Absent Vendor

Today I spent some time at the local library trying to be productive. I failed miserably, spending the majority of my time stalking friends on facebook and composing unnecessary emails. After an hour or so, the asylum-type silence was too much to bear. I gathered my belongings and ran outside into the overcast sky. I wandered down to Adams Park, and sat on a park bench. I scribbled a bit in my journal and took in my surroundings: the purple irises, lush green leaves, and the bubbling sounds of the central fountain, until my stomach rumbled. I wandered down to the corner of Wesley and Cross in search of the hot dog vendor and his cart.

When I arrived at his usual perch, the vendor was nowhere to be found.  I walked around the perimeter of the park, hoping I would find him in an alternative location, a different corner, but I had no such luck. Feeling utterly disappointed, I trekked down to the coffee shop for a cup of homemade brew, but nothing could replace my desire for a Chicago-style dog from a true Chicago vendor. Actually, I can't say that I was disappointed by this event. I was more than that. I was mortified and deeply saddened. There is something special about purchasing a hot dog from an aluminum cart, in the middle of a park on a Tuesday afternoon. The absence of the hot dog vendor took a little bit of my summer joy and as a result I am feeling grumpy. Maybe the hot dog vendor will be back at his post tomorrow afternoon. For now, I will sulk and sip my coffee.

Keepsakes

I have a journal. A beautiful journal. I have been writing in this beautiful journal for the last five months, and now its pages are filled. I am saddened by this ending.

I received my journal as a gift from my fabulous Manhattan cousin. She understands my love for the written word and dutifully bought me a gift to channel this passion. Unveiling the teal cover beneath holly printed wrapping, my heart skipped a beat as I ran my fingers over the scaly textured surface, riffled through the silver lined pages repeatedly, and pondered how I would keep this journal.

When I first started writing, I was very much a perfectionist. I wanted to preserve my stories immaculately and neatly. I took my time crafting each letter and mulled over each word choice. I wanted my journal to be a private diary, a place for reflection. I wanted to keep my recordings pristine. Eventually, this treasure became a random collection of writing. In addition to my private notes and essays, my journal became a place to record grocery lists, appointments, and rough sketches for stories and poems. I drafted thank you letters, ranted about life dramas, recorded writing exercises, book lists, call numbers and titles from the library, directions to Chelsea's house, and notes about a bar tending gig. I was ashamed of the hodgepodge mess that became of my sacred pages. My perfect collection was ruined in a sense. But now, with the help of a wise writing friend, I realize that a successful journal is not one that is kept. Rather, a journal keeps you.

 I have a new journal now. Another beautiful journal. I have another beautiful journal that was given to me by a beloved friend. I adore this new journal, its suede cover and intricate bead work, and though it is not the teal reptilian journal I began this journey with, I have no doubt it will keep me. It will keep me going.

Valker, Henry

This morning I woke up with Anne Sexton in my bed. As I riffled through the pages of her complete poems, reading various selections aloud, I came across the following receipt from the local library:

#352     02-15-2010    10:37am
Item(s) checked out to Valker, Henry.

TITLE: Every time we say goodbye [videor
BC:35143007910703
DUE DATE: 02-20-2010

TITLE: The curious case of Benjamin Butt
BC: 35143007909408
DUE DATE: 02-20-2010

TITLE: Mr. Deeds goes to town [videoreco
BC: 35143006324575
DUE DATE: 02-20-2010

TITLE: The complete poems
BC: 35143000953412
DUE DATE: 03-15-10

It is interesting the information one can gather from a tiny slip of paper: Mr. Valker visited the library Monday morning, at 10:37am, and borrowed several videos tapes. While the facts are indisputable, it is the mystery behind Mr. Valker that is debatable. A mystery. The complete poems of Sexton is 622 pages cover to cover, quite a long book, and I can't help but wonder if he read them all. There are markings in pencil and highlighter throughout the book. Dog eared pages and notes scribbled in margins. Do these notes belong to Mr. Valker and was it he who bent the pages of the poems he loved?  Did Mr. Valker have a Mrs. Valker? Did he whisper these lyrics in her ear or did he read them alone at his kitchen table with his Saltines and bowl of soup? Was Mr. Valker a young strapping lad from the local university, or is he a retired veteran decorated with wrinkles and crow's feet. Maybe he is a professor with a patched twill suit coat. He checked the book out for lecture. Maybe he is an atheist or an immigrant consulting poetry in order to learn English. He may be a wealthy business man. The possibilities are endless. Though I do not know this Mr. Valker, his age, profession, or marital status, I know that we share a desire to read the spoken word. Whoever he is, I think we'd be good friends.

Sanctuary

There is a stain glass window in the sanctuary of my church. It covers an angular shape from ceiling to floor and is divided into congruent rectangles. Each rectangle contains slices of colored glass with no distinct shape. In all honesty, the artistic decoration looks like a giant platter of different flavored jello. Lime, grape, cherry, blue raspberry, and countless others. I cannot tell you how many times I have stared at this abstract mural and searched for meaning, an image in the mosaic. Why does it seem that faith is always so complex? Or rather, why is faith made difficult by man? Undoubtedly, the creator of the jello platter incorporated some hidden image, some meaning into his art, but no matter which way I twist my head I can't get past the jello squares. Then again, maybe I am the one who is making spirituality more difficult than it is. Rather than enjoying the beauty that is the window, I try to find the worldly loophole.

