Friday, November 26, 2010

Thursday, Day One.

(Written on January 7, 2010)

I've begun reading my first self help book on re-birthing my writing. Sitting in my favorite little nook at the coffee shop, I had initially set the book to my left, writing pad to my right, and after endless minutes digging deep into my slouchy sunken purse, realized I'd forgotten my most important component. Distraught, I eyed the business casual man sitting directly in front of me, who was coincidentally enough, fumbling through his over-sized, gray shoulder bag.
"Excuse me," I asked, using a rather discerning tone. "Do you have a pen or pencil?"
He rummaged a bit more. "No, but I need to go put money in my parking meter, and surely there is one in my car."
"As long as it isn't any trouble..." I began, but he was quick to puncture my sentence. "Not at all." Cue the toothy smile.
I sipped my coffee while his footsteps clunked in the direction of the door, the hollow floors reverberating through the corridor.
While mystery man raced in hot pursuit against time, attempting to avoid the potential nuisance of a costly paper underneath his windshield wiper, I flipped through pages of a local paper to read my horoscope, and while normally perused in a flash with a sigh, this one grabbed me, shaking me menacingly. (Or maybe it stroked me tenderly.)
I looked up in anticipation of a writing utensil; this list screamed to be chronicled for later use; revisited with rosy retrospection.
"Good thing I made it out there so soon," he said, a sound of relief in his voice. "As I reached my car, others down the line were being ticketed." Then, extending his hand to mine, I carefully eased a hotel pen from his fingertips. "Close call huh?" I asked, not expecting an answer, following it up with mild mannered guffaw. "Thank you."
There was a deep-seated haste within me to scribble down the words as fast as I could. In what could be the worst penmanship to date, I wrote the list, introspectively connecting each 'approach' with something I'd already done, or what was to be:

"Five Revolutionized Approaches To the Art Of Rebellion: cultivate these within the coming weeks.

1. Experimenting with uppity, mischievous optimism
2. Invoking insurrectionary levels of wildly interesting generosity
3. Indulging in an insolent refusal to be chronically fearful
4. Pursuing a cheeky ambition to be as wide awake as a dissident young messiah
5. Bringing reckless levels of creative intelligence to all expressions of love."

Reading each one, pertinent, correlated events cropped up like crabgrass, in my mind. Storing it away in the depths of my bag, I re-focused on my book. 60 pages later, I left.


Revisiting the stoop of speculation, I jotted verisimilar mental notes on whatever caught my attention (the Jack Nicholson lookalike, the gaunt, petite smoker with legs so frail and skinny they could easily be snapped like a wishbone) all the while thinking to myself, "always been a firebolt... constantly provoking, instigating, questioning......"

Something had interrupted my train of thought. Looking over, a little toddler in a neon green jacket and winter hat adorned with bear ears sat down next to me. "Hi!" she said, looking deeply into my eyes; mine into hers. As her dad stood on the curb close-by, he watched as his daughter Madeline and I made disjointed conversation. Mentioning her bear hat, she touched the furry ears with her tiny hands, wiggling them at me. After exchanging a polite little handshake with such tiny little fingers, we said our byes, and as her father carried her away, she stared back at me, waving and saying "Bye!"

And then, I sat alone again, automatically back in my mind, correlating it with a similar event back in the summer when a little girl was more interested in me then getting ice cream, sitting on a stoop with me outside the farmers market.

And it hit me, something I've reasoned before but hadn't put into words, till now: I have the power to provoke, without provoking.

Oh Captain, my Captain.

(Written on January 21, 2010)

So, in my self help book of choice (Juicy Pens, Thirsty Paper by SARK) I am embarking on the different writing activities... on a certain page, she gives a selection of first lines of sentences, and I chose to attempt 'Without the book, he simply could not find.' I was sitting in a booth at work before my shift the other day writing on my little cheap ass notepad.

There is a certain 'thought' in here that has a certain meaning to it that - some may think of the verbs literal meaning, but it's a little more subjective than that.

