By the way-

Dork means whale penis.

Thought you should know.

A Realization of Sorts

Pressure: (V) To force (someone) towards a particular end; influence

               (N) The exertion of force by one's body on the surface of another

Sometimes you can see it on someone's face. Perhaps in the way they are behaving or the emptiness that rings in their speech.

You can tell when someone's mind is under pressure- warped and twisted, bent and breaking. The signs are not always clear but they can feel it. That tightening in the chest, the hollowed out feeling whenever they breath. Something pressing down on them so hard they could snap under it if they just gave it to the all bearing weight of it all. 

People lose loved ones in this life. Money problems are rampant in today's society. Careers are put on hold in favor of jobs that will actually pay the bills. We are always at one point in another in our life under pressure. 

So, why do we in turn place pressure on others in our lives? 

As a guilty party, I can only say it is from sort of inner selfishness- some corrupted idea that you know everything when you will in fact admit you know nothing. A desperate attempt to help alleviate the pressure they are suffering under which in all events usually ends up (unless you a saint or guru of some kind) in only furthering pressuring the person you had meant to help. 

Parents do it. Friends do it. Lovers do it.

We all do it.

I deal in ultimatums. Black and whites. Good and evil  Right and wrong.

Over the past year and a half, I've gained friends, lost friends, and lived under the same roof as my family as an adult. I stared down my nose at my parent's mistakes- glaringly obvious to me while ignoring the things that they have given up or put aside so that I could sit there with a college education and wonder disparagingly what I am doing with my life. I sat quietly and waited for a friend to realize I had made a simple slip of the tongue error- was guilt wracked over it and unable to voice anything more than utter horror and remorse. No one answered my pleas for forgiveness. I stood at a job I literally hated and shook my head as people told me how good I was at it and how interesting it must be. 

And I decided one day- enough was enough. I packed my things, moved back to the city I wanted to be in. And that was that.

Good vs. Bad. Right vs. Wrong. Brave vs. Scared

I am proud of this decision. I still stand by it being one of the best I made but as the days slip by. I sometimes feel like my return set in motion things beyond my control. The idealistic life that I had left behind obviously had continued in my absence and yet months after my return- things began to advance, deteriorate, and shift. And as I stood and watched it happen, I dealt with it the only way I could.

That's right- either this or that. Too proud maybe. But more unsure and in need of a black or white, cookie cut answer. Well, that's what I thought I needed from the various unknown shifts in my life. 

What I really needed was to trust in myself and in those around me. 

And as much as I want to fix things- you can't. You can't fix what's not broken and you can't fix things that are in flux. You have to just stand back and wait. 

And yes, I'm highly aware that even right now, as I type this- if it were to happen again, I'd be struggling with myself not to rush in and make it right. That's me- a bulldozing fixer who usually only breaks things in the attempt to heal. (Gives me a whole new respect for the bull in the china shop- maybe he just wanted to get his mother a nice tea set.)

(Fine- it was an idiotic joke but comeon)

And as much as I would like to pick up the phone, drive over to their house, and in other ways seriously badger the people who I miss most and who have pushed me away for whatever reasons- I have to understand that they are under pressure. My strong arm attempts to win them back are only going to end up further alienating them. I have over the course of the past few months tried to restrain myself from trying to fix, understand, or label anything in my life.

Some days I can wake up and enjoy the day for what it is- go to work, feel accomplished, come home and spend quality time with friends. Other days i walk around in a certain fog- under my own pressure, weighted down by memories, hopes, and their following shadows- doubts. 

So, I shake my head, mumble some words under my breath to myself (never very nice words, I'm afraid)  and try to get on with whatever I was doing.

It all comes back to pressure.

I'm lucky enough to belong to a group who sits back and lets me deal with it my own way-and time will help me learn how to deal with my pressure accordingly. As I sometimes repeat to myself, "I'm healthy, finacially secure, surrounded by friends and family who love me for who I am, and have a terrific head of hair."

Okay- no, I don't say that last part. I just wanted to see how you would respond. Hopefully you though it was witty and not some terribly obvious ploy to pat myself on the back. Now, if I wanted to go into good features-

Kidding.

But I get to deal with the guilt and unhappiness that comes from not alleviating the pressure of those I care about most but only adding to it. And as much as I would like to sit down, wrap my arms around them and tell them how truly sorry I am for everything that I've done through accident or self ignorance- I could only hope they would realize that in all my attempts, all my failures and successes- I've only wanted to help alleviate their burden.

Never add to it. 

 

Taking a Tumble

You lucky ducks-(Or people who somehow stumbled upon this by accident and are like- this is boring- this isn't porn/facebook)- two updates in one night.

Hanging rather pertinaciously from the aisle railing, Marcy took a quick second to document what just happened.

A rather quick second considering her current predicament,

"Jesus Marcy!"

Ah, well, the one good thing about the awkward high pitch yelp she had just made- it had caught the attention of her partner-in-crime. She grimaced up into the face of her clearly shocked, clearly wigged out friend of three years- Gerald.

"Allen!" His face disappeared for a brief, heart thumping moment, although his hands snaked over the edge of the old railing and grasped her wrists in a clearly panicked- but strong grip. "Get over here!"

"What's going on over- Marcy!"

Oh great- here came Elizabeth.

"Did she fall over the side? Marcy, how did you- Allen-get over here now!"

Elizabeth's high pitched alto was coming from somewhere underneath her feet and she was continuing shouting as her husband's face appeared over the railing, his hands grasping her left hand while Gerald switched his hands to her right. Both began to pull and the sensation of her arm's being torn off was nothing compared to the empty air her feet were currently kicking in futile desperate attempts to gain a footing.

Elizabeth continued to voice her obvious horror- with "Oh my god" and "Don't Drop Her" and "How the Hell-" with the occasional "Marcy" thrown in with unmasked frustration.

It wasn't as if this thing was a common occurrence. Marcy Jenkins did not go around falling off balconies.

Well.

Falling off things maybe- but not balconies.

Her foot landed on the gilded edge of the balcony bottom and she felt one last tug before she was pulled over the rounded gold brass and into Row E Seat 14.

And Gerald's lap.

Allen was already leaning back over the railing- gesturing at Elizabeth and shouting words of general reassurance. From the increasing shrillness of Elizabeth's voice, she was either on her way up the stairs or was getting more agiated.

Both- she decided, as Gerald nudged her off him and let her sink into the velvet back seat. He scooted over to the railing, looked over, and then looked back at her.

Elizabeth descended in a flurry of arms, blonde curls, and flapping fabric as she enveloped Marcy in a tight hug- which only made her arms hurt more before she pulled back and slapped her across the shoulder as hard as she could manage.

Which hurt considering Elizabeth had been getting active in marital art training over the past year.

"What the hell happened, Miss Monroe?"

She swung her gaze, still slightly fuzzy and shimmering around the edges to a very peeved looking older man who was staring down at her from Row F- arms cross and brows furrowed.

"Well I...actually, god, I just."

