Decaf is the Devil's Blend

Thursday, 05 November 2009

  •  

    Sometimes, I wonder how we carry on at all.  When life feels like a battlefield, and no one knows which side they're on.  When everything is falling to pieces, and we're struggling for breath.  For a quiet moment.  For time to think.

    Everyone wants to believe that we just put on foot in front of the other.  That it's as simple as faking it until you're making it.  But it's not really as simple as all that.  It's still a choice.  No matter how small the effort is, that's brave.

    Life is a series of interconnected bits of chaos.  Right turns, left turns, short cuts, and standing still--all of these things amount to existing.  What we choose to do, and what we choose not to do.  Each little thing is a miracle in and of itself, but we tend to brush that aside.  If you really stop and think about how meaningful everything is, you'd probably never get out of bed.  And I'm using "you" in the general sense.

    I'm not always clearheaded.  I don't act reasonably a lot of the time.  I'm 99% heart.  I make choices based on emotions.  That's not because I'm more evolved, or less evolved, than anyone else.  No, it's just because that's who I am, and how I am.  I feel. 

    I'm too nice.  I consider possibilities and motivations.  I make excuses when I think it's necessary.  And I give people chances.  Because I can see things from more than just my own perspective.  So, maybe I'm the person who takes a lot of shit.  Maybe I'm that woman who bends over backwards for someone when she shouldn't.  Maybe I fall in love too hard, and I let that be the reigning Reason.  Perhaps it's all just folly.

    But at the end of the day, I'd rather put myself out there.  I'd rather do the possibly ridiculous thing, and say what I'm feeling.  I don't leave doubts for others to parse through.  And if I can find it in my heart to care for you, I'll do everything in my power to be there for you.  Even if you don't deserve it.  Even if you think, in your darkest moments, that you don't deserve it. 

    Sometimes, knowing that someone else believes in you in enough to get you through.  But, hey, don't take my word for it.  Maybe you need to experience it for yourself.

Tuesday, 03 November 2009

  • What I Would've Said

     

    I was born three months early.  Well, actually, it was a little bit more than that, but you know that already.  There are a million reasons why I shouldn’t be alive—and even more why I should have about a thousand problems.  I don’t.  I was lucky.  I’m a fighter.  Not an unnecessary one, mind you—not a person who picks fights on a whim.  I don’t believe in needless, senseless arguments.  I’m discerning.  I fight for the things I believe in.  And, well, I’ve always believed in you.

     

    And you know, I can’t really tell how long it’s been since you really trusted someone.  I know that you trust me to a certain extent.  Probably more than most people in your life.  But I want you to know one thing: there’s not a damn thing about your past that’d scare me away.  There’s not one single thing you could tell me that would make me care about you any less.

     

    I've always defended you.  To anyone and everyone.  I'm not telling you that to make you feel bad.  I'm not telling you that for kicks.  There's no ulterior motive.  I don't mind taking the risk for you.  I don't have a problem throwing myself into the fray.  Because I believe--underneath everything, past that water under the bridge--you're worth it.

     

    Now, the rest--where this goes--that's entirely up to you.

Wednesday, 28 October 2009

  • cast the first stone

     

    It's impossible to tell a tale that circles itself, as mine does.  Those outside, peering in, only see the venom.  The thing that eats itself for no other reason but desire.  The questionable completion of a faulty need.  But infinity is a myth, as perfection is, and it seems that a thousand glass houses would shatter the same as one.

    Put down the boulder.  Walk away.  It's just a matter of pride.

    But you judge as you do, because you are afraid.  Because you don't understand.  Because something is different.  It's grey.  This is why the witches were burned: out of fear.  Out of greed.  Out of revenge.  A little Practical Magic of politics and holier-than-thou superiority.  These things don't just lurk in the shadows, or tiptoe easily into being.  They cling to your indrawn breath.  They slide into the chambers of your heart, freeing themselves, penetrating your body and your soul.

    In that moment, many things are lost.  Destroyed almost without thought.  There is no going back from such a moments--a backwards Eden, where all the lies are coated in lust.  You may not forgive or forget.  You may not see or hear.  You assume.  You take in half the facts, corrupting each letter.

    That it what separates us: your lack of compassion.

    I wear my heart easily enough.  Or it wears me.  And you sneer at it.  I have no charm against that.  There is no incantation for it, no stone to cast, and no knife to cut through such pain.  I am bare.  I am standing in the middle of the flames; you lit the pyre.  I simply grace it.  I simply face it, because I have no choice.  You've trapped me here.  And if this is my destiny, so be it.  But love is not love in your eyes.  Not in the middle of such ruin.  Broken as it may be, you call it 'unworthy.' 

    That is not your choice to make.  It never was.

    So, from the outside looking in, you cannot see what I see.  But even if you did, you might love wisely, but not to well.  And that--that is the difference.