Umm, here we go:

Without the book, he simply could not find the words to regail the beautiful young woman.
written words from the pit of his stomach were failing to conceptualize,
hypothesize, titillate, postulate, render a thought in his current state
he was a lost boat at sea, the captain flailing at the helm.
Across from one another, they stared vacantly into negative spaces... both so desperate inside; stubborn pride was their protective armor of choice.
Sing to me! her mind cried. She looked down at her feet.
Taking this as a moment of opportunity, he gazed upon her fondly.
Give me a sign, his brain shouted.
Shifting the weight of the chair, her body slumped a bit as she gave an exasperated sigh. With a soft look of compassion, head lowered, he watched with no control - as his hand reached for hers, grasping it tenderly, he slowly, almost methodically - raised his face to hers.
This smile didn't feel like all the others; it was emblazoned, and spread like wildfire to the ends of her mouth. Eloquence wasn't rendered a necessity.

Hey you conservatives!

(Written on January 21, 2010)

here's a little ditty I wrote.

drip drop drop,
it just won't stop
bark howl cluck
I just feel stuck
these sounds and these words agitate me,
yet it's all I can afford,
and in hope, will strike a chord
with those fancy shmancy squares
they call me a starving artist
with a grin, a nod, a sigh,
but I think it's condescending
and I'm just trying to get by
gonna keep on, keep on, keep on pretending,
and living in this oh so hectic let's be skeptics world.
eat, sleep, shit, work, read, write, repeat,
drink and dance a beat, sound easy? it can be quite a feat.
there's no use competing, and there's no one to defeat.

Vitamin Dick.

(Written on March 19, 2010)

here's a lil somethin somethin I wrote in ten minutes after sunbathing today.

vitamin d
you electrify me
deprivation all winter long
made me think of this dumb song
vitamin d
are you too good to be true
when you're gone long and I'm so blue,
what the fuck am I to do?
vitamin d
you stupify me
ya cook my brain inside and out,
leave me feeling full of doubt
vitamin d
whats up my old friend
stick around a little while,
and just give me a reason to smile, OH YEAHHHH.

Mi vida antes de moverlo.

It began in a quiet midwest suburb of Dayton, Ohio, the birthplace of Orville and Wilbur Wright. West Carrollton, primarly known for it's paper mill, was a small, safe community where children walked to school everyday, participated in recreational sports teams, played or swam at the infamous Wilson Park, visited the public library each week for a new stash of books (because it was fun to leisurely read), and had their birthday parties at Pizza Hut.

Although nothing special in the grand scheme of things, these were my childhood romping grounds. It was where I learned haphazardly to ride a bicycle without training wheels, caught salamanders in the creek behind my house, and roamed each and every neighborhood adjacent to my street, with my own personal clan of friends. My parents were never too strict when it came to letting me venture off on my own, and I would set my own limitations on what I thought I was capable of doing. Never was there the present day worries of sexual predators kidnapping in a town such as West Carrollton, it seemed to be simply unheard of, from what I was aware.

Yes, these were the simplistic days. What mattered most to me in the first few years of my life consisted of Gumby and Pokey, Sesame Street, my little Ponies, and Treasure Trolls. Then there were the influences of my brother, which ranged from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to race cars. I've always had an affinity for being the tomboy: I'd rather run around sucking up supernatural lives being a Ghostbuster rather than sit and have a tea party with Goldilocks. Nevertheless, I still had my pink pom-pom, Barbie Doll moments.

Seeing as many childhood memories simply come to an individual out of the blue at times and it is difficult to chronicle them all at a given moment, (lest anyone has the patience to read about them all) here are a few good moments throughout my elementary grades I'd like to share.

Preschool: I was Michaelangelo for Halloween. My mother having made the costume, I adorned the shell that was on the back of the widely circulated Little Tykes turtle sandbox. Being quite larger than myself, it was suffocating and practically consumed me. When asked what I wanted to do in the future, I simply stated, "I want to clean and take care of mommy's house." because I was so severely attached to her.

