The Thaw Out

Oops.

2009-10-18T14:06:00.000-07:00

I guess by "tomorrow" I actually meant "in two months". Well, shit. My bad. Here goes, round two.

I just cooked my first Sunday Roast. And yes, I am capitalizing both sunday and roast, because they deserve the distinction. A whole chicken is really fucking intimidating. So much could go wrong. But, I'm happy to report, that Murphy's Law did NOT prevail, and my first foray into culinary statelihood was a success! Juicy, delicious chicken meat. Perfectly roasted potatoes and carrots and onions. And a lovely home made gravy whipped up in the pan with some white wine and the delicious drippings.

Yes. I did all of that. And yes. My mother did help me. But the gravy-- that was all my doing. Anything involving wine and eventual food consumption-- I'm all over that shit. Like white on rice, baby, like white on rice.

Alright, I'll cease to recount my glorious kitchen experience, but I will say this. There is very little that is better on a freezing cold, New England day as it's pissing down rain, than a bottle of white wine, a roasted chicken and the time to putter around the kitchen making it all come to life. I feel a bit like a magician. Or Nigella Lawson. Or I guess me, grown out of my Annie's Mac limitations.

Personal growth man. You heard it here first.

Back in the Literary Saddle

2009-08-27T20:23:00.000-07:00

Or something.

Regardless. The silence that has consumed this poor piece of internet real estate has officially come to an end.

Starting tomorrow.

Until then.

New Idea.

2009-06-05T14:24:00.000-07:00

Job front still looks bleak...... but thought I'd share what my free time has been spent doing.

http://web.me.com/e.anastasiamurphy/www.gloucesterbeat.com/Welcome.html

My new project is in it's very really stages. Consider it an infant.

I'll be developing it into a full grown, kicking and screaming toddler soon.

Jobless.

2009-05-24T10:28:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow marks the first week I've been home. I am

jobless.

Which wouldn't be so bad except that looking into the future all I can see is the looming piles of DEBT that I've accrued from my time at school.

I want to start up a website where I can begin compiling all of my writing-- reviewing local art, profiling local artists, advertising interesting upcoming shows. In a perfect world I'd set that up and then get one of the local newspapers to give me tiny bit of space. A link up.....print news and the world wide web. A little taste of what I'm doing landing on people's doorsteps with the opportunity to experience more if anyone felt so inclined. "Read my column! Like it?! Check out my website!"

That is my little dream right now. But I keep getting this nagging feeling that I should be WAITRESSING. Or churning out lattes. Or doing something to start putting dollars in my bank account.

As to not drown in debt. I'd be okay with just keeping my head above water. I don't need a yacht or anything. Just a buoy.

Okay. Lame oceanic analogies aside. I am in a conundrum. Getting a job serving lobster to eager tourists would make me some of the money that I need, but my life would have to revolve around that work. My writing and creative aspirations would inevitably take a back seat to the realities of schlepping seafood and cocktails....the time and energy spent dealing with harassing customers and intense restaurant managers and dramatic coworkers.

Just thinking about it makes me feel so defeated. Why did I even get a degree if I'm not using it?! If the only employment I can find is working in a business where high school diplomas aren't even mandatory-- why am I $60,000 in debt?!

I know I'll probably just get over it. Suck up my pride. Hand out the lobsters. But part of me is fighting it all the way.

A battle between my sense and my sensibility. The victor is yet to be determined.

Rain Rain Go Away

2009-05-16T15:12:00.000-07:00

I am exhausted. My body feels heavy and my head feels very full. It is exciting to feel like your life is moving forwards, but difficult forward is not the same as.....

happy

fulfilled

adventurous

loved

wanted

challenged

Movement forwards is movement out of stability. But what was ever really stable? We all knew this would end. So. I suppose. Moving forwards is moving towards all of those things I wrote above. Or at least my own definition of them.

I'll have an extra lime, please.

2009-05-07T07:51:00.000-07:00

I am finished with college.

Which is a bittersweet sentence to type and a confusing set of emotions to wade through.

Right now it seems like everything is so incredibly BRIGHT and IMMEDIATE and FRESH that any hope of a decent amount of insight is lost. Right now. Maybe later.

In that spirit I will write about something else.

Like...

Gin and tonics. I really like them and these are the reasons why:

1. My grandmother drinks them.

2. They were never featured on Sex and the City

3. I enjoy the taste of limes.

Simple, classy and good. I think I'm going to get on a G&T kick for the summer. Or at least for Senior Week.

Michigan Pete.

