A short post about Jerry Hirano.

What are we talking about today little fishy?

Guts.

Maybe some brains too.
The squishy and leaky stuff.

Gray matter.

I used to be too fat. Now too skinny. Just Right doesn't seem to exist anymore.

Compassion.
We learned that at Buddha Church. It took me a couple days to figure out what Reverend Hirano was talking about. I had this idiot come into my work who was complaining about our prices and quality of coffee. He even had the audacity to say Starbucks was better.

I was filled with impatient irritation. "The customer is always right. The customer is always right. The customer is always right."
I couldn't wait till my co-worker came in so we could have our routine gossip hour. The only level of communication we have is bitching about terrible customers. Once he eventually came in I was ready to launch into my angry tale. But then I remembered Hirano. I then thought to try to be compassionate.

 

I instantly deflated. I actually felt better. My brows unfurrowed and I felt the anger breathe out of me. Why should I let some opinionated stranger get me so worked up? Why should I undermine his preferences and smite him for expressing himself? He doesn't owe me anything...


I feel like about 40% of conversation is just judging and gossiping. It's become so regular it is thought of as normative and innocent. Why does it take effort to show compassion but instinct to express disdain?

I'm exploring my hands, my breaths. The skyline, the vanishing point and veins. Especially my veins.

Now I'm looking at that freckle under your eye. The pitch of your voice, the grind of your teeth. Why would I bother looking at your veins?

Remember when I spoke of perfection like some untouchable soul mate? The love I could never make mine. Well she's not good enough for me either. My words taste like titanium and I want to enjoy chewing my insults a little longer.

Just Right actually never existed. 

See you,

A&D

Songbirds and those Sacred Sonnets.

Sleeping was never really Denver's thing.

I feel bad for the little guy. Lots of nights he wakes up in a cold sweat, trembling in his fishy scales. He reaches out in the dark waters of his tank for some sort of grasp on reality, some sort of comfort. He is greeted with his faux plants and rough pebbles--the blankets and teddy bears of his aquatic abode.
But it doesn't stop the fear, not really. He looks to me for some sort of salvation from the terror, to tell him everything is fine. And I try, I really do, but we both know he can't speak human and I'm still brushing up on my betta tongue.

So I turn on the light, but it doesn't matter now.

He hears every noise the house composes into the sticky night air.
The breathing of the air vent, the clatter of a falling object, the creeks and aches of the house's bones.

He can't stand it.

His scales flare out in a million nerve crashing spasms. He tosses his head into the bristles of the plants, he strokes the smooth cold walls of the tank. Anything to escape his wandering mind.
The insanity storms above his head like a merciless cloud of distress and apprehension.
How can he expect to move on? To fall back asleep?
It never really was his thing anyway.

"4am knows all my secrets."

And finally, he does not long to dream anymore. Reality is more potent, more forgiving, more blissful.

So maybe yeah, this is sort of about me. Surprise. And I honestly feel bad this blog has turned into my own bitter diary of my droopy sad-face tendencies. I really am a giddy little gal, just you wait and see.

The way the attitude of these posts have been I bet it sometimes is hard to believe I'm the happiest I've ever been. All that's really changed is that I am aware of my fingernails, my shackles, my spontaneous sad-face mentalities. So I preach them. I release them. Savor them even.

Just know that I'm okay and all I want is a bowl of loaded mashed potatoes right now.

Thank God Thanksgiving is coming up. 

See you,

A&D.

Simplicity.

I'm told that I'm smart. That I have potential.
That I'm the one in the family that will have the success story.

"You're going to make it big."

"You're going places."


You could imagine what it was like,
when I told those excited voices that I was going to be an art major.

But all that didn't plan out because I'm too impatient.

You could imagine what it was like,
when I told them that I was changing my major to communications.

"Thank God."

So now what? This is the mystical gooey land of opportunity. I'm going to the most prominent and  shiveringly expensive school in the state. But I just don't know what the hell to do with all these gift baskets and lucky charms.

...I really only picked communications because the only other major more generic than that is a business degree. And I just can't handle macroeconomics.

I feel like I used to be so much more profound, deep, and knowledgeable of myself. Now I feel like these words are empty shells of their potential.

"Remind you of someone?"

Don't think I'm being hard on myself. This is just how I think through things.
I'm critical, I'm cynical and I may be even just a little bit crazy. 

"I don't believe in using insanity as an excuse."

I don't let it define me. Change me. Or even really effect me.
I either allow it to make me better or suffocate it till it can't even breathe annoying shallow breaths anymore.

"That'll show you."


My darling Muse is off exploring the world.  Probably in Poland or something trying to culture herself. She still writes and stays in touch, but it's not how it used to be. Not really.

Not like how she used to latch herself onto my back and constantly whisper pretty words for me to scribble down and show the world then take all the credit.
"Because I'm selfish like that."

My Muse obviously got restless though and needed to stretch her legs. Felt inclined to see a cobblestone path or maybe an Eiffel Tower or two.

Remember how this blog was supposed to be about Denver? And how I said I would write his story next time?

"I Lied."


See you,

-A&D.