"Allen, go down to the box office and let Miss Herring know we are in need of a medical kit and some water. Let her know that Miss Monroe had a slight trauma and see to it that she comes up and checks the security of the hardware."

Allen nodded and pushed away form the railing, just as the words sank in Marcy's still racing and yet sluggish brain.

"But I'm fine, Alex."

"Marcy- just shut up."

She fixed her gaze on Gerald who was shaking his head in a mirrored expression of Elizabeth's obvious disapproval. Allen disappeared from sight, leaving her at the mercy of two very taciturn and unyielding men, and a very traumatized dental hygienist.

"What happened, Miss Monroe?"

She shook her head- the blood rushing through her head was beginning to subside into a deep pulse that was echoed in the pain shooting up and down her arms. There was a dull throb in her rib cage and her right ankle hurt like a bitch.

"I tripped."

"You tripped. I see."

He obviously didn't, Marcy concluded. He was wearing his glasses tipped down on his nose and was staring down the long nostrils straight at her. He practically was radiating barely concealed disbelief and annoyance paired with what may have passed as concern in most humans but in Alexander Hamilton was clearly disdain that she didn't manage to rid the human species of a lost cause by properly killing herself.

She gulped.

It wasn't like she had meant to trip in Row F, tumble into Row E and then spring upwards trying to prevent Gerald from seeing her head fall and managed to somehow vault herself over the brass railings of the Pompador Theatre's Presidential Box.

She had felt the impact in her chest and had reached out instinctively to grasp a hold of the object- any object- and had manged to grasp the middle railing of the polished brass railing that had recently been replaced- a subject of much debate and a reason why the Historical Society of Martinville was present at the Theatre.

Not that she really cared about the brass railing or the original chandelier or the reupholstered seats in the original crimson or the fire damage done in the back wings where an apprentice once almost burned down Georgia's oldest little theatre. 

For God's sake, it was Martinville. And who beside Alexander Hamilton, Dean of History at York Community College and the board members of his historical society really cared? Marcy saw Allen, President of said society, come quietly back in with a catatonic Ms. Herring in tow. The woman seemed to be not long for this world- who so far had only spoken the words "Please don't spill anything" and walked in a forlorn, half asleep kind of way since they had entered the building a few hours ago.

Marcy swung her eyes back to Elizabeth, who was probing what must have been a bleeding cut on Marcy's temple. Elizabeth had attended CPR training and took a few refresher first aid courses when she had been studying for her exams for dental school. She was secretary of Alexander's little club- more of a way of sharing Allen's hobby than real interest and then of course Gerald was a member.

Which left Marcy Monroe.

Who was failing History II and had needed extra credit in order to graduate.

And by the looks of things- was not going to get said extra credit.

"Really, Marcy," Gerald sighed behind her. "You're a walking disaster."

"It was an accident-"

"Just like Rome?" Elizabeth muttered.

"Well, Lizzy, Rome wasn't really her fault- no way we could have known that ledge would have given away over the lake-"

Marcy nodded emphatically, only stopping when Elizabeth yanked her head back down and pressed a makeshift bandage to her temple. Good ole, Allen- always true, always faithful-

"Although that time she fell off the loading platform at Trenton was just pitiful."

Big mouthed Allen-

"And when she fell off the altar at the wedding? Thought your mom was going to lose it."

"I didn't mean to knock the candelabra over!"

Professor Hamilton was quietly talking to Miss Herring- his eyes flickering over briefly met Marcy's long enough for her to know he was listening to everything.

"Yea, but you did." Gerald sighed. He ran his hand through his short curls and shook it back out in exasperated worry. "You fall, Marcy. That's what you do."

"Geroff Lizzy-" Marcy growled, pushing her away in furious annoyance. She straightened and brushed her sweater back down so it lay normal. Gerald's grey eyes stared at her but he stayed silent. She brushed past him towards the two older adults talking in the archway entrance of the Presidential Box. Allen went and sat by Elizabeth- their heads bowed in muted conversation. She could tell Elizabeth was shaking from nerves. She was a little surprised when Gerald's hand stopped her forward movement and she looked down to realize she was shaking as well.

It was true after all. Marcy Monroe fell. She fell off hills, she fell off ledges, porches, stairs, couches, and chairs. She toppled off beds, over cracks in the sidewalk, and over her own two feet. She tripped over socks, balls, and baby carriages. She stumbled off the side of altars, stages, and the occasional diving board. And it wasn't as if she was scared of heights- she just always managed to fall- as if her body thought it was somehow destined to be on the ground- face first.

She had been to the ER more times than she cared to admit, had so many stitches and casts that she had lost count, and picked herself up from sheer humiliation enough times to learn to laugh it off.

And sure, the time she had fallen into the lake had been scary- but it was only a twenty foot drop and it had been a deep lake. The time she had fallen through the attic door had been straight onto the plush couch she had just helped bring down and the only serious injury she had sustained was the time she tripped over the kitchen table and broke her left arm, concussed her head on the chair, sprained her ankle.

So, she was the girl who fell. Gerald had once joked it was because she thought she had wings- but he had stopped joking now. His eyes were serious as Professor Hamilton's. Marcy's eyes flickered to the balcony edge. It was a good thirty foot drop and there was nothing to cushion the fall but old cement floors covered in unraveling oriental carpet. She would have been seriously, possibly mortally injured. And her friends knew it. Professor Hamilton knew it. She wasn't quite sure if Ms. Herring knew it- but she couldn't really tell if Ms. Herring knew what year it was.

But she knew somethings the way she knew her name.

It had been an accident.

She was fine.

And she was pretty sure she was going to throw up once she got out of sight.

She passed by Professor Hamilton who barely acknowledged her as he continued to apologize to the obvious daft and unconcerned warden of the theatre and kept walking until she was almost out of sight of the group- she put her foot on the stair case which would lead her up to the ladies powder room-

And then-

"Damn it Marcy!"

Well, she mused as she stared at the dirty rug that was now pressed against her right cheek- it could have been worse. She felt the footsteps approaching from behind her, the smell of Gerald's aftershave as his hands wrapped around her torso and pulled her up from the floor-

But who the hell falls walking up the stairs?

Project 365? Or Project- Oh shit- I should update that....

I know- I know, I've barely been updating and when I have- it's been depressing prose/poetry and limericks.

(Just kidding about the limericks)

 

I've done plenty of interesting things lately- from pumpkin carving parties to concerts (underground as well as at a converted warehouse), from Downtown NYC to Atlanta suburbia, on air, boat, and by road.

Been a busy couple of weeks- and no, I won't attempt to recap it all so you are going to miss out on the hilarious story of how the Halloween party I was supposed to attend was in fact a group of um...laid back individuals....around a bonfire behind someone's parents house.... and then end up on the very packed, very sketchy dance floor of a local night club where I was torn between protecting myself from various gropes to protecting my much more covered and much cuter engaged roommate from Mr. Steroids 2008.  (Apparently the cowgirl look does it for them)

So, I forgot to write movie reviews of the some movies- The Immortals- most of which I watched through my hands, The Accidental Husband (oh Colin Firth- went from Mr. Darcy to the third wheel in a straight to DVD romantic comedy), and well- I'm sure I've watched other movies but I've forgotten. 