2009-04-14T19:22:00.000-07:00

Michigan Pete. Or was it Steve? Or Dave? I'm not entirely sure. I was working today at the Outing Club house, reading Persuasian and generally not doing much work while I was earning my work-study money when a father-son duo walked through the doors.

Awkwardly stood there.

And I awkwardly looked at them.

...........And then we both seemed to acknowledge our mutual failure at acting with acceptable social decorum.

I launched into a smiley welcome and the father asked me to "give us the real tour" while the son twisted his UVM brochure tighter...tighter....tighter...tighter.....

They were tall, thin, similar builds. Runners I later learned. They had travelled here from Michigan and were doing the college tour during spring break.

"Give us the real tour!"

I had to think for a minute. What does that even mean? I have two weeks left of classes before my life as an undergraduate comes to a bitter-sweet end and yet I couldn't just launch into anything "real" without pausing.

Pause.

The university system is such a system! The "real" deal is that you have to work that system. Pay a small fortune, hope you land somewhere you mildly enjoy, find people to create a home with, a subject that inspires and impassions some part of you and do it all within a pretty rigid system created way before you got here, that will last way after you leave.

This all went flying through my brain as I stared at Father and son Mid-west. What came out of my mouth was. Burlington is stellar. UVM is fun. Beer is plentiful. Professors are approachable. The Mountains are fun to hike.

Because I in reality all of those things are true. And the father paying the thousands of dollars to send his son here wants to hear those things. And I honestly wanted to say them. Because I love this school and this town and these people. Even with it's long-ass winters, hard-ass president, and stupid-ass hippies.

When the Michigan men left, I had to laugh at how quickly I became UVM's cheerleader.

I may have worked the system, but the system worked me too.

2009-04-12T17:47:00.000-07:00

http://www.hulu.com/watch/66843/the-daily-show-with-jon-stewart-baracknophobia---obey

Brilliance.

1:48.34

2009-04-12T13:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I ran my first half marathon. Which completely rocked because 1. It was a beautiful spring day (if a little bit nippy), 2. My parents and friends trucked out all along the course to support me, 3. I felt great (or as great as running 13.1 miles in and hour and forty-eight minutes can feel), 4. Megan ran it too.

I always wanted to run but could never figure out how to do it without killing myself. It's been a thorn in my side since I was 15 and found out I had been running on two stress fractures for months (Oh THAT'S what that throbbing pain my shins was...) And I think I'm finally learning. Patience and work and a Liam-like holistic approach to my health. Which is actually more of a testament to what some people refer to as....

Maturing?

Or something like that. Regardless. I am sore as shit today. And it feels great.

A year ago...

2009-04-07T19:33:00.000-07:00

My friend Katherine was just asking me about Barcelona. More specifically all of the Gaudi architecture that is scattered throughout the city. One simple question and a flood of correctly pronounced answers started flowing from my mouth. I tried to shut up. She just asked about Parc Guell, but for some reason her question jolted me from where I was sitting at my computer and threw me back a year ago into that city that I fell in love with. All of the colors, smells, people, buildings that I miss. I don't think about it all on a daily basis. Or even a weekly basis now, but its all tucked up in my mind somewhere, waiting for the flood gates to open.

One day last year in early April I took my camera and spent hours photographing my neighborhood. I stayed mostly in the confines of what I had defined as my barrio. The streets I walked to school, the markets where I bought my groceries, the placas where I drank my cortados, the bars where I had become a foreign regular.

On that day, I wandered around in the warm sun and actually LOOKED at everything that surrounded me. Everything I took for granted in my waking life. The beauty of Gracia was in the paint peeling off of stenciled balconies and beautiful, colorful graffiti that tagged storefront doors, and the generations of Gracians who lived their days together in a rhythmic harmony-- through my camera lens I saw it all so clearly. And for that I am grateful.

The picture above is one of my favorites from the day. I was photographing the blue graffiti, but stopped when the old man and boy were passing me. When I raised my camera again, they were both in the frame. To me that photograph shows the heartbeat of Gracia, of Barcelona as a whole really. The vibrant color, the dilapidated beauty and the generations of people who bring the city to life.

A fictional pause in the musings......

2009-04-03T08:58:00.000-07:00

(Jordi)

Recently published in Vantage Point Literary Magazine, Spring 2009 Issue

I smelled sewage. The stink that crept out of drainage caps in wisps of cold smoke blanketed La Rambla del Raval every night as I walked home.

I took the quick left onto Carrer de Sant Antoni. Counted my steps. Doce. Trece. Catorce. Cince y allí. There. My apartment building was tucked somewhere in the mash of painted, peeling concrete. Not even a breeze blew down Sant Antoní. Quiet rang in my eardrums as I squinted into the darkness. It was Sunday in Barcelona. Metal grates covered every storefront. I walked home on these nights hoping to be the only person on the street.