Kindergarten: Was when I first showcased my artistic achievements to a public audience. During any free time, I could be found making my own "pop-up" books and miscellanous crafts and masterpieces. After having drawn a fire truck with a couple lines in the back of it indicating movement, my teacher flipped a shit and in her state of shock and amazement, gushed to my parents how creative I was.

First Grade: Oh, what a year. I had a bully, and my first crush. Bully would chase me on playground, crush would rescue me. Bully broke my arm at the skating rink, crush signed my hot pink cast with a heart. Bully ripped the synthetic hair out of my trolls, crush bought me a plastic kiddie watch for Christmas. I would laugh at crushes underwear, and we'd get in trouble talking during tests. I loved him. He disappeared on the last day of school and I never saw him again. Figures.

Second Grade: I had the best teacher in the history of teaching, Mr. Miller. A man well known for his devotion to the Cincinnati Bengals, his reddish brown slicked back hair and freckles made all of us little girls giggle; he had our complete attention. A day I will never forget was when Miller ripped his pants and had to leave to get a new pair. The class seemed to laugh for days; we refused to lay the incident to rest. Explaining pronouns one day, he accidentally said "she" and "it" together, very fast. He flushed, apologizing profusely, and yet again our class roared with laughter. My best friend Stacy Corbitt continued the trend of breaking limbs when midway into the year, she broke her entire right arm after a fateful monkey bar incident.

Third Grade: She blinded us with science! Mrs. Haas definitely took an experimental approach to teaching, making each and every hands on experience better than the next. By the years end, we had created soda bottle tornados, played with earth worms, ate pomegranate seeds for the first time, as well as various others. Outside of school, I had travelled to Disney, stayed in a five class hotel with a Mickey phone while visiting MGM and rode the Tower of Terror at nauseum. This was also when I loved my favorite movie ever, The Lion King, and owned every piece of memorabilia I could find/muster out of my allowance, birthday, and holidays.

Fourth Grade: Mrs. Jenks is the reason why I came to love reading so much. She read my class the epic stories one could never forget, such as the Indian in the Cupboard series, Serendipity books, or better yet, the Mouse on the Motorcycle. This was a year of firsts for me in a public audience setting: I was in the Spelling Bee, and in my first school play, Scaredy Cat. Unfortunately, both were rather flustering. In the Spelling Bee, I lost after the first round thanks to the uncertainty of whether "roommate" had one or two m's, and my our first performance of Scaredy Cat began with my brother's best friend whistling and shouting from the audience, "Yeah Karyn!" (I had a crush on him. It was mortifying.) Having mentioned this crush, his name was Carlos Santiago. While my friends made fun of me and chuckled as they sang "Where In the World is Carlos Santiago?" to the tune of the Carmen Sandiego theme song, I ignored their teasing and spent my time hanging out with him and my brother, playing hockey and wrestling in our basement. My free time was also spent doing activities with my Girl Scout Troop, which consisted of some of my closest friends, Julie, Christine, and Tessa. I also had the amazing experience of going to New Mexico with my family; visiting a town enclosed in snow capped mountains in Colorado and sprawling my limbs out at the monument which adjoined the four corners of Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, and Colorado.

Fifth Grade: Detesting dresses, skirts, and the color pink, I traded in the girly girl way of life for baggy t-shirts and stretchy pants, the kind with the straps that go around your foot hidden by your shoe. My tomboy traits consisted of watching Space Ghost Coast to Coast with my equally tomboy-esque best friend, Stacy, whom I also spent time with drawing cartoons about aliens and bugs and/or singing the "Smokey says" song into our Yak Paks. Halfway into the year, I recieved a shocking statement from my dad that rocked my young egotistical world: I was moving to Terre Haute, Indiana and no longer attending Harry Russell Elementary in West Carrollton, with the only friends I knew.

"Strange things are happening to me, ain't no doubt about it."

