist...these people. And perhaps this is what our 20s are for: weeding out the immature, the lazy, the clueless... the jerks. All so we can make it one step closer to those other lost souls of earlier eras who wound up in the 21st century too.
Maybe hopeful romantic is more appropriate.
These days I wake up and read e.e. cummings before climbing out of bed. Sometimes I read to myself, other times I like to hear the feel of the words on my tongue and the sounds that resonate in the air long after they've been whispered. Today's poem could not be more appropriate (and it's for Shea, whom I know loves this piece too...):
28
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all the flowers. Don't cry
-the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
Until next time friends,
Lizbeth
Granted, I can appreciate that such practices and traditions are seen as antiquated today. Perhaps they do not coincide with the modern day woman's ideals and philosophies of strength, independence, and self sufficiency. Yet, I'd like to know what practices the men of today engage in and are they really working for them? Because, well, they're not working for me.
I have been in love once in my life. Truly in love. I was 15. And 16. And 17.
Somewhere around 21 I stopped being in love with him and at 22 realized that I'd perhaps spent much of that time being in love with an idea rather than an actuality. At 23 I've had a few lovely beginnings. But I've yet to truly be in it. I've yet to actually be in love and know what it is to be loved by someone else. I've yet to be in it. (And that's okay: I'm young, I realize this...there's ample time.)
And in the place of real experience I hold onto past memory like a box full of love letters kept in a trunk at the foot of my bed. I escape into the fictional realms of other worldly love and the fantastical day dreams I create frequently. I live vicariously through the details and stories of girlfriends and even strangers, holding onto the hope that the universe will one day pay it forward.
I suppose I am what many may call a hopeless romantic. I kid that I was born in the wrong era. I crave courtship. But more so I think it's about finding that soul who so beautifully responds to yours. It's about finding someone who's just as strange and complex and surprising. It's about allowing someone to see you with your morning face because you know they're going to dive into every conversation and thought and ideal and belief you express no matter how seemingly small or trivial. They exist...these people. And perhaps this is what our 20s are for: weeding out the immature, the lazy, the clueless... the jerks. All so we can make it one step closer to those other lost souls of earlier eras who wound up in the 21st century too.
Maybe hopeful romantic is more appropriate.
These days I wake up and read e.e. cummings before climbing out of bed. Sometimes I read to myself, other times I like to hear the feel of the words on my tongue and the sounds that resonate in the air long after they've been whispered. Today's poem could not be more appropriate (and it's for Shea, whom I know loves this piece too...):
28
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all the flowers. Don't cry
-the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
Until next time friends,
Lizbeth
Monday, August 16, 2010
a really great day
A few weeks ago I got to talking with a dear friend about mothers and the delicate dynamic that is the mother-daughter relationship. She said to me:
You know, the day you realize that becoming your mother is a good thing... well that's a really great day.
And I replied:
Becoming my mother is something I actually aspire to...
And we both just paused and smiled and noted that if our mothers could in fact hear this conversation it would be overwhelmingly heart warming for all.
(My mother... a few decades ago)
But it's true. As I get older I more frequently have those moments where I think, "wow, I am mother.' It's so clear in every cup of coffee I sip, or lap I run around the park, every purchase I make from clothing and accessories to housewares and magazines... every card I write, every event I plan, my need to organize and nest, and those rare moments in which I agonize, agonize, agonize... It's in the joy I feel from getting all dressed up, or spending quality time with good friends and family, from drinking champagne on a random weeknight to enjoying a delicious home cooked meal.
It's all there. Like she's been wound up within all of these elements of my life that I love and embrace no matter how seemingly small or simple. I am my mother. And I have to say that years from now when I'm even more grown up, if I can still look at my life and say that, it will still be a really great day.
You know, the day you realize that becoming your mother is a good thing... well that's a really great day.
And I replied:
Becoming my mother is something I actually aspire to...
And we both just paused and smiled and noted that if our mothers could in fact hear this conversation it would be overwhelmingly heart warming for all.
(My mother... a few decades ago)
But it's true. As I get older I more frequently have those moments where I think, "wow, I am mother.' It's so clear in every cup of coffee I sip, or lap I run around the park, every purchase I make from clothing and accessories to housewares and magazines... every card I write, every event I plan, my need to organize and nest, and those rare moments in which I agonize, agonize, agonize... It's in the joy I feel from getting all dressed up, or spending quality time with good friends and family, from drinking champagne on a random weeknight to enjoying a delicious home cooked meal.
It's all there. Like she's been wound up within all of these elements of my life that I love and embrace no matter how seemingly small or simple. I am my mother. And I have to say that years from now when I'm even more grown up, if I can still look at my life and say that, it will still be a really great day.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
meditation
I'd live my life barefoot, if I could.
I'd say the exact thing I mean to say, the moment I mean to say it.
I'd hug. And then I'd hug again. Really hug.
I'd play guitar on the sidewalk while the sun made me a shadow on the pavement.
I'd sing the catalog of song filled notebooks hidden within the deep recesses of my mind, my desk, and black trunk full of past memory.
I'd condense myself into a single backpack and know better the meaning of being free.
I'd lie in a sunny patch of grass creating pictures in the clouds.
I'd do it today.
And again the next.
I'd cut my hair more than every 6 or 7 months.
I'd sing unabashedly. Anywhere. Everywhere. Whenever the mood struck.
I'd make lemonade out of lemons. Literally.
I'd read e.e. cummings every morning before getting out of bed.
I'd linger between the sheets just a few moments longer...because I love the smell of clean laundry.
I'd write more letters.
I'd keep telling you I love you even though I know you may never say it back.
I'd keep being hopeful.
I'd do it today.
And again the next.
And allow such hope to radiate as far as possible.
I'd stop making lists and live more purposely and intently in the present moment.
I'd live my life barefoot, if I could.
And I'd sit outside eating avocado toast with people I love, talking about life, laughing about the ridiculousness of our young adulthood.
I'd never let myself cease to love and live and love and live my life...
I'd also wear more plaid.
I'd say the exact thing I mean to say, the moment I mean to say it.
I'd hug. And then I'd hug again. Really hug.
I'd play guitar on the sidewalk while the sun made me a shadow on the pavement.
I'd sing the catalog of song filled notebooks hidden within the deep recesses of my mind, my desk, and black trunk full of past memory.
I'd condense myself into a single backpack and know better the meaning of being free.
I'd lie in a sunny patch of grass creating pictures in the clouds.
I'd do it today.
And again the next.
I'd cut my hair more than every 6 or 7 months.
I'd sing unabashedly. Anywhere. Everywhere. Whenever the mood struck.
I'd make lemonade out of lemons. Literally.
I'd read e.e. cummings every morning before getting out of bed.
I'd linger between the sheets just a few moments longer...because I love the smell of clean laundry.
I'd write more letters.
I'd keep telling you I love you even though I know you may never say it back.
I'd keep being hopeful.
I'd do it today.
And again the next.
And allow such hope to radiate as far as possible.
I'd stop making lists and live more purposely and intently in the present moment.
I'd live my life barefoot, if I could.
And I'd sit outside eating avocado toast with people I love, talking about life, laughing about the ridiculousness of our young adulthood.
I'd never let myself cease to love and live and love and live my life...
I'd also wear more plaid.
Monday, August 9, 2010
The Mean Reds
Here's to an era of film capturing the true beauty, class, and intellect of fabulous women. Audrey, I love you.
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