But I never was. Allí. A golden wristwatch caught a glint of light and gave them away. Allí. The little fuckers who waited for me every night as I walked home from work. One of them was wearing my watch. Lurking in and out of shadows. Following me. He was always wearing my watch.

Twenty feet from my doorstep. I took one last drag of my cigarette and put it out on a low hanging windowsill. More flickers of light. They were on the move. I knew the dance well. Surround. Corner. Attack. Steal. Flee.

Ten feet from my doorstep. I pulled my keys from my pocket and held them between my fingers and thumb like small daggers. A shadow moved in the darkness of the storefront across from my apartment building.

Mierda.

Five feet from my doorstep. Armed. Sprinting. Heart hammering into my lungs. Adrenaline propelled me into the grates in front of my apartment building. One motion.

Smash. Stab. Turn. Lock. Slam.

The door shut on the face of two pimply teenagers who jeered at me from the other side.

No me jodas.

I spit on the grated doorway and turned my back to them. Silencio. They bored easily of yelling insults. It was their bedtime. They probably had school tomorrow.

No mail in my postbox. Thin dimness blurred the stairwell. Familiar glimmers of light sprayed in through tiny, barred windows that overlooked the alleyway between buildings.

Where were their mothers? The perpetual question passed through my mind. My head shook back and forth in an automatic motion. I knew their mothers. They sold me my cigarettes and oranges and phone credit. One day I would ask them. Do you know where your son got that watch? That jacket? Those Euros?

I fantasized about how angry my face would look. All squinting eyes and pursed lips. Your vampire sons terrorize the night! Why do you let them?! But they would already know the answers to my questions and I would never ask. I would buy their cheap oranges instead.

Four flights of dull air until I found my door. I keyed the lock. Siléncio. I pushed the doors weight with my own. My apartment filled with shadows. Table. Chair. Couch. Television. Lamp. The clang of my keys on the counter. Red, faded bed sheets hung from ceiling to floor, covering the doors to the balcony. I walked the length of the shadows to the makeshift curtains and let myself back into the night air.

Five stories high, an old Estrella beer can found a new life as an ashtray. I pulled a new cigarette from my back pocket and dug for my lighter. No está aquí. Used packs of matches hung in the corners of the balcony. Necesito fumar. I found an unused match. Scratch. Sizzle. Puff. Inhale. Exhale. I leaned back against the cool concrete into the shadow of my neighbor’s balcony overhead and blew hot smoke into the night.

I looked slick on Friday night when I left my apartment. Dark wash jeans, sport coat, and a new pack of cigarríllos in my back pocket. I passed the little fuckers staked out in their alleyway. Huddled in dark corners counting their spoils, kneeing their soccer balls back and forth, back and forth. The fattest sat on a sidewalk post, on guard, whistling at women who walked by. Guapa! Ven aquí!

I looked too good to pass by silently. Tranquilo! Pedezo de mierda… Kick. Whoosh. Dodge. Slam. Screech. The soccer ball aimed at my head hit an incoming taxi. Car stopped, door opened, arms waving, the driver staged his attack. I made my get away, took a quick right off Sant Antoní and ducked into the stairs to the catch the metro.

The subway cars snaked through their underground tunnels. Shades of dark with occasional blinding lights blurred by as I stood, bracing my feet, swaying back and forth, back and forth with the movement. At metro stop Fontana I started moving towards the exit. Beep. Beep. Beep. The edge of my jacket was almost bit by the hungry door. Dirty, warm air blew in my face when I stepped onto the escalator. Up. Up. Up. Into the low lights of the night.

I took a sharp right onto Carrer d’Asturies. Cobblestones. Wine bars. Orange trees. Grandmothers. Gracía was the northern perfection to my seedy, southern reality. But I paid one-third of the rent living in Barcelona’s ethnic neighborhood, as the brochures called it. I could walk Gracía’s tree lined streets for free, sit in her plaças to drink my copas and blend in well enough.

Straight down Plaça del Sol with it’s stray dogs running after loose soccer balls and pot smoking buskers. My chest swelled against my shirt just a bit when I thought about how good I looked tonight. One foot in front of the other. Click. Click. Click. My heels made hollow sounds until I ducked into Vinilo. Smokey. Dark. Loud. An old Bruce Lee film was projected onto the far wall, silently playing for unnoticing bar patrons. My eyes scanned the darkness. Allí. I smiled when I saw who I was looking for.