I took in a stray puppy- named Casper and am working on getting him back to health while his adopted parents get their house together.But really I'm completely in love with him and his one blue eyes, one hazel eye pink nose, speckled fur self. 

 Read The Hunger Games (in 3 days), the first two books from the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2 days), and finished up Dancing with Dragons. I got sucked into How I Met Your Mother, Once Upon a Time (I can't help it- I grew up on Disney), and recaps of American Horror Story/Walking Dead. If you know me, then it makes sense why I can read recaps instead of watching the show like a normal person. Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat.

My hope is to write a little blurb or two about my Thanksgiving up north- but it may be Christmas by the time I remember to do that...

well, it's easier to be numb when the hope's gone. 

you can sink down with your pride and find it cold to hold.

but your heart has finally shut up - broken in the corner 

your brain is quiet

but the memories are flooding around you.

making you smile through the tears. 

i did this, i get to live with it.

i get to hold myself together.

but for now i'll lay here

and just wish to forget. 

Cycles

Couldn't sleep last night.
So....
I drank two cups of coffee and had three diet cokes-
Now I can't sleep again.

What is it with me and destructive cycles lately?



But no really- can't sleep.
Discovered Spotify. .
Fuck.

Just me.

I'm kind of awesome.
Let's just admit it.
Sure I have no rhythm
And I can't sing in tune to save my life.
Oh, and maybe I can never get my hair to fall the right way.
But when I smile, it lights up the room.
I can save friends money on the electric bill
and I laugh easily and freely at myself.
I might be a little lazy and yea I don't share very well.
But I give things for no other reason than to give
And I always try to say and do the right thing instead of what i should do.
I jump in with both feet without looking
and I cry like a girl.
But I can be beautiful in the right lighting
and I can write a mean word when the muses are with me.
I'm too judgemental and I talk about myself way too much.
But I try my best.

So, maybe I have my flaws.
I'm a sore winner but I'll lose to see someone smile.
I can walk and experience the world and just know its a good thing.
I can hold a friend's hand and I can wish the best for someone I've never met.
I steal the blankets and I can't sit through a horror movie.
And I learned how to love a man but not how to let go.
You can read my every thought on my face
Everyone knows when I'm not really there.
I wish I could sleep in
and I like to dream because it's easier than living.
But I wake up and remember how lucky I am to be here right now.
I hug my friends and I tell them I love them.
I'm passionate, selfish, and stubborn.
But I can cook a mean chili and I can read a book in a day.
I can't quote movies or understand football calls.
And I obsess and worry and overanalyze
But I also forgive and forget.
And I fuck up and stick my foot in my mouth
But it's a cute mouth and it's warm.
I'm accident prone and average.
But I'm the best person I know how to be.
I know what I want out of life.
I'm just going to take it one day at a time.
So that way I don't miss out on any of the wonders tucked on the side of the road.
Like you.

5 Random Thoughts of the Day

1. 
He broke it and he left it where it lay.

Her fault.

Shouldn't have given it away.

2. 
 So maybe you don't miss me.
But you're missing out.

3.
Doors don't knock,.
Phones don't ring.
But I keep hoping they will.
Because then you might be coming back to me.

4.
Two
Weeks.
Two
Hearts.
Too
Long.

5.
I need to know how to live my life as its meant to be.

Truth

I miss you.

On the River

I love my job.                                           

                                                                    

 So do my friends.

Celebrating the beauty of Chattanooga, I rounded up the gang to head to The River Inn where we enjoyed a lovely dinner on the Tennessee River.

There was only one catch- we were filming some shots...which meant a lot of Hurry Up and Wait. 

So, yes, you have the delicious Herb Chicken and Beef Marsala, Shrimp, Tortellini, and Caesar salad. 

Not to mention the beer and wine we smuggled in. 

(Beer actually looks a lot like watered down sweet tea when poured in a wine glass. Go figure.)

It was a basic shoot, eat when the camera was rolling, stop when the directors yelled cut. 

Luckily for us, we were not the table that was chosen to have the food delivered to them on every take. 

Which meant we were actually allowed to eat in between takes.

Well...kind of.

You see, you couldn't eat too much or you would find yourself with an empty or unbalanced plate- which would look weird on camera. So, we had to improvise. 

Since it was a small shoot, the caterers didn't bother with too much food. They obviously don't know my group...because sure, we were the last in line the first go around. But when everyone else sat and stared morosely at their food....our task force of dedicated foodies ran back around the building, smuggled out another plateful of deliciousness and brought it back to the table at great risk to their person.

Well, no not really but still- it was impressive. 

Being in the background of the shoot, we had to come up with a few other ways to eat and still keep the plates looking appetizing. Thus, the bread cover. You'd carve out a slice of bread- and eat the rest of it- leaving it looking like a full roll when it actually was little more than the end piece with some hanging left over. 

This was used to great success by the females of the table. 

Other tactics included the push around, which involved spreading out different parts of your plate so it appeared full, the desserts hidden on the napkin next to your plate, which were bite size deliciousness. (Oreo Brownie Truffle Bites- How I Miss You) and the water pour. 

Well, I never really got the water pour, despite me draining my diet coke and looking earnestly at the staff to refill my cup. No, they instead pretended to pour into Rach's and Shell's already very full glasses. The downside of having my back to the camera I suppose, but still. Can't help a girl out?  

My group of kids is a fantastic bunch- which means plenty of dirty jokes during Action, awkward moments during the cuts, and a whole lot of planning how to go get more food.

All in all, it was a lot of fun, free food, and some good times on the beautiful riverside porch of River Inn. 

With that said, come see Chattanooga.  

What more do you want from me???

I uploaded almost 120 pictures to Facebook today. You can have these.

Tuesday = Brewsday

 I'm going to be lazy and not write anything. Instead enjoy some other people's creative talent

Thought of the Week

.

Song of the Week

Word of the Week: 

Jaundiced 

And yet with jaundiced eye I gaze upon all the beauty and wonder about me, and with jaundiced brain consider the pitiful figure I cut in this world that endured so long without me and that will again endure without me.

-- Jack London, John Barleycorn

 

 

 

Video of the Week

 

 

 

 

Picture of the Week

H

(It's a Pug in a Blanket)

I Hate White Rabbits!

Eagerly anticipating our weekend getaway, the six casual campers bought some food, packed some warm clothes, and loaded up the mountain bikes.

We just forgot to reserve a camping spot in the most beautiful October weekend in memory.

So, after the driving, the searching, the slight panic...we found ourselves setting up on the edge of the lake in Fairview in Tims Ford State Park.

As the night grew darker (and colder!), the group began to set up camp. A ring of camp chairs steadily grew around the fire pit and the three tents rose, the sleeping bags were unfurled, and the girls all put on numerous layers of sweats, knits, and wool socks. While the guys pulled out the hot dogs, we cracked open the s'mores.