Wednesday, 21 October 2009

  • Once Upon a Time

     

    Poor little princess,

    with your fable-bent eyes,

    your wounded fairytale smile,

    and your broken Happily Ever After.

    Nobody told you

    that sometimes

    your frog-in-disguise

    is really a villain—

    and whoops!  You’ve sealed the deal

    with much more than just a kiss.

     

    But, Cinderella, you don’t want to hear

    that forever might be a mistake; you’re still clutching

    that broken slipper, bleeding

    for a promise punctuated by betrayal.

     

    Snow White,

    you don’t want to think about,

    dreaming your days away, half asleep

    and defeated, kept under glass,

    a prisoner in her own little world. 

     

    And Rapunzel, darling,

    did it never cross your mind

    to cut your losses and run, never mind

    your hair—that’s just for show, anyway.

    That tower’s only as tall

    as you make it out to be.

     

    No, Prince Charming

    isn’t coming to rescue you.  Suppress you

    and repress you, maybe—

    but he sure can dance,

    and my dear, you are wearing

    a pair of unfortunate red shoes.

     

    There’s no White Knight,

    no perfect kiss, or fairy godmother.

    Sometimes, the dragon you face

    is one that you have created, and that poison apple

    is something that you picked yourself—

    but no one tells you that, do they?

    Not when you’re just about to prick your finger

    on that golden spindle,

    becoming someone else’s burden.

     

    And let’s be honest:

    even if the truth had, somehow, slipped in—

    you would insist those rags were riches,

    otherwise you’d have to live

    beyond the realm of this

    twisted little fairytale.

     

    For whatever it’s worth,

    you have my sympathies, child.

    But until you pick yourself up,

    strip away all those lies,

    all those Hollywood imagined moments—

    you’re caught within the pages

    of a legend

    that even the Brothers Grimm

    would dismiss.

     

Tuesday, 20 October 2009

  • Spitefulness, Immaturity, and Inconsiderate Behavior

     

     

    You know that saying, “With friends like you, who needs enemies?”  I’ve always hated that phrase.  I’ve always hated it, because it shouldn’t be like that.  Friends should be kind.  They should have your back.  They should listen.  They should try to understand.  Or, if understanding is impossible, acceptance is a good consolation prize.

     

    But I’ve found that when the chips are down, when the last bell is ringing, the vicious side of humanity often shows its ugly face.  And there’s a knife your back.  There’s a paper cut filled with lemon juice AND salt.  As Rachel said, “Is that kick-you-in-the-crotch, spit-on-your-neck fantastic?”

     

    It’s no secret that people can be mean, cruel, and vindictive.  It’s bad enough when a stranger does it, or if it’s someone you don’t get along with.  But when someone you care about unleashes a volcanic tirade of molten crap in your direction, it’s rather difficult to process.  Even if you see it coming, and often times you can.

     

    When someone doesn’t get what they want, how they handle it shows their true character.  If you put anyone in a difficult situation, or an awkward one, you’ll see how he/she functions under pressure.  It’s easy to be nice when the situation is smooth and when every face is smiling.  But when push comes to shove, and something shifts, the teeth come out—and that bubbly person becomes a vampire.  It’s not pretty.

     

    There’s a measure of relief in it, though—in finally discovering who someone really is, underneath all the lace and trim.  It makes it easier to disentangle yourself from the situation, especially if it turns out the other person has the emotional maturity of infantile dirt, crossed with an angry toddler.  Mud pie word-bombs aren’t attractive, necessary, or realistic above the age of three.

     

    But some people never progress beyond that level of maturity.  It doesn’t matter if they get married, have a job, or hold a position of authority.  They're still throwing tantrums, lying about circumstances, and twisting the world to suit their needs.  That’s one step about from psychosis, by the way. 

     

    In dealing with people, how much we overlook amazes me.  Too often, someone focuses, selfishly, on how he/she is feeling--or what he/she is experiencing.  Never mind what the other person MIGHT be going through.  Because you just don’t know.  I’ve never been one to parade my tragedies around, looking for sympathy, or some kind of Oscar for holding it all together.  And on my worst day, you might not even see the cracks. 

     

    Recently, I’ve had someone accuse me awful things—untrue things.  Things I wouldn’t expect to come out of the mouth of an enemy.  Instead, they exploded out of the mouth of someone I once considered a friend.  Spitefulness to such a degree that could teach a dictator a thing or two.  It was appalling.  There was absolutely no regard for me, my life, or whatever might be happening.  It was cruelty, plain and simple, dressed up in self-righteous fury. 

     

    I’ve always considered other people, perhaps to a fault.  It doesn’t surprise me when other people fail to do that, but it doesn’t please me, either.  It’s in moments like that where I realize, “Shit, someone’s been drinking the Crazy Kool-Aid, and is one step away from dancing naked in public.”