The L2 line always ran on a screwy schedule. I cut out of the bar early just so I wouldn’t have to walk home. My prospects with Laia hadn’t looked good; some Italian from her architecture class was buying her drinks. I looked slick, but he looked better and I knew I wouldn’t be staying at her place that night.

Usually on weekends I slid by, under the radar of the little thieves. The busy nightlife in Barcelona meant endless wallets to suck from pockets. But since the soccer ball incident I knew they’d make it a point to wait for me. I wanted to ride the metro as close to home as I could. Gather my strength for the upcoming battle.

But at Passeig de Gracía the train stopped for the night. Mierda. Out into the warm air I contemplated ducking into a club and coming home in the morning. Las Ramblas in front of me, fluorescent, loud, snaking down to the Mediterranean. The blackened maze of El Raval looming to my right. I knew I didn’t have the money to pay a club cover. Mierda. Into the lion’s den.

When I came to the corner of Sant Antoní, with my home tucked up somewhere in the middle of the string of buildings, I looked at my watch. An empty wrist. I forgot. My face heated with renewed anger, red and flushed. That one little thief, always with my watch. Teasing me. Daring me to get it back. I decided that tonight would be the night. Anoche. Ahora.

I ducked into the late-night kabob shop at the beginning of my street before any of the urchins saw me. I took a stool by the window, tucked myself into a corner and watched my kabob being made. Gigantic, horizontal hunks of meat slowly spun behind the counter. Sharpen. Slice. Sharpen. Slice. Thin pieces of lamb fell off the rotating spit. It piled high onto my pita. I took a bite. Grease dripped from the bottom and fell onto my jeans.

Mierda.

I chewed slowly and counted the little fuckers sprayed out on the street. Three were outside the Spar, the fat one still sat at his stake out but I could tell he was sagging to the side. Leaning on the building. He was getting tired. Soon I would make my move. Anoche. Ahora. Determination lumped in my throat and my stomach jumped as I anticipated the confrontation. Two more bites of lamb. Chew. Swallow. Chew. Shallow. Chew. Chew. Chew. Chew. Nerves hit me hard.

No plan. No tengo un plan. Mierda. Mierda. Worried heat reddened my face. Breathe damnit. In. Out. In. Out. Why was I nervous? That watch was mine! I had every right. Whatever I did tonight. I had every right. In. Out. In. Out. Out. Out. Vale. Okay. Time.

When I stepped out of the kabob shop, a group of heeled girls sauntered by, pinning me to the side of the doorway. Laugh. Shout. Stumble. Click. Click. Click. I maneuvered to the back of the group. I could see four thieves weaving between parked cars like a pack of wolves. Hungry and ready to attack. Hola guápa! Ven aquí! Before they surrounded us, I stepped out of the group. Onto the sidewalk. I walked fast, faster, away from the crowd. My brain told my legs to slow, I looked suspicious. Idiot. Stop drawing attention to yourself. Legs slowed, I snuck a quick peak over my left shoulder. One little fucker just stole a wallet. She didn’t even notice. They’d take an entire bag before they left them. Run up Sant Antoní until they couldn’t hear the screams or the clicking of running heels. Hurry back into the alley to count their spoils. I knew the drill. But I would be gone by then. Watch in hand.

Almost to the alley, I tucked myself between a dumpster and a parked car. Stuck my head out, slowly, slowly. There was the sidewalk post, but no fat ass sitting on it. I checked my surroundings. Couples walked arm in arm. Drunken Americans stumbled toward the metro. No little fuckers. I inched out from the shadows. Once on the sidewalk I slowly walked over to fat one’s post. The nerves in my fingertips tingled and stung. My stomach jumped into my throat and back down again. Flattened against the wall, I inched towards the opening in the sidewalk. Step. Breathe. Check left. Check right. Step. Breathe. Check. Check. Inhale. I peeked my left eye into the dark void.

Nada.

Nothing. Shallow darkness. Shadows lined the walls. A stream of hazed light shot down in streaks from a barred window above my head. Mind racing, I took in the unexpected. I’d yearned for confrontation. The kind that would have left me satisfied, watch or not. I wanted to yell. Throw a punch. I wanted all the couples walking by to stop. Hear my rant. Come to my aid. Applaud my cause. I wanted the women to look at me, lustful with admiration. So brave, so justified. I wanted the men to stand behind me, a small army of light in the darkness. But. Nada. Only a stream of luminescence that shone into nothing but shadows. Check left. Check right.

Screams. Click. Click. Click. Commotion. The dance had begun. I had a window of opportunity. Just a minute. Solómente un minúto. I wanted to see what was down that alley. I wanted redemption. I wanted my watch.