(Written August 17, 2010)

Nabbed a little inspiration from a conversation today, added and subtracted - mixed up some words and made it into a dialogue. Enjoy, I suppose:



Patient: I feel like I have to make a clarification with you, since you're my therapist n' all... I haven't just been ignoring you, I've been kind of ignoring everybody. I keep having these sickly intense dreams lately where I...



Therapist: no worries, no sweat, no need to explain.



Patient: But sir, they are those of the terrifying nature of where i almost die, or have killed others!



Therapist: Scary stuff. (Feels unsure to admit it but decides to be the 'real' therapist who admits defeat instead of making the generalization that 'it happens to everybody!') Guess I've had those too...



Patient: (unphased by the therapists admission of insanity) Each one has the ability to put me in an everlasting funk for 24 hours, and after the amount I've had - let's just say it's like roll over minutes for your phone. They're so overlapped - here, I will elaborate to you how bogged down my head is by spelling the word - Effffff.. (holds it out 10 seconds.) youuuu.. (10 sec.) Ehnnn.. (10 sec.) KAY! (1 sec + exclamation.)



Therapist: Well.... (strokes the scruff on his chin) I usually wake up right before I kill 'em, and I'm scared out of my fucking mind. (pause, blank 'deer-caught-in-the-headlights' look at the file cabinet in the back of the room behind the patient.) They stay with me too.

(Eyes jolt right back to patient, mouth attempts to open at the same time to save himself from trailing off into his own head.)

But as far as you and I are concerned? I'm not worried, and you shouldn't be either. Please do describe, if you can, any of the dreams in detail?



Patient: I had one last night, people were vanishing and they suspected I was the culprit, but I quite literally don't remember doing anything to anyone.



Therapist: Hmmm... (stroka-da-chinny chin chin.) You did tell me last week that you feel like the world is conspiring against you...





Patient: The night before last had me tied up to the outside of an airplane, with all my relatives safely inside - and going through turbulence - I saw it all through first person - how low it was to the ground and trees! I had to hang on for dear life in a severe panic stricken strife.

(pause.)

But I didn't die, I made it.





Therapist: But you were shitting your pants, metaphorically speaking.



Patient: Yes.



Therapist: Well I'm definitely sorry you are experiencing this funk.



Patient: You know what? It's okay.. I think i'm going to try to write about it, even though try has the equivalent to struggle.



Therapist: (does a 'by joe!' physical arm swing while saying) 'Atta girl! When's the last time you did that?



Patient: (laughs in a fake haughtily tone to hide her bad resentment towards her inability when she says) Not in a long time.



Therapist: And therein, lies the nature of the struggle.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Thanksgiving Thoughts.

It's only when I come home to my wonderful family and dogs who sooth me to the core to realize that Northampton is turning me into the bitch that I do not want to be. Making a new plan for the upcoming new year, and if I don't get a job in the 'paradise' (heavy sarcasm) in the next two weeks I'm out... and it might involve out of the state entirely.

Reading a really good book snuggled under a warm blanket while having my golden retrievers vying for my affection is exquisite. so are hot meals, fireplaces and hot tubs. Love what you got, it's all ya have to get you through.

Malignant Messages.

If someone really wants to listen to others hyped up false propaganda, well then I guess they can go ahead, but if they don't want to actually talk to the person being falsely accused, then there's really nothing for that person to do then just completely distance themselves from the entire pile of horse manure.

Always had the problem of trusting everyone. Can't trust anyone but a handful of good people.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Gurgley monster sounds.

Growing tired of the hunger pains I put myself through because of the lack of food in my house, and that I'm trying to be so frugal with what money I have left that I kind of refuse to eat. I do have vitamins however...
Let's just say I'm fasting for Thanksgiving. Hurry up, Thursday...

(Sidenote: I did eat something today, so lest anyone worry too much. Had to have something before my intense interview which was nerve-racking as hell.)

Friday, November 19, 2010

Welcome back, hazelnut coffee.