Hmmmmmm. S'mores.....

I know you are already thinking to yourselves- God, I want some s'mores. But wait, think of the beers- Oh, I forgot, no alcohol in state parks. Well, that's why my group passed on the beer and decided to just drink Bravos.  Not beers. Bravos. And if you called it by the forbidden word- you just have to finish your Bravo.

It's not a drinking game. 

It's not.

So, I'm not really an outdoors kind of girl. Sure, I'll cut a worm in half and bait it on a hook, rub some dirt across my face, and squat in the woods- okay, no. I won't squat in the woods. I'll hold it until I get to the visitors centers very nice (very clean!) bathrooms. But I will attempt to camp.                                       

Which means blowing up the air pad- and somehow end up blowing a hole in it which sounded remarkably like a gunshot echoing across the water. 

And attempting to chop wood, and scaring the daylights out of the people watching you attempt to chop the wood, miss, and be very close to burying the ax into your shin. 

Or snuggling up in sleeping bag, knit hat, fleece jacket, and sweat pants and waking up in the middle of the night to notice a spider had also become very comfortable as well.

 So, crawling out of bed wasn't my favorite, nor was the Arctic ice shower, but the food, y'all.
 

Luckily, our resident cook Matt was on hand to cook us some of the best food you have ever tasted on a camping trip. We had chili hot dogs, juicy hamburgers, sausage, bacon, and biscuits, not to mention the gourmet praline and chocolate chip pancakes.

Needless to say, we ate well but we worked for our food. Between Kevin keeping the fire alive with his expert boy scout expertise or Tad's endless supply of food stocks- we were set. The ladies merely had to do the dishes, make the S'mores, and eat the food.

Well, now that I'm done waxing poetic on our food and camp site, I can actually mention some of the things we did in between all that eating.   The boys decided to bike the eight miles to the Tims Ford State Park and I like a toddler decided "me too!"

The boys were kind, stopping at various side streets as I labored behind, pumping my legs, cursing at my lack of athletic abilities and wishing like hell there was a downhill ahead. My inner playlist included "I Believe I Can Fly", "Fly Like an Eagle", and "Benny and the Jets"- I'm not sure where that last one came in but it was fun to sing.

We arrived, ate some more food, and then let the boys go on a bike ride while we walked the dogs behind them. My rear end was increasingly grateful that I had not completely lost my mind and we enjoyed our stroll to Weaver's Point, stopping occasionally to let the dogs play in the water or force them to take cheesy photos with us.

Mostly we let them play, sniff, and explore and continued to make up what they were thinking in their mind- while the guys biked ahead only to return to us highly disappointed that Weaver's Point was a turn around and not much else.

But before we could head to the next trail, I found a jungle gym and made everyone come play with me.

We jumped off swings, tight roped, climbed up poles, and rode bikes down the slides. We are basically the reason they don't let adults on playgrounds with children.

We'd give them ideas.





Well, after that, we explored the Lost Creek for a while. The gang got to run across a hanging bridge, wash the pee off their feet when Rocky decided that was good of a spot as any, and skip rocks across the sunset rippling across the lake's surface.

All in all, it was the most beautiful Fall weekend, spent with my favorite people on this Earth. You couldn't walk past the water without pausing to watch the autumn colors swaying in the wind or look to your left at your laughing friends and think of how lucky you are to be here, now, at this moment and outside living a life worth living.

Sure there's was fatigue, mild uncomfortableness, griping, and a sincere wish for a hot shower. But there was something immensely gratifying about knowing I could do all of these things- maybe not well- but that I could do it, enjoy it, and look back on it in the future as one of those rare perfect getaways where everything was how it is meant to be.

 

There's a few more pictures behind the cut...

To be honest...

I want a best friend who I can be myself around, dance around the room like an idiot, read a book with, and cook breakfast in bed for.

I want someone to buy little things for, ask how their day was, and give massages to after a long day.

I want someone to take romantic pictures with, someone to cuddle with during a movie, and hold hands when out walking by ourselves.

I want flowers for no reason, notes tucked in odd places with inside jokes scrawled on them, hot looks and silent understanding. 

I want someone to tell me I'm beautiful when I wake up in the morning, kiss me good night, and share a blanket with when its cold. 

I want to say I love you every time I see him smile, take care of him in the bad times, and laugh with him in the good. 

I want to travel together, experience new things, and grow old and have kids roll their eyes and groan, "Stop flirting with each other, that's gross".

That's what I want in five, ten, twenty years.

I want someone to love me.

242- Are you okay?

This morning I woke up, blinking blearily around the disordered room. There's no alarm clock - so I'm used to using my phone to check the passage of time. But I had left it in the living room the night before and the only clue I had was the bright light blinking through the branches outside the closed blinds.

I always take a second when I wake up and just watch the light. The bed underneath me is soft and warm, familiar and full of memories. I think it may be my favorite place in the world to fall asleep. It's beaten out the closets I used to read in, the beach, and the couch where I could literally fall asleep just by closing my eyes. It's the bed I lost my virginity on and the one I curled up in crying and confused about what I was going to do with my life. It's the bed I came back to and fell into with my arms wrapped around him, barely breathing because I couldn't believe it was happening.

So, I always fall asleep knowing I'm going to wake up with the light reminding me to get up, get going. But this morning, a dull ache pounded behind my eyes with every ray. I rolled over to the now cool side of the bed, and hung my arm off the side, contemplating getting up and finding out what time it was. I lifted my head, cocking it to the light which as if aware of my indecision, got brighter.

Great.

 I swung my bare legs out of the cocoon of warmth that was the comforter, and onto the carpet. Course, the empty bottles of water that cover the floor aren't what you want to hear crack as you're trying to wake up. Wincing, I kicked it away. Beside the noise, it was enough of a reminder.

I've been told I wake up like a cat. Back in the days of nap time, I was legendary for being able to sleep through anything and when I did wake up- it was understood it was only because I wanted to. I would stretch my hands over my head, arch my back, and push my legs out in a straight line before collapsing back in on myself. I still do all these things- except this morning, I was more interested in the pain in my head than the cricks in my neck.

I didn't sleep well last night, you see. It wasn't like the bad nights, where I stare up at the ceiling- analyzing and rehasing and trying to figure it all out. No, last night was more about cold toes.

As I stumble into the living room, bending down to scoop up the abandoned phone. My head pulses in time with my heartbeat, I can't help but plop down on the couch, letting the phone fall out of my hand and onto the cushion beside me. It's around 11 a.m. and I usually would get a bowl of cereal. But I don't feel like doing anything.

I take in the room, the puzzle on the floor and the TV staring at me with blank screen, dark eyes. The computer is buzzing next to me, heat emanating from it like a space heater. I'm careful not to disturb it, I don't want the screen to glow to life. I don't want to touch anything. The puzzle pieces scattered around the floor, the dirty dishes on the end table, and the blanket that is half twisted on the couch and the floor...all of it. I just don't want to touch it.