I left invisible footprints behind me. One. Two. Three. Four. Cinco. Seis. Siete. Ocho. I stopped in front of the first shadow. A legless chair sank into the sidewalk. Broken fans hung with glistening gold and silver chains. Black trash bags filled to the point of bursting towered in front of me. Torn cardboard boxes sat stacked up to my chest. I lifted a flap. Leather wallets. Watches. Rings. Cell phones. The spoils of the little thieves. As I sifted through the treasure my fingers started to tingle again, the expectation balled in my chest, about to explode. No. No. No. No. My watch wasn’t there. Maybe the little shit was still wearing it from the other day. Time moved quickly in the dark, I needed to leave soon if I was going to make a clean escape.

Flap down. I moved the top box and kneeled to sift through the other. No. No. Nothing. My old wallet! I’d lost it months ago to the little fuckers. I pushed the black leather into my jacket pocket. As I turned to stand, I spotted a flicker of light from behind a stack of trash bags. I squinted into the dark. One. Two. Three fingers spread from a hand lay limply on the concrete. A watch clasped around the wrist. Another wave of crimson heat lit up my face, this time with blunt fear. My legs sent me forward against my brains will. Fingers. Palm. Wrist. Watch. Forearm. Lifeless on the ground. I peeked behind the trash bags and saw the attached body. Limbs crumpled into black plastic, twisting into unnatural contortions. The fat one lay motionless. His eyes open to the sky. No blood on him. No life left in him. Flee. I must flee. I must run. My brain commanded my legs to run. Corré! But my watch! My watch on the wrist of the dead boy. Vomit crept up my throat, almost to my mouth. Tap. Turn. Whoosh. Crack. Pain. Cold. Blackness.

***

My eyes shot open into blinding dark. Fragmented, desperate questions raced through my head. Dónde? Qué occurio? Por qué? When my eyes adjusted into focused sight, I was staring upwards. Stars flickered weakly above my head, fading in early morning light. Pain shot through my neck, throbbing through my body, down into my toes. I tried to move my arms. Plastic trash bags rustled. Black trash bags. Cold eyes caught my own. Heat rushed back to my blood. The dead fat boy. I was caught in his maze of limbs, his arm entwined with my own. Panic attacked and propelled me upward. My legs collapsed under my weight. Throbbing in my neck, wrists, thighs. I was weak with hurt. I looked at my hand, it shone in the night. Illuminated, pale skin. I looked at the fat boy’s wrist. My watch still gleamed up at me. I looked closer. Black. Blue. Bruised. Red. Sore. My watch covered a wound on his wrist.

Summoning strength from my gut, I picked up my right arm and managed to slide the watch from his wrist. No finger marks. No cuts. A large, navy bruise in the shape of a half moon. Una boca. A mouth. A bruise in the shape of a mouth. I shifted my weight and looked closer. Needle pricks ran the length of the bruise. I lifted my own wrist into the night. Una boca. A mouth shaped bruise. Needle pricks. Click. Click. Click. Footsteps. I froze in my alertness. Closer. Closer. My brain told my eyes to close. My lungs barely breathed. I lay still, wrapped in the fat boy’s limbs.

Jordi. Jordi.

I felt wet on my forearm. Foreign scented breath on my face. Someone was saying my name. Crying. Not touching me. Not too close.

Jordi. I’m sorry. Not you. Not you. Why were you in here? En aquí? I’m sorry.

More wet on my arm. My mind jumbled and went blank. I concentrated on staying still in my confusion. The breath ceased. The weight of the fat one’s limbs shifted. He was being moved. My leg bent in an unnatural motion. I bit my tongue inside my mouth. No noise. No movement.

Jordi. He took your watch. I’m sorry. The fat shit took your watch from me. It was mine. Jordi. It was ours. It was ours and I wore it everyday and you noticed me. You noticed me when I wore your watch. And then he took it from me. I couldn’t let him have it. He soiled our gold, Jordi. Joder, Jordi. Mierda. Lo siénto. I’m sorry.

My leg settled back down, straighter, more comfortably. Plastic rustled more. The weight moved away. I could hear the scraping of shoes on concrete. The fat boy was being dragged. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. It became more difficult to hear. I fluttered an eyelid. Opened a slit of my right eye. One of the urchins was dragging the fat boy towards the dumpster at the end of the alley. I felt the cold metal of my watch against my fingertips. Our watch? I noticed? My brain focused on the words. I couldn’t form a cohesive thought. It made no sense. My body still throbbed. I heard the dumpster doors slam shut. Think. Think. Click. Click. Click. He was walking back towards me. Stillness.