"Are you absolutely one hundred percent sure?" is a question that surfaces within the sea. It's very unlike me to be sitting at a solo small table downstairs of an incredibly chattery coffee shop at 10am - having not had the courage (nor drive) to be scribbling in public since the summertime. Lately all I've been jotting down is running to-do lists, like this most recent one:
"2pm today I will bludgeonly attempt a temp agency appointment - don't give up or be lazy - wisely monitor your drinking habits in the name of your monetary finances - give people the benefit of the doubt..."
In another corner a gentleman with a British accent pipes up about 'writing circuses' and 'art and media and trend-based' mumbo jumbo.
Ooh, now I'm being instantiated with tales of Copernicus and Galileo - why don't I do this more often? Maybe parents and elders had more than one meaning in mind when they told us to 'be seen and not heard,' not just our automatic response to talk back, or to be downright obnoxious.
This is surprising me at the moment - to calmly sit in a corner - almost puffing my chest up somewhat - as still as a praying mantis infiltrating another flock of praying manti (that sounds comical) what is this that I am realizing? My self confidence, even after all these weeks of absolute craziness in the cabeza, has been increasing exponentially?
Something is helping me bust out of my seams. I've handwritten this page with such fastidious fervour and gusto, that if any of these folks with their comrades, co-workers, or clients were to look up they'd see that I have been bitten by something so ravenous and extreme that I resemble a sturdy - yet psychotic - mad woman who seriously does not know what the hell she is doing but is pushing towards the future. in the nicest thought possible. with one pinkie up.

Art Star.

A few weekends ago, I spent a car ride deciphering a dream:

I found myself in a place consisting of - an art gallery on the top floor, and a restaurant on the bottom floor. Having received permission (or I believe I was asked to) paint murals on all of the walls of the upstairs, I designed and laboriously worked on detailed, elegant landscapes - and intricate giant trees.

This, is a top view of the building, so essentially
two rooms worth of wall was covered:




- To get to the bottom level of the building, a fireman's poll was on one side of the double diamond and one small set of stairs was in the opposite corner.

- People were constantly in and out - looking around at the art and watching me paint while I had to randomly stop to see how smoothly everything flowed downstairs. In the restaurant, there was a smoking section (Left diamond) and a non-smoking (Right.) and even though it is non-realistic in reality, there wasn't a barrier or anything of the sort separating the two - the non-smokers coped with the faint smell, the motto seemed to be: "If you can't stand cigar[ette] smoke, don't bother coming (but you'll be missing out, obviously.)"

- Televisions were up on the walls in|on both stories - playing what was either a movie, video game (or movie videogame) of Wii-like characters, but short and stubbier, smooshed to look like Hello Kittys.)


One thing I couldn't seem to remember: if there was any conflict.

Main & Pleasa-vent

Sometimes I stop to think about it.
While the majority of my brain has cleared the outdated debris, tiny dust balls remain.
On one certain day a week (and is a weekly occurrence,) these dust balls containing fragmented memories either get kicked up and fly around (literally) or little caffeinated cartoon balls just, FLIP OUT, man. (figuratively.)
And they produce such questions, as to wonder,
Why so passe?
Will you just talk to me?
Do you enjoy being a jerk? (and that's said with a 'hate to say this, but in an all signs point to yes,' kind of way.)
And the ever so interesting, Why is it that when I do my finest at ignoring you, I actually feel like you're actually attentive in my direction?
It'll always be a mystery. One that I must keep in the past.
Stop diggin' that thar' hole. That'san order.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

The world is a cancer eating itself away.

"I recall distinctly how I enjoyed my suffering. It was like taking a cub to bed with you. Once in a while he clawed you - and then you really were frightened. Ordinarily you had no fear - you could always turn him loose, or chop his head off.

There are people who cannot resist the desire to get into a cage with wild beasts and be mangled. They go in even without revolver or whip. Fear makes them fearless. . . .

His courage is so great that he does not even smell the dung in the corner. The spectators applaud but he does not hear. The drama, he thinks, is going on inside the cage. The cage, he thinks, is the world. Standing there alone and helpless, the door locked, he finds that the lions do not understand his language."