I take in the porch with dull eyes. I have nothing planned for today. But I don't want to stay here. The couch is a safe spot. It used to grace my small space, it's a familiar haven. But everything else is not mine. It's become alien to me as quickly as it took to pick up a lighter form a dashboard.

And I pull my legs underneath me and head back to bed. I'll dream more of the same dream, I can feel it stirring in my mind, pulling back the cast and set as I pull the comforter over my head, turning my head from the light. The bed smells like him, and I wrap myself in that one comfort even as I remember how I felt.

Like I wasn't wanted.

Maybe I'm not.

243- Happiness Is

I am jobless, spending money like water on furniture, groceries, and going out- and I have never been happier than these past couple of days. 

244- Insight

I'll be honest, my musical taste is not a connoisseurs. But one thing that is a constant in my musical preference is the lyrics. In fact, most of my favorite artists are songwriters who pen their own music. Sure, I will also buy the main stream beats and thuds and dance mixes and I'll nod along with other music but none of it will make me hum as much as the words will.

 You've seen me push Maroon 5, Matt Nathanson, Adele, and Michael Buble at you over the course of these months. But I remember watching SYTYCD last season and hearing Jar of Hearts for the first time and going- okay, definitely in my wheel house. Not the best song I'll ever play on repeat but she meant those words and I think that more than anything was the reason she sky rocketed to the top of the billboards.

Since there was not much more of her discography, I soon got tired of Jar of Hearts and only listened to it when it slipped up on the shuffle or popped up on the radio one dreary day. But yesterday, I heard Arms by Ms. Chrisitini Perri and for some reason or another it stuck.

 I never was big into poetry but I never really went in search of it. I was more likely to pick up the grand romance epics or science fiction, I consumed the classics of Austen, Eyre, and Twain while mucking through Rand and Tolstoy, rolling my eyes and flipping the page in the hope it would be over soon. Not kind thoughts but I was in high school, I owe them a reread.

(Never Robinson Cruesue though, dear god. My own fault, I was sure I was about to read the Swiss Family Robinson story and was really, really annoyed when i got halfway through it and realized I was reading the wrong story but hey a paper was due in the morning and I had been an idiot and chosen this stupid thing instead of the Hobbit like all the sane children- okay tangent done)

But songwriters of today are possibly the closest thing we have to minstrels of centuries ago. And who else do we turn to when we can't face the things that are haunting us? Movies? Books? Music?

 Well, I turn to music more often than not. Movies are distracting but hollow and books will distract me but the end too soon. Music....music on the other hand is something that soothes in a way a mere amateur like me wouldn't attempt to explain.

As I write this, I'm listening to The Lonley by Miss Perri. I'm sure it'll end up on my ipod sooner or later but for now Arms is going to reign queen.

Not a huge fan of the music video- but pay attention to the lyrics.

I hope that you see right through my walls 
I hope that you catch me because I'm already fallen
You put your arms around me and I'm home

245-The Hotel du Berry

The picture frame was tilted.

Which wouldn't have been unusual in most houses but not in the Hotel du Berry. Danny shifted around the edge of the staircase, long fingers reaching out to straighten the erroneous picture when he heard the creak from above him.

Eyes narrowed, he craned his neck to see into the heavy shadows that were currently holding court in the top landing of his grandfather's once great property. Nothing stirred but the familiar cranky breathing of the old air conditioner unit that was tucked away in the storage closet on the right wing of the landing. Old houses settle, he reminded himself fiercely and he turned back to the frame.

 As his fingers touched the splintered oak, a louder creak emanated from further down the hallway. Danny stopped, his head twisting back to the shadows, fear blossoming in his chest. He scolded himself for his unnecessary fear but he didn't move either. His fingers rested lightly on the frame, it's occupants still smiling up at him  from an odd angle, turning their smiles into drunken grins.

He listened, straining his ears for another broach of sound in the grave quiet of the desolated hotel. The air conditioner sputtered to a silence and the quiet of the Square of Danders crept back into the night. It was mid August and the heat and humidity of a Delta summer was dampening his shirt, pressing the white tee to his chest and pitting the sleeves a yellow gray. Or perhaps it was fear, he didn't care to dwell on it.

He had simply stopped by to pick up Hannah's sweater. She had left it in the hallway when they had come over to show the Hotel to the interested party who had telephoned his sister earlier that week about the possibility of reopening the old building. They had met but it had been increasingly obvious that the agent was more interested in the land the hotel sat on than reopening it's doors. Hannah had been more than willing to sell her the old heap but Danny had refused.

He liked the old building with all its narrow corridors and french windows. He liked the too small bathrooms that guests had never failed to complain about. He had jumped on the feather beds as a child and raced around the gardens looking for the supposed ghosts that his grandfather told him lingered out by the fountain at twilight. He had worked the front counter all through high school and through his summers when he returned back home from college. He had even lived there with Hannah for a while after Grandfather died. His mother had put them in his old room with his old twin boxspring and a roll away bed from the storage shed. She had taken the old cot behind the counter, the one Grandfather had taken to sleeping on after her mother had passed away.

Danny edged up a step, eyes targeted on the deeper shadows down the hall. It was not quiet yet eleven but the wee hours of the morning were creeping into the hallways of Hotel du Berry, filling the empty spaces with imagined faces and potential demons. He drew in a shallow breath, his teeth gritted in a nervous habit he had picked up from some fellow classmate down in State. He passed another step and found himself beside the most recent picture that graced the yellowing walls. He didn't give it a glance- he knew the bright colors of the summer day with the little girl in the watermelon dress and blond pigtails smiling up at the older boy who was offering a slice of cake to the photographer. It had been his grandmother's favorite photo. He remembered the afternoon she had nailed the frame to the wall, defiantly ignoring the mutinous look Grandfather had been giving her from behind the counter.

He had claimed the guests wouldn't mind the old family pictures or the wedding photo of Grandmother, all gray and smoky in her pearls and short hair cut of the twenties but he had been adamant that the guests would resent the gaudy colors of a youngster's birthday party even if it was in the gardens.

He hadn't to worry, days later Grandmother had fallen making one of the guest's beds and had passed a few months later. He had moved the frame down the landing so he could see it from the desk after that. Guests often looked twice at the picture framed between the older opening pictures of the Hotel and the more dire pictures of the wars. But no one ever said anything about the picture. About the bathrooms and the mold and the noise from the street below but never the picture.

A soft thud vibrated down the east corridor. He shifted his attention likewise, gently laying down the cashmere sweater that Hannah had asked him to pick up for her on his way home from the dance recital. The hotel was located off the main road, tall iron fences shaped in Fleur de Lises and crowns lined the property's vast lawns and tall oaks and willows protected it's drive from the elements. It had been closed for over four years now, easy enough to forget until the notices had come from the city. They had claimed it was in disrepair, abandoned and a potential squatter's paradise. The council's will had been simple- tear it down or sell it.