Jordi. What do I do? Tell me what to do. I love you, Jordi. I love you and I did this to you. I’m sorry.

The metal brushed past my fingertips. Icy skin touched my own and froze my blood in my veins. Not human. He can’t be human. The dead fat boy’s skin wasn’t even that cold.

I’m sorry, Jordi. I don’t know what else to do. He won. He’ll lay with you. I hate him, Jordi! I hate that you’ll lay with him.

I felt ice hands wrap around my ankles. Mierda. He was dragging me to the dumpster. I’d never get myself out in time. The crush would kill me. My brain told my eyes to flutter again. I groaned. A small, pitiful groan. The coldness left my legs.

What? What? Not dead?! Oh shit. Oh shit. Jordi! JORDI! Can you hear me? Are you there? Wake up! Jordi!

My eyes fluttered again. Fear kept me from opening them completely. What would his face look like? He sounded desperate.

Jordi! Please open your eyes. Please! Por favor! Open them, look at me.

I looked through the slit of my right eye. White eyes shot back at me. The palest of blue engulfed black pupils. I groaned again. Louder.

It’s okay. Don’t open your eyes. It’s alright, Jordi. Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back! Don’t move, Jordi!

A rush of air brushed past my exposed skin. I heard swift footsteps moving away from me. My eyes shot open now. The empty alleyway stretched out to the street, black into graying light. Don’t move, Jordi! I had to move. I needed to get out of black, into gray. I sent all my energy to my left leg. It hovered for a second and fell to the ground. An electric shock of pain shot through the vein in my leg and up into my chest. I sputtered and coughed for air. Hurt ricocheted inside my legs. Qué occurio? Quíen es? My entire body felt like it was resting on upturned nails. Pricks of fear over and over again. I had to move.

My palms rested on the cold concrete, ice against ice. Breathe. Push. Gasp. Fall. I had to try again. Breathe. Push. Gasp. Press. Lift. On my knees. My head spun, inside and out, white space soaring around and around. Nausea. Clear vomit covered my golden watch in iridescent slime. I sat on my knees, head in my hands. Plastic crinkled under me and I swayed back and forth, back and forth, waiting for focused vision. Mierda. Mierda. Por qué? I stuck my finger into a crack in the concrete over my head. Two fingers. Three fingers. Breathe. Pull. Gasp. I bent over now. Hand stuck in my wall, stomach pressed into my leg with one foot on the ground, like some pitiful Grecian statue. Click. Click. Click. My breath stopped. My body set on fire. I squeezed my eyes shut until I could only see black. One tear dripped onto my thigh.

Jordi.

Almost in a whisper. I tried to pry my eyes open

Jordi.

Soft. Quiet. I lifted my head, leaned my body against the wall, and opened my eyes. Left. Right. And steadied myself so I could see. He was one of them. One of the little fuckers. I didn’t know his name, but I recognized his face. Soft features. Brown eyes. Small nose. Full lips. Pimples scattered across his skin. His hand wrapped around a mother’s orange. I felt myself cough, but didn’t hear the sound. He jumped towards me as I did, but then stepped back.

Why did you come down here?

He whispered again. I could barely hear. I opened my mouth but no words came out. My neck was throbbing. I could feel more vomit creeping up my chest.

Jordi.

He said this. I lifted my eyes to him again. Glowing eyes looked back at mine. Once brown, now ice-blue. I felt another tear move down my cheek and drip off my nose.

Jordi!

Louder now.

JORDI!

Lustful. He almost screamed. I closed my eyes again. But felt his cold hands on me now. Pushing me down. My head hit the pavement. The crunch of my watch echoed in my ears and vomit streaked my cheek. I felt a cold pressure against my thigh. Force. Prick. Suction. Fire. Heat moved through my body, shot through my veins like a dragon’s breath. Weakness. I was getting weaker. My legs were taken by a numbness that consumed my body until my eyes fluttered and stopped. Slurp. Suck. Slurp. Suck. All I heard were the sounds of the greedy thief stealing my blood. Inhale. Exhale. Ache. Chill. Inhale.

Término.

Neglect. Consider it done.

2009-03-30T17:18:00.000-07:00

I am ending my neglectful run right now. I'm starting to get into that mode where everything is happening so fast and furiously and I'm constantly grasping at it all as it flies by that I'm forgetting to stop for a fucking second and take it all in. So that is what I will attempt to do.