     

    I don’t have time for vengeance, small minds, or assholes.  What don’t you have time for?

Monday, 19 October 2009

  • Confessing without Saying a Word

     

    Who was I then, back when we first met?  I hardly remember.  I can picture certain memories, as if they are freshly pulled into existence.  I can conjure those first bits of attraction, the questioning desire that truly had no answer.  I can recall every awkward glance.  Soon, they transformed into stolen ones, eyes stuck fast toward temptation.  There really was no cure for it, was there?

    As if by magic, I found myself in love.  Deeply, deftly, desperately—and yet, I could not say a word.  I did not yet know how.  I couldn’t form the words for you, but they echoed in each step I took.  They leapt and sang, recklessly, in my eyes.  There were times that I wondered if you saw it—and saw me.  If you did, you never let on.  You never said a word.  And that was how things were between us, then: a universe of things left unspoken.  A constellation of things left unnamed.  Naming is not what makes something beautiful.

    It was the emotion that mattered, the connection, the trust, and the truth.  You made me believe in myself in a way I never quite understood.  A single, sly-eyed glance, or crooked grin, and I could sing a song in Latin—backwards.  I could catch a wild dervish in my teeth.  I could resurrect hope, throw all caution to wind, and accomplish whatever anyone else might consider ‘impossible.’  That was the gift you gave me.  Perhaps you did not know it, but there it is.  Written carefully, so that it cannot be erased, or undone. 

    You saw me in a way I could not see myself.  You helped me to grow.  You taught me to challenge things.  But most importantly—you showed me that I was worth listening to.  Every time I spoke, whatever boring thing I might’ve been talking about, you listened.  You listened with your whole body, as if I were endlessly fascinating.  You, with that depth few people see, took me in.  And the more you listened, the more I wanted to reveal.  I would’ve told you anything.  Me.  The famed secret-keeper, the gypsy who never lights the same fire twice.  Me.  Who everyone knows, but few rarely understand.  You knew, and you understood.  It was a miracle to me.  A darkling of a treasure.

    I am much the same as I was back then.  I’ve changed, yes, as we all do.  Improved.  In some ways, I am wilder than I was.  In others, I've become a bit tame.  You've yet to really see the difference, but it's there, underneath the effort it takes me to hold back.

    I am still that bottomless mystery, that all-consuming what-if.  I always knew what I wanted.  It was always you.  I don’t know if that scared you, or if it scares you now.  I don’t even know what that means, or what possible form that might take.  For the first time in a long time, I am okay with answerless questions.  Perhaps you know.  Or maybe you don’t.  Maybe we just need to be.

    This is a risk.  A foolish one, perhaps.  But an honest one.  An earnest one.  I don’t know how to be anything less than absolutely vulnerable.  Not with everyone.  But yes, with you.  And so, I’m going to make you a promise, one entirely devoid of expectations.  It’s simple, but profound.  At least, I hope it is.

    Whatever you’re willing to risk, I’ll match it.  The control is yours.  You choose.  Because, you see, if isn’t painfully obvious already—I’ve chosen.  I’ve chosen in a way that I couldn’t, before.  Back when I was too silly and too awkward.  Back when I didn’t know how to ask for what I wanted, or even that I could ask.  Who was I then?  I was untraveled.  I was unknown.  I was unsure of so much.

    I’m unsure of nothing, now. 

    Bare your smile; I can take it.  Bare your heart; I’ll carry it.  Bare your soul; I’ll watch over it.  Bare your body; I’ll worship it. 

    At the end of the day, at the end of this, we both need to learn how to follow, how to shed the things that hold us back and keep us in. I’m willing to try, if you are.

Sunday, 18 October 2009

  • Cranberry Muffins

     

     

    2 cups sifted all-purpose flour

    ¼ cup sugar

    3 teaspoons baking powder

    1 cup milk

    4 tablespoons melted vegetable shortening (or margarine)

    2 egg whites

    1 1/2 cup cranberries

     

    Preheat oven to 400F.  Grease bottoms of muffin pan cups, or line with paper.

     

    Sift flour with sugar and baking powder into a large bowl.

     

    Measure milk in a 2-cup measure.  Add oil and egg. Beat with a fork to mix well.

     

    Make a well in center to flour mixture.  Pour in milk mixture all at once.  Stir quickly with a fork, until all ingredients are well-mixed.  Batter might be lumpy.  That’s okay.  Add one and half cups dried cranberries.

     

    Using a ¼ cup measure, put batter into muffin cups.  Fill cup a little bit past half full.

     

    Bake 20 to 25 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean.

     

    When I bake this recipe, it makes about six large muffins.  I'll double it, usually.

Saturday, 17 October 2009

  • Sweet Potato Soup Recipe (as requested!)