Danny arrived on the top stair, eyes straining to see down the east corridor. It was familiar to him as his own home, more so probably he thought wryly. But he didn't leave the safety of the stairs. Ghost stories Grandfather had told them were seeping through his memory, dredging up old forgotten fears about the bride who had fallen from her balcony on her honeymoon, the little boy who had been hit by a falling branch out in the arbor, and the first owner's son who had died bravely in the war only to return to his rightful home only to find it no longer his.

 Hannah had always begged him to sleep beside her when they were children staying at the Hotel. She always claimed that she would see the Lost Son when she went to the bathroom across the hall in the middle of the night or that the Bride was always staring out the window of the East corridor. Danny had called her a baby and pulled her pigtails but he also slid into bed with her anyways. After all, that's what big brothers did, he would tell himself. It wasn't because of the creaks and moans the house would make in the middle of the night or the silver light that sometimes would pass underneath his door some nights...

He looked for the tell tale sign of silver that Grandfather had warned them heralded the coming of the ghosts. His niece Amber had sat in the dark hallways for days after the funeral waiting to see if Grandpa was coming home. He had sat up some nights with her in the dark, part of her somber watch but Hannah had become more and more upset with her daughter's obsession. Danny twisted away from the East corridor to look down at the West Wing. The white tarp he had taped up after Amber's accident was swaying softly in the silence of the evening.

Danny's fingers clenched. He had taped the tarp back up after he had shown the agent the wing and suites that lay down that way. He remembered warning her to watch her step around the corner where the beams and plaster of the derelict building had come crashing down that fateful winter evening. It had been the beginning of the end, the night he woke up to the crash, the short terrified scream of a little girl, and the crunching that had silenced the scream as quickly as it came.

He knew he taped the tarp back up; he didn't want any other little girl to go exploring, any other person to wander into the building and find the termite infestation had gone further than any of them could imagine- that the silent army had eaten half the wood of the West Wing rotten and almost killed the little girl who had followed the ghost to the attic. Amber had sworn she saw the Bride drift through the door that led to the steep attic stairs, had eased the locked door open but never could remember how, and had been tip toeing quietly, trying to surprise the Bride into giving her Grandpa back when...

She had wound up crushed beneath rotten boards and countless Christmas decorations that accumulated over the years. He could remember skidding down the hall in the dark, the wooden boards slick with age and the carpet runner splotched with dust and insulation floating down from above like a Christmas pantomime's snow. He had seen the little hand sticking out of the debris, the shiny red ribbons that usually hung from the portcullis dying a deeper red as blood soaked into them.

 Oh, yes, Danny remembered the scream as Hannah's sleepy steps faltered beside him and the wide white of Jack's eyes as he looked at his sister's blond hair, turning strawberry red in the light of the wing. Hannah's husband Edward and he had jumped into the debris, picking the large beam and heavy boxes off to reveal the tiny white and red figurine which could have been a Christmas tree angel if it wasn't for the gaping hole in her side where the beam had wedged itself or the gashes that scored her entire left side. Her eyes had flickered open and she has asked for Grandpa before succumbing to her injuries. Hannah had aged ten years that night and as they sat in the waiting room of the hospital. She had turned dead eyes to him and told him she was done with the cursed place and that was that.

Amber had danced beautifully tonight, Danny remembered. Her smile was beautiful enough that one almost didn't notice the large scars that criss-crossed all along the left hand of her body or the slight limp she had when she tried to walk. Dancing seemed to light her up from the inside and even her instructors had noted that the limp was notably absent when she was dancing. It was something, he had told Hannah, something that the Hotel had given back. Hannah had called him an idiot and Edward had just tightened his lips and watched his daughter take her bows.

He released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. It was easy to slip back into childhood and memories of ghost's in this old abandoned place but he knew better. Ghosts didn't make thumps, or tilt picture frames when passing up the stairs, or take down half a tarp only to think better of it and go back down the other way. But squatters did, as well as people interested in what may have been left behind in the old building. They had had a few problems with the homeless and more than a few break ins but the thieves usually were spooked away by the alarm system and squatters often left dirty rooms but never stayed long.

Danny liked to think the Hotel took care of itself but tonight he would have to do it. He passed the balcony landing that looked down on the dining hall, the tables and chairs with dust clothes over them and the silver chandelier had been taken down and put in storage after the hotel had closed. Nothing of value remained but memories and photographs on the wall. But still, he continued down the hall. The thumps had come from before the turn into the East wing.

He stopped suddenly, a flickering light was coming from the last bedroom on the left. It was a standard sized room but it had the largest bathroom. It hadn't been a popular room though, the noise from the street below often rose up and battered against the windows since no trees stood in its way. The power in the old Hotel was still accessible from the breaker box down in the basement but obviously his guest preferred candle light. Danny swore, his hands closing around the Tiffany lamp that had stood sentry on the hallway runner table since he had knocked the original guard down years ago. His mother had torn him raw for that but Grandmother had simply laughed when told and proclaimed it too old to handle the next generation. She had let Danny pick its replacement, a bright green and blue dappled mushroom lamp that Hannah claimed looked more like a peacock than a table lamp.


It felt heavy and solid in his hand, his fingers wrapped around the black iron base- he took a deep breath and pivoted to face the door head on. The candlelight flickered and then was gone and Danny knew he had been heard. He cursed, kicked the ajar door open and came face to face with the inky emptiness that was room 13A.

The bed sheets were untouched, the dust cover pulled up like a corpse sheet and the bathroom door was open, the mirror reflecting the black of the room back at him. It was a large mirror and he could see the corners of the room as well as the corners of the bathroom and empty shower- it's curtain long gone to mildew and rot.

In short, the room was empty.

Danny opened the closet doors, peered under the bed, and even checked in the chest just to be sure. Whoever his guest had been, they were gone. Danny's eyes caught a sudden movement in the room and he turned to see the lace curtains fluttering slightly in the breeze of the evening air. The window, Danny swore under his breath and in two strides he was looking down into the yard below. It wasn't a short drop but he could see the overgrown bushes had a been bent and broken beneath the window, and the arbor wasn't far from the corner room's view. It was highly likely his visitor had taken a short ride down, rolled, and whisked away into the protective covering of the drive. Danny could see his truck in the drive, but no sign of any other vehicle or person.

He ducked his head back from the window, closed it and stared at the paint flakes that had once sealed the window shut. All the Hotel's windows were painted shut at Grandfather's command. The story of the Bride was often told when guest's complained of the summer heat and he could still hear his crotchety old grandfather grumble at the more stubborn clamors, "You want fresh air? Drag your bed down into the garden and I'll take half off your stay but it better be back up those stairs before breakfast time the day you leave or you pay double."

His Grandmother would sit in her large wing back by the door as he grumbled along and then before the visitors could get an angry word in would happily call out, "And he means it too! Why, I'll never forget the young man from up north who got so hot and sticky, he threw his bed out the window and jumped out on to it and slept in the garden for five nights." She would slap her knee here and bend back down to her sewing before continuing on," And damn it, if the morning he left he hadn't put that bed right back where it belonged before Grumps here had even woken up! He didn't pay a dime for his stay the Hotel du Berry but he certainly made his mark. Go on, Gerald, but them in the Garden room, there's a sweet breeze that comes through the cracks around the window and it faces over the fountain. You'll be comfortable there, or I'll help you drag the mattress down myself."