I saw Jon Stewart on Saturday night. Yes. It was packed and there was a line snaking around the gym. Yes. It was expensive as hell, the direct result of him charging a ridiculous amount of money. And YES. It was JON STEWART. Mainstream. Predictable. Blah blah blah. He was HILARIOUS. Hilarious. Lewd and political and preachy and comfortable and brilliant and a riot. He kept a couple thousand people laughing for almost two hours. As we all baked in the heat of our collective bodies boiling in the barely ventilated Patrick Gym.

I fell in love a little bit with the man. But really, who isn't in love with him at least a little bit?

A new kind of spring.

2009-03-15T11:00:00.000-07:00

Back in Burlington. Those three words have struck a deep, engulfing fear and dread in me since I took off for LA last week. But.

The weather is welcoming me back. It's 50 and sunny. At least I'm not being slapped in my face with a snowstorm.

The thaw is coming around here as well. Even though it's that gross part at the beginning of spring when the snow melts and reveals all of the litter and frozen mud........all of the ugly means that something better is to come! When spring starts to peek through the winter haze around here people emerge from houses like bears out of hibernation. Squinting into the sun, stretching into the new air. Joggers, bikers, and skateboarders seem to quadruple in the span of a weekend. It's appreciation man. The thaw is coming! Life will be restored to the barren wasteland that is Northern Vermont and the green will emerge and spread across the mountains until grass and leaves and flowers cease to be a novelty. Something to be counted becomes something to be counted on.

If I was to move to California, I think that cycle would be something I'd miss. Although, not enough to make me want to run back here mid-January. But there is something so satisfying in watching the Earth move and change and restore itself. Temperate climates offer a type of dependable landscape that is stagnant. Stagnant in a beautiful aesthetic, but

I am a daughter of New England. Dark and tortured, bright and content. Cynical enough to believe that the only constant is constantly changing.

Back to the future.

2009-03-13T18:00:00.000-07:00

A list of reasons why my week in LA was everything I needed:

1. Three time zones, a six hour flight and the entire midwest.

2. Dry sunshine that warmed my cheeks.

3. Counting palm trees.

4. Experiencing the wonder of self-serve frozen yogurt.

5. Early-morning, car-ride, and late-night conversations with Christine

6. A city that looked nothing like anything I've ever seen.

7. Glasses of wine on cool nights.

8. Getting slipped a phone number without trying.

9. A happy, afternoon buzz in the hills of the central coast.

10. All sorts of crazy that was Kristina Pika Allen.

11. Driving along a coast that wasn't my coast and watching an ocean that wasn't my ocean.

12. Being swept up in aesthetic.

13. Seeing through new eyes.

14. The colors of Santa Barbara.

15. Sunglasses, sun dresses and sunshine.

Wine-O

2009-03-11T08:55:00.000-07:00

Chris and I spent the day driving up the coast yesterday into Santa Barbara and eventually settling the little town of Los Olivos to do some wine tasting. It was absolutely beautiful, the drive took us through mountain passes with the Pacific on one side and steep cliff faces on the other. Los Olivios itself as just a few stretches of road lined with little shops and littered with wine tasting rooms in the middle of endless vineyards.

I've decided I really love wine. I was already well aware of this fact but my experience yesterday just solidified it even more for me. I want to develop my palate so I can really taste all of the complexities in a really good class of wine. How do you develop your palate without becoming a snob? That will be a new goal of mine. Wine expertise, minus the snobbery. Because lets face it, I am in no financial position to be a snob.

Yesterday was just one of those days though. Idyllic and long and tiring. The day that I'll point to on this trip that stands out from the others. It was a good day.

A thought for the end of the night.

2009-03-09T21:46:00.000-07:00

Self preservation can be hard, miserable work. I think this is for many reasons, one of which is the capacity of the human mind to move only towards what it is we try to preserve ourselves from. It is a cruel, cruel joke that I am perpetually the butt of as I wander around LA. I read the flashing signs above store fronts and suddenly I'm taken through the maze--- layer upon layer of recalls until I end at the same place I'm trying to hard to ignore. It's making me want to delete part of my brain. Like in that movie. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

Man, they had a point there. A twisted, debilitating, wonderful point.

Bro's and Ho's

2009-03-09T09:12:00.001-07:00

Last night we went to a bar appropriately named "Q's" due to the excessive amount of pool tables there were around the place. Sitting at the bar we both felt like eyes were on us, but in true Chris and Erin style, didn't actually say anything to each other until we were both bursting in all sorts of awkward. Later we decided it had to have been because we were the only women in the place who were ACTUALLY in their early 20's. The rest were posers, man. Fake boobs, fake chins, fake nails. It's like these women think that four more coats of mascara and another layer of spray tan will take off another 5 years.

Not so much.

