Your future or mine.

Open your eyes when one of these reminds you of you. Greatness. Courage. Art. Love. Lust. You blinked at lust. OK, which one is more likely to catch the kissing disease? I might tell you to look the other way while I use the bottom of your glass as an orange juice kaleidoscope. It's not hard to look past the pulp and see the universe laid out like Tarot origami. I can read the pulpy shapes and see your future. I'll say, "It's in the cards." You won't believe me, but you'll nod and lay a quarter down.

"Philosophers have argued for centuries about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, but materialists have known all along that it depends on whether they are jitterbugging or dancing cheek to cheek."
— Tom Robbins (Jitterbug Perfume)

The End of Struggle

This is the west side. Our side. Not your sunny side up white collar pancakes and dreams. We are the puppy mill. The last stop. Harder veins, tagged trains, jacked brains. You don't fit in.

We don't see the litter. And I didn't crawl out from under this rock yesterday. Add it to the pile. Burn it to the ground. Stomp your feet. Drag. Waste. You won't fit in or stand in line at the clinic.

We are the generations. This is the west side. Our side. Not your hayride white collar lattes and creams. Push back. Stomp. Fit in. Try looking the other way or looking me in the eye.

This is the bad side. Our side. Not your All You Need Is Love two disc set. Take your sad eyes and see my struggle isn't against flesh and blood but against principalities, against powers, against darkness.

Clutter for sale!

Today I will straighten my room. It is getting quite cluttered and the disarray makes me twitch. All day I tidy counters, wash and put away dishes, and clean up behind people. I can’t stand a messy work area. It makes me crazy. Literally the walls begin pushing the clutter closer to my already tweaking brain stem. The only reason my room breeds neglect is because I am too tired to be neurotic. My brain shuts down long enough to help me feel my way to bed. I don’t - no, won’t look around. My bed is tidy. Even if it is not made, the sheets and bed spread are pulled tight and pillows aligned. The clutter won’t disrupt my sleep. It will, however, cause a total mental meltdown when I get to work and look for a space big enough to SET A PURSE.

One of those last moments.

She spooned me while I wept. The cool air anchored me like her arms around my waist. I was leaving. In a few short hours it was Destination: Palm Beach. I had a job waiting for me and life was making one of those hard left turns that force gravity to leave a seatbelt mark across your breast bone. I would survive, but not without scars. The only time I’d spent away from home was college. For me, college was three years of self mutilation both mentally and academically. Palm Beach was going to be different. A new chance. An opportunity to discover who I was and what I was meant to do. An escape.

My car was full and ready. But I wasn’t. I had said my goodbyes for weeks. Not once giving in to the fear, I prepared. Daydreams had window treatments selling themselves. My toes would spell success in the sand and the days would be counted in lime wedges. I’d spend cool nights on the beach and brush shoulders with Rod Stewart on Clematis. I had it all worked out. I only needed to get there.

It was my last shift behind the bar. The people across from me, I saw everyday. I was invested in their lives. They were friends. Co-workers. Drunks. Lovers. The crumpled cash they stuffed in jars paid my rent. I celebrated their birthdays, new babies, anniversaries, and cleared DUIs. They helped me move and I smiled for them. I smiled through a smoky haze for their bad days and lost jobs. I smiled for new loves and broken dreams. I smiled to mask discontent and an aching heart. A cold beer and a smile were stronger than any blood covenant. I did this everyday.

But now I was leaving.

Before the night was over I would memorize the bar and the faces in the room. I breathed the familiar blend of martini olives and cigarette smoke. I listened closely to the chatter and bagpipes in the background, intent on branding my memory with the very things I wanted to leave behind.

I saved my last goodbye for him. I had prepared my speech a dozen times. Tim Rice could not have composed a better background soundtrack. But I don’t remember it. I don‘t remember any of it. I remember him. But I cannot recall a single moment of our goodbye. It’s a total blank. It changed my life and I can’t even remember.

But I do remember her and how she held me for hours that night. I sobbed for him and for the end of the chapter. I kissed her hands and told her what she meant to me. She blanketed my body with strength and comfort and let me absorb a friendship that would permanently mark the blank slate before me. One last time before it all changed, I smiled.

Sara

My friend Sara is a writer. She's also beautiful. In every aspect of the word. And I am proud of her.

http://misadventuresofmommy.wordpress.com/2009/10/13/writing-prompt-i-remember/

Seven months and counting...

"How long before I get in. Before it starts. Before I begin." Coldplay

seven months ago:

January

We began renting our space. The neighborhood was new. The crack hos were a shock. Sort of. The kind of hard work was still physical.

seven months and counting:

October

We have successfully established ourselves as one of Greenville's competative restaurants. The hard work is hardwork.

It's funny how a year ago I would have spilled my beer on you and laughed if you had said I would be the owner of a successful bakery and coffee shop. Now there's no time for beer. No time for telemarketers. No time for The Hills. But there is time for reflection. And it is good.