    4 tablespoons margarine

    1 cup chopped onion

    2 cloves garlic, sliced

    3 lbs sweet potatoes (about five cups), cubed

    6 cups chicken broth

    3 cups half and half (I use 1% milk, instead)

    4 tablespoons maple syrup

    ¾ tablespoon nutmeg

    Cornstarch (I use at least 2 cups; it depends on how thick you want the soup)

     

    Melt butter in a large pot, over medium-high heat

    Add onion.  Sautee for 5 minutes

    Add garlic.  Sautee for 2 minutes

    Add cubed sweet potatoes, chicken broth, and nutmeg.

    Boil.  Reduce heat and simmer for 20 minutes, or until potatoes are tender.

     

    Remove pot from stove.  Have a container standing by to put blended soup in.  If you have a second large pot, that will work fine.  I usually keep old margarine containers around and use them to store stuff in.  They can’t go in the microwave, though.  Blend the potato/chicken broth mixture.  Be careful to only fill the blender halfway full each time.  Otherwise, the heat will cause the blender’s lid to pop off.  I learned that the hard way. 

     

    Once everything is blended, return the pot to the stove on medium heat.  In the blender, blend the cornstarch and milk.  Add the mixture to the soup, stirring thoroughly.  Add maple syrup, as well.  Stir the soup, constantly, until it boils.  It’s okay to kick it up to high, instead of medium.  If the soup thickens, but you’d like it thicker, blend a bit more milk and cornstarch and add it to the soup.  If it becomes too thick, add a little plain milk.

     

    Note: I usually double this recipe, if cooking for 5 people, or if I want leftovers for a few days.

Thursday, 15 October 2009

  • Dancing with a Curse

     

    Love isn’t a Hallmark card.  It won’t rescue a kitten from a tree, and it won’t make the world a perfect place.  Gumdrops will not rain from the sky when you’re in love.  Unless, of course, you are on drugs.  (Try to avoid that, okay?)

    Love is a complication amid chaos.  It’s a series of questions that no one can really answer.  Oh, we try to—the everyday people, the geniuses, the socially inept, the wild ones, and the good-hearted folk.  Worse, though, are the poets.  We’ll violate all good sense for a few lines, a couple of searing kisses, and the promise of inspiration.

    Every heartbreak is a muse, earned.  Every dramatic fight, every wayward glance, every untoward temptation—a moment, a memory.  Something we’re either desperate to capture or purge.  A blessing dancing with a curse.  A language no one can read, but is easily understood.  Yes, love is more than just a crazy thing.  It’s more than just a habit, or a promise.  It follows you home, and you’re never the same.  It reacts, and you hang on for the ride.

    Love pushes you out into the spotlight.  Every sin-soaked moment, hitched somewhere between lust and reason, carves out a bit of truth.  Something previously unknown, a newborn thought.  It is every broken trust screaming at you to run—but miraculously, you don’t.  You can’t.  It’s never really an option, no matter how many land mines you might fall over.  Wait for the aftermath: it either gets better or it gets worse.  There’s no in between, no concession, no warning, and no wisdom for it.

    At the end of the day, whenever sleep is carelessly evasive, that’s when reality strikes.  The perfect phrasing, the gut-wrenching need, and the absolutely imperative desire to conquer what you’re feeling.  So, you write it down.  You throw blood on paper; it looks a lot like ink.  You coax your heart out of hiding, and listen to each whisper.  Whatever throe you find yourself gripped by, you do what you can to live it.  And live through it.  It always makes you stronger, even if you don’t realize it.

    So, love.  It’s not all perfection and confetti.  It’s not easy conversations.  It’s not saying what someone wants to hear.  It’s saying what needs to be said.  It’s in hospital rooms at three in the morning.  It’s on the porch drinking coffee.  It’s not every dead end you know.  And it’s not a heap of everything you once thought you wanted.

    It’s raw.  And it’s gentle.  It’s not what you expected.  And, sometimes, from the outside it looks like crazy.  But when everything is dark, when the evening’s slow and still, when the only other sound is strange hypnotic lull of tree frogs—it’s what reaches out of the shadows.  It’s what keeps you awake, or enables you to sleep.

    Love might bring you pain, or it might bring you solace.  But how to do handle it?  How do you see it, or greet it?  But more importantly: what kind of love do you believe in?

Blue__Summer

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About Me

  • I'm a writer, but I'm also a reader. I can be a bit of a literary snob, but I know what I like. I'm very analytical, but that doesn't mean I'm always serious. In fact, I'll be the first to crack a joke. My humor can be quite dry. And, by all things caffeinated, I am hopelessly addicted to coffee. I am here to write--about writing, about life, or about that creepy guy I always see at the local coffee shop. He always sits in the corner and stares at me like I'm his last meal. If nothing else, my life inspires me.

Pulse