I've decided that I'm going to bask in my youth as long as I can and then do everything in my power to age gracefully. Three days in LA have made me fear cosmetic surgery in a deep and powerful way. Deep and powerful.

Anyway. Post-gawker friendly bar experience we hit up an In-N-Out Burger which made my night because 1. I've never been to an In-N-Out Burger and 2. the burgers were cheap and delicious. The whole place was decked out in 1950's class, from the worker's outfits to the red and white everything to the menu with three options....hamburger, cheeseburger, or double cheeseburger. Class man. They don't do those fake-fish sandwiches or rat-meat mcnuggets. I dug the In-N-Out. Well done.

A picture sometimes means more.

2009-03-08T18:18:00.000-07:00

How I'm beginning to feel.

Wake up call.

2009-03-08T08:09:00.000-07:00

It's 7 am Pacific time. I can't seem to force myself to sleep any later. Which is fine, except that I crash at night. I'm going to make it my mission to force myself to last tonight. Stamina! I'll do something drastic, take a nap or chug some coffee at 9 pm.

After spending an entire day here, I think I'm being played. How much I like LA as a city, or a place, I really couldn't accurately say because the weather is keeping me in this happy state of mind. Dry sun makes the ocean sparkle and the green pop and the flowers bloom and I just keep noticing all of the beauty. The endless freeways and traffic we were stuck in yesterday bringing Nate south was nothing! I watched the hills change colors, green to yellow to fire-orange and back again. Snow-capped mountains appeared in the sky, their bases masked by low hanging clouds. Everything we passed was a strip mall, but for some reason it didn't bother me as much as it would have at home. The buildings were all a neat tan- stucco. Mixing into the background. Lacking that industrial quality of big shopping plazas on the East Coast.

I've decided this trip is going to be subtitled: an exercise in self-preservation. With middle America separating me from all that I know, this giant leap back is letting me retreat. Build up some much needed defenses, so that I can return. Preserved.

We saw Watchmen yesterday in an IMAX theatre. Everything about it was gratuitous.

Hello Sunshine.

2009-03-06T21:25:00.000-08:00

Los Angeles is an anomaly to my East Coast sensibilities. The sun shines all the time around here. Every street corner seems to be a strip mall with a palm tree entrance. The cars are so shiny! Luxury models in shades of metallic. The Pacific Ocean stretches along, reaching in towards the coastal highways that weave up and down the shore.

I think I need to digest. I am overwhelmed and enamored and repulsed all at the same time.

America.

2009-03-06T08:58:00.000-08:00

I'm watching the John Adams mini series right now. I keep choking up when wounded militia are shown. It made me think. I have no connection to these events in reality. My people came much later. My people. The poor Irish. The impoverished Sicilians.

John Adams. Thomas Jefferson. Bunker Hill. July 4th. People, events, dates that mean nothing in my own heritage.

Yet I choke up? Maybe it's the full orchestra in the back ground, pulling at my heart strings.

Wifi at 35,000 Feet. Thanks Richard Branson.

2009-03-06T06:42:00.000-08:00

Coffee stains dot my things. I am incapable of keeping the liquid from spilling out of the tiny hole on the top of the to-go cups they give me. Pages of my journal stick together from the top, my white MacBook keyboard is only clean because I am obsessively wiping it off. This is only one of the examples that weave through my everyday screaming – GET IT TOGETHER.

Got it.

Why is that flying to Los Angeles seems like such a….light at the end of the tunnel experience? Like LA will offer something more than sunshine and overpriced drinks. Maybe it will. It probably won’t. But right now my skin is pale from being layered with sweaters and jackets for months. And my head feels like it's filled with cold air that permeates into everything I'm thinking, freezing it all into one place. I’m looking for a thaw. To free my thoughts, melt my memories that right now are running on a tormenting loop. I don’t want to remember everything right now. I want movement. Space to move. A thawing out.

A part of me hates Vermont. It represents my settling. I don’t fit in with the super-outdoor enthusiasts, or the soy milk chugging neo-hippies. I don’t even fit in with the stoners or the laced straight bookworms. Not that everyone fits neatly in categories. It's just that the hipsters in Vermont make me want to scream because they’re in VERMONT. If you want to be a hipster move to Brooklyn and do it up right. Vermont represents a shift in myself that happened when I was 18. When I decided to stick it out, around here. I left New York, I gave up on London. I settled in Burlington. Not that I want to harp on that now. Because. Really, what's the fucking use?

18 and 22. It seems like I’ve lived an age. My chest hurts when I think about it, so I won’t. I’m going to LA. To sit in sunshine, to look for a thaw.