Guests had loved Grandmother Marianne. Just as much as they loved his own mother's cooking or Aunt Ellen's singing on the weekends. All that ended when Grandfather died. Mother had moved up north with Aunt Ellen and Uncle Jason to open up a restaurant with an old college friend, leaving her two children with the old abandoned hotel. She sent her share of the rent in for a while before she gave it Danny one day. Aunt Ellen had given her share to Hannah. Hannah who had told him she was done with the place but held on to her half all the same.

The night was getting later and Danny locked the window, reminding himself to set the alarm on his way out and come in the morning to repaint the windows shut. Even if the old building was going to be sold off and torn down, he owed it that much decency. To see it through to the end.

He was halfway out the door when he remembered the flickering light.  He turned and saw the half melted candle on the desk, its wick black and twisted and wax hardening on the disk it sat upon. Danny frowned at it for a moment, it was not one he recognized. It was a stark white candle, unlike the cream and forest green that Hotel du Berry used and the candle holder was a pewter color. Grandmother had insisted all the chandeliers and candlebras be a brass- claimed they held the shine longer. The wick and holder in the room were from the outside, Danny was sure of it.

But what kind of intruder brought a candle instead of a flashlight?

246- The Game

 Playing a game I don't think I can win.

Making a move just so I don't have to resign again.

Waiting and waiting, anticipating you.

Patience I lack, no focus, no tact.  

Scared to lose but desperate to win

Keep placing myself in plain view

But holding back the honesty, the truth. 

You know my next move

And out of spite, I twist it untrue. 

Behind a wall of pricks and taunts-

You will simply sit- refuse to play

Until I bow my head and play again.

And then once again

You win.

247- To Be Sure

    Strangled by the words in her throat, Rosanna emitted a soft squeak, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. She felt like a fish out of water, she thought ruefully, standing here like this....  

  Luckily, the cause of her fish impersonation was unaware of her inner struggle. Dorian sat on the threadbare couch with his computer pulled onto his lap and was blissfully ignorant of anything beside the current sports page. Sickened by her sudden anxiety, Rosanna pushed her bangs out of her eyes but still the words flew through her brain- effectively cutting out the voices of reason and sanity that were doing their best to stop her folly.
 
   Indecision and uncertainty warred, churning her insides as reason tried to be heard over the clamor of her emotional upheavel. As if he could hear the clangs and clatter of her inner battle, Dorian raised his eyes for a second. When he caught her staring at him in distress, his familiar features folded into a wary expression.

"What's wrong with you?" He asked, incredulous.

"Nothing," she lied.

"Okay, whatever," he shrugged and returned to his web browsing leaving her caught up in the eddy of her own mess. She felt anger rise up through the chaos, ire that he couldn't even be bothered to care about what was wrong with her. Anyone could read her face and tell what she was thinking and Dorian knew her better than most. He knew something was wrong but obviously did not feel like playing that guessing game. She knew it was silly to be angry at him for not pressing her but she couldn't help the irritation.

Why couldn't he at least put the damn computer aside and-...And what, she mused darkly, take me in his arms and kiss away my anxiety? God, she swore, when did I become such a insipid romantic?  She turned and fled back to the bathroom.

 Flipping the light on, she stared at the now illuminated mirror. Familiar features stared back at her- brown eyes that were currently confused and clouded, worry and confusion was etched in the line of her mouth and her eyebrows pinched over her too large nose. She could almost forget the blemish that had appeared two nights ago by her right temple when she had her bangs down. She hastily untucked them from behind her ear, brushing out the strands with her fingers. She could hear clicking coming from the other room still. She sighed, the noise echoing in the tiled room and filling her ears.

 Rosanna knew what would come next. She would go to the bedroom, lie down with a book and wait for him to do something. He never did. Dorian would leave her alone until she tried to talk to him and even then he would be silent, letting her spill everything out. She was sick of spilling everything out and then realizing he had never volunteered anything in return. She had once tiredly told him that he would have been an excellent political adviser. He had taken it as a great compliment, even if it hadn't been meant as such..

She turned from the mirror, flipping the light off in thoughtless custom before returning to the living room. He didn't glance up as she settled on the couch, pulling a book off the table beside her.  She twisted to look at the dark haired man beside her, his dark blue eyes scanning a page and seemingly oblivious to her. She cracked the book open and began to read.

The words began to sink back down her throat, twisting back down to where they originated in her gut. She turned the page, half reading and half focused on the warmth emanating next to her. For a few moments, quiet regined in the small space.

Then, a shuffle and bare feet pressed against her thigh before retreating. She glanced up, to the naked eye he was still absorbed in his reading, his body still in the curled position he adapted when the computer became too hot to sit on his lap. She glanced down at the bare feet underneath him and back up at him. He made no sign that she was even sitting there, much less staring at him. She returned to her reading and a moment later, watched as one pale foot creeped out to nudge her again.

She smiled a twisted sardonic grin and folded the book away. She turned to face him and pushed the words down deeper. It wasn't time yet. She had to be sure.

After all, it won't do to tell someone you loved them when they were reading the sports page, she assured herself as he turned to look at her quizzically. She could see the mischief behind the talented facade though, perhaps she would convince him to go out on the porch for a while but even so....

Dorian began his mummer's show of protest and innocence at her claim that he was pushing her, mock irritation and frustration sounding much more real than she would like. All a game but still...Rosanna let it slide around her, the familiar game of him and her. He wouldn't thank her for those words tonight. She felt selfish even wanting to say them. So, she kept them inside.

She had to be sure after all.

Better to be safe than sorry.

248- The Trash Bag

A sudden burst of light caught the corner of her eyes, shifting away and taking her eyes with it. She had been on the bus for hours, half asleep and pressed up against the sticky glass that passed as a window. She blinked slowly, feeling the muscles in her face protesting the movement- but the bus was stopped in the downtown district of some city that Caitlin didn't really know- nor care- the name of. She had passed through countless cities now. The bus took its time winding over the great expanse of pavement that was Uncle's Sam's and Lady Liberty's.

  The light flashed again, just a small explosion. As if the sun light was flirting with something, throwing tokens and treats in the hope of winning it's attention. She twisted her face to the front of the vehicle, looking the for the source. The traffic jam had lasted over an hour already due to some sort of marathon which had turned the main arteries of the city to clogged veins- sluggish and pumping clots into the connecting streets- heating and smoking like dragons in the heat of a southern summer.