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

attn: everyone!

WILL DRAW, WRITE, TAKE REQUESTS for $$$!


plzzzzzzz donate! I promise to not disappoint!
(send all ideas to: marionettesque@gmail.com!)









MUCHO AMORE <3,
KD

Monday, November 15, 2010

The Life of an Unemployed Bachelorette....

.... who lives with a sixty and thirty year old man. Grounds for epic tale to be told? Would it be wrong to glamorize such a life? Not that I'd want to encourage folks to quit their jobs - hell, when I walked in to visit a friend at work a few days ago:
"Four and a half more hours of this," he says to me.
"I'd work it for you if I could!" I blurt back.
Dessssperado.
I'm such a house mouse now, so silent. Every footstep and crickety crack reverberates so easily - while I got to roam free in Williams Street, I am extremely self conscious of every action I make here. J'detest being extremely self conscious. Seriously, to all you 'Eff it I'm going to say and do what I want!' people, I partially envy you. (50% envy, 25% can't stand, 25% try to understand.)
A large portion of time is spent SCOURING the vast information superhighway for even a SPECK of work - in my skivvies? well, and a top. a top, and skivvies. In a way, I kind of feel like Carrie from Sex and the City right now. but not as prolific, nor stimulating. So yes I just admitted to currently being in skivvies looking for jobs.
My stubborn butt refuses to collect unemployment or food stamps. People are really getting on said gluteus maximus' case to apply for those. Although honestly I think one of them was being so persistent about it (at a bar) because he wanted to 'help' me aka touch my butt. No thank you...


Sunday, November 14, 2010

Jobs that would rule.

- Lounge singer
- Street Performer
- Personal Assistant
- Secretary
- Interior Designer (can't do this for myself but for others - oh hells yeah)
- Librarian?
- Puppet Show master
(will be added upon)

They'll blow us to suckdom come.

Also: Guys suck. It has reached the breaking point of suckdom. I am honestly fed up. You show a little REAL com[passion] and then you get the big slap in the face.

Fueled by Diet Coke.

Well, almost a month since the last entry, and still in the position of unemployment. To get a good mental picture of how many times I've applied and followed up to places - let one lego block constitute a single application, and now imagine that stacked up as high as the leaning tower of Pisa.
So I might be exaggerating a wee bit, but after a recent attempt which seemed to be going very well (and what I proclaimed to be the 'perfect position' for myself) in which I had an interview, had homework (copious amounts of research and an interview molded into an article all nicely incorporated into an illustrious Power Point presentation which I was astutely proud of myself) was ready to present it - but it was apparent that another person was already picked for the part - when I was told I would come in and present it, they had me e-mail it instead, and got the 'we picked this person' e-mail shortly thereafter. (Commence the crying, shaking me at a bar later that night - out because I didn't want to be home, but completely quiet because I didn't feel like speaking to anyone.)
Since then, I'm trying my damndest not to be too jaded, and walking in town watching the sunset tonight, a thought popped in my head. Life is too fucking beautiful to be so bogged down worrying all the time. This does suck, I am very incredibly unsure about my future at the moment, but damn. I'm 25. And you know what? I'm not some stuck up shithead (excuse my french) who had everything handed to them on a silver platter, I've already almost worked for a decade of my life and did 4 years in college. I've always worked hard, and I've always tried my best. I have an amazing father who - lord knows has put up with my stubborn, ridiculous highs and lows, and is currently helping me out at the moment because this world is so crazy and money is so stupid.
Everyone is so worried, stressed out, and their mental capabilities are being tested and strained like slimy spaghetti that was cooked too long. Sometimes I wonder who stops to really appreciate a sunset anymore in this psycho world of technology. I seriously want to punch anyone who ever utters the phrase 'but there's an app for that!'
This is really discombobulated. I need to go do what I do to forget this nonsense. Sing some karaoke, and then begin the next day with more resume shuffling and yadda yadda.

 
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