The bus moved forward a half a inch before settling back down with a grumbling moan, its heavy load of some seventy people obviously more than the old dragon wanted to bear. She yawned, wide and stretching let it sink down into her chest and nuzzled back up to the heated plastic. Her legs were cramped, crossed over each other and dangling but she had no other option. If she wanted to doze on a Greyhound bus, she had learned that she had to hide her things well. She had her purse tucked into her side, between herself and the paneling of the bus wall. She had learned that trick the first day when the chatting amiable grandpa next to her had tried to relieve her of it within the first thirty minutes of her nap.

 That was another thing about the bus, Caitlin thought grimly, never trust anyone. Perhaps that was more true of life than the bus itself but...

Another flash caught her half lidded eyes. They lifted, curiosity winning over exhaustion and Caitlin saw what she had missed before. The source of the bursts was not a glass or metal shining in the afternoon sun but a trash bag, shiny and black some six feet up in the hair and balanced periouscly on the head of a tall black man who was standing on the sidewalk.

He was staring into the flower bed of the huge state building that was sprawled out on the side of the road- staring but not seeing. Caitlin took in his tattered grey and navy clothes and unshaved face without meaning to and then flicked up to the bag perched on his head. She almost failed to notice the white hard hat that was between his head and the bag itself.

She had noticed a construction site a couple of miles back, right as the bus has began to apply its brakes as it hit the congested city. It was probable that that the man had gotten the hat from there. Men left things behind all the time and one man's hat was another man's bag holder.

The chuckle slipped out before she could catch it- she felt the blob beside her twist to look at her but she kept her face tilted towards her bag man. He had yet to move. Much like the bus.

For a long moment, Caitlin just stared.

And then the bus lurched forward and he slide back out of view as her seat wiped him from view. She twisted a bit, trying to look out the window behind her but the only view that achieved was the suspicious glare of the seat kicker that had been sitting behind her since Texas. She avoided his gaze and turned back around- aware her seat mate was staring at her as well now.

Let them stare, she thought. But she didn't go back to sleep. She watched the buildings ease by as the bus started it's massive turn into the waiting arms of the station.

She had an hour, she glanced down at the watch that had traveled the miles with her. It's scratched face winked up at her as she did the mental math. She would have about three hours before the bus left for Florida.

Or she could stop riding and start going somewhere.

The thought was as sudden as it was sharp and Caitlin felt her eyes flicker back up to the window. The bus pulled alongside its fellow mammoths, sun winking off black and grey surfaces in the courtyard and off the glass windows of the terminal. Caitlin felt the Blob start to shift eagerly in their seat and she turned to look at the bus interior. Faces swam before her as people began to gather their things, shaking off the lethargy and antipathy of the traveling. The chit that had the blank face and moon eyes by the bathroom was now a laughing and vibrating woman who was shaking her hair out of its ponytail and applying lip gloss, eagerly ducking her head to peek out the window. Even the Blob was no longer quiet as big as they had seemed on the long bus ride but simply present in the growing din of the bus.

Caitlin's eye caught a familiar sheen when a passenger dragged a trash bag from the overhead rack- slinging it over their shoulder as they stood to exit the bus. Her simple overnight bag was underneath the bus, filled with tshirts, sweat pants, socks, underwear and a few photos that she had not trusted to keep in her purse in case it got snatched.

She wondered how she would look walking down the street with the black bag perched atop her head- all her worldly possessions balanced, leaving her hands free and her head held tall. They would call her crazy, point and laugh, take pictures and shake their head in amusement.

They wouldn't understand what she was starting to.

That perhaps it wasn't all about balancing your life with moving forward- unafraid to drop everything and pick up and go as she had been doing. Perhaps, thought Caitlin as she stood to exit the bus, the Blob courtlesly holding the line for her- perhaps it was more about stopping and actually seeing past what it is youre looking at- with open mind, close mouth, and nothing hanging over your head.

Just balanced, waiting for the next step forward.

249-The Lanyard

There's a few things in life that will wake you up.

Most of those are unpleasant things- things we would rather sleep through, wish they never happened, or bury deep.

And then there are the good things in life that nudge you awake with light fingers- casting shadows where there once was only darkness.

One of those is standing on a crystal beach in the dawn hours, watching dolphins swim less than a hundred yards away. Alone and quiet, music playing softly in the dangling earbuds - ripped out to hear the sounds of the ocean and feel the ocean breeze as it brings some kind of answer back across the water.

And you realize- if you are lucky- that this tranquil scene, this peace is really just raw power- an ageless, nameless mystery that is the sea. The dolphins, seaweed and shells that scatter in the sand are simply a part of the whole- the whole is the sound that echoes in you- and you realize how hollow you've become.

Or perhaps that was just me.

The man next to me- who I stopped by while frantically texting back an answer to a coworker about a continuous reservation set up- seemed more at peace with himself than many men I've seen in my time standing behind the desk.

He simply tapped my shoulder, waited until I slipped my earphones out of, and murmured, "Can you see they're following us?"

And as I walked down the beach, they did.

So, I stopped at the edge of the town houses littering the dunes- legs aching with the effort of walking on the hot sand, legs crusted with the salt of the ocean, and eyes narrowed at the sun fiercely bouncing off the blue waves- and I let everything go.

I let the phone buzz the rest of the trip- I didn't pick it up if I could help it. I turned the music down so it was a part of the waves instead of drowning them out. I walked back along the umbrellas and chairs, keeping my eyes on the pod. I stopped- knelt at the shore line and stopped worrying about getting sand all over my clothes and just let the waves and seaweed and heaven knows what else just wash over my legs.

And I did this every morning. Alone. Because when I silenced my head, I could better understand my heart.

 That week I was surrounded with friends who I knew and loved- with all their faults and all their virtues.  And as we laughed and joked, argued and bickered, sulked and resented, talked and loved- we all put lanyards of various color around our right wrist and laughingly called ourselves a family of sorts.

By the time we found ourselves heading home, I still had the lanyard wrapped around my wrist to remind me.

Remember what it was like to face the ocean and know there are bigger things in this world. Mysteries and wonders and horrors and tragedies that you can either avoid until they find you or you go seek out.

Remember that waking up every morning and dragging yourself to a job you hate and then back to a home that you've outgrown, with friends miles away and hitting dead end after dead end is not going to change anything. (Putting in dues and being in a rut are two different things, my friends. Don't forget that. )

So, a little piece of rope sits bright orange against the tan skin of my right wrist- fraying and wearing as the days go on- as a reminder. It brought me peace as I drove home, strength as I walked into the office of a good friend and wonderful boss to turn in my notice, resolution when faced with unerring distress from family, and tranquility in the hours when doubt wiggles in and drowns out the roaring of the waves in me.

So, why am I packing up, taking a huge risk by forsaking a steady job, free food and rent, and going back to a city I left a year ago?

Because I stared out over blue water, fell asleep on the sand, and woke up with the knowledge that I had to stand up and move forward- even if that means falling flat on my face. I keep the orange tied around my hand, a constant source of reassurance and a reminder of what I'm headed towards and I ignore the jibes as they echo in my ears. This may not be a wise decision, I'll admit to that readily. I am doing it half blind and with no real safety net.

But it will be living.

And I'm ready for the next adventure.