Book Whore

I am a literary slut. I bring books to bed and sometimes more than one at a time. I try to be a faithful reader, staying with one book from start to finish, but I am constantly tempted. It is hard to resist the hard cover binding of Collins, the soft shell of Anderson, the tattered covers of Diaz, Lamott, and the countless others scattered on the floor, the shelf, the desk, and those still tumbled in the sheets.
Just read the inside cover, they tease and soon I am engrossed in page 116.

Before I am aware of my adultery, I find myself juggling six lovers simultaneously. I struggle to keep each plot line, character, and setting in order so that none of my titles will discover my sluty secret. It is even more challenging to devote adequate time with each novel, without the others getting suspicious. I will admit that I have been a bitch and a pimp, discarding titles halfway through because I have found younger, fresher, more exciting reads that I cannot help but devour immediately. Once the fun and games settle beneath the sheets, I crawl back to my older titles and show my appreciation until my attention is lost again.

Bookshops and libraries are my brothels and strip clubs. I make frequent visits to these locations and feel up a few books during my stay. Knowing I cannot foot the bill to bring these titles home, I drool longingly as I run my fingers over their gold embossed spines. Other times, when I am desperate for a good read, I neglect my basic needs. I choose titles over groceries, fuel, and new shoes. For on these occasions, I know that I will be fed by my lovers. Oh what a satisfying meal!

Manxiety

I think I have manxiety. This is, of course, a very rare neurological condition that prevents an individual from delving into deeper relationships with the opposite sex, and more specifically men. The other day I was sitting at the local cafe, scribbling in my journal, when a young man approached my table and sat in the chair opposite me. He looked to be about twenty-five, a little grungy, with shaggy brown hair and gray eyes that could suck you into a vortex.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

I put my pen down and closed my journal. "Writing."

"Are you not enjoying it?"

"No, I am."

"Then why is your face so frowny?"

Well, I thought to myself, it is because some stranger interrupted my creative process and invited himself into my workspace. "I was just concentrating. My friends call it my writing face."

The conversation went on like this for a while. I discovered the guy's name was Steven and that he graduated from some design school back in 2009. He works as a substitute teacher and designs backpacks, among other things, on the side. In the five minutes I talked to Steven, I concluded he was like any other unemployed hippster. Though he made me a little uncomfortable with his confidence, I didn't mind his company. After all, I had been sitting in the coffee shop for a few hours and was feeling a little lonely. I like chatting with strangers and I planned to leave town the next day. Making a new coffee shop friend seemed harmless. Then it happened.

"So, I ran cross country back in high school," Steven said.

"Oh yeah? Me too, but I haven't been running since. I should really get back into that habit."

"Well, you should come dune running with me and my buddies at the beach tonight. What do ya say?"

What do I say? I say I met you literally seven minutes ago and already you are looking to pick me up?   "Uh, I don't know."

"Aww, come on. It's not like I am a creep or anything."

That's the funny thing about men. As soon as they declare that they are not creeps, they automatically appear creepy. It is the same with drunkards. When a drunk person starts showing you that he can touch his nose and walk a straight line, it is time to take the keys and cut him off. Ignoring the creeper comment and the sour feeling in my stomach, I attempted to tell Steven that I wasn't interested. However, I couldn't muster the courage. In place of honesty, I avoided rejection by retrieving his phone number and promising a call I knew I would never make. 

This is one encounter, among many, that I have had with the opposite sex. So why didn't I give Steven a chance? He seemed nice enough. He wasn't bad looking. He didn't have any noticeable oddities. So why didn't I refill my coffee cup and continue chatting with this fellow? Why didn't I meet him on the beach or give him the decency of a phone call? I wish I could pinpoint a reason or a legitimate excuse for why I ignored Steven and other men like him, but I can't. I am no psychologist. However, I do know that when it comes to relationships, I am not your girl. Once the flirting phase is over and expectations are mentioned, you lose me. I refuse affection and close up. I claim that I am too busy, too far, too close, too introverted, too ambitious, to be in a relationship, when in reality I use these excuses to build walls. I wish I knew what I was trying to keep out, or rather what I am afraid of letting in, but until I can comprehend the workings of my brain I will attribute my symptoms to manxiety. This is my self-diagnosis and my only excuse for now.

Barbie Girl

Last week I successfully completed my undergraduate degree by partaking in the ritual known as graduation. I paraded behind my fellow alphabet letters in navy robes and mortarboards in order to receive the coveted diploma. Like many successful college grads, I am now living at my parents' home and I'm unemployed.Though I am not working a nine to five job, I am putting my B.A. to good use by marking cardboard boxes with thick sharpie markers and sorting the contents of my household into the appropriate cube in preparation for my parents' move across the country.

In the moving frenzie, I came across a box containing my beloved Barbie doll. After years of devote play, her hair is now frizzy and her limbs are slightly dented from my carnivorous preschool days. But despite her slightly haggled appearance, Barbie remains to be the ultimate icon of fashion and beauty. As I examined this doll in my hands, I quickly became embarrassed in the face of my former addiction. You see, I use to be a Barbie junkie. I loved playing with this plastic beauty every chance I could get. In fact, this habit lasted well through my middle school days.

While most of my tween comrades dabbled in the world of Maybeline, I was trapped in the world of Mattel. I would come home from school, grab a granola bar, and sneak downstairs to the playroom. There, I would pull Barbie and her posse from their labeled bin and engage in  hours of dramatic play. When friends would call to hang, I always found myself in a mad rush to clean up my "baby toys" and slip an NSYNC tape on the CD player before the doorbell rang. Though I tried to kick the habit several times, I was a woman possessed. Even duct taping the plastic lid couldn't keep me away from my pals. I ripped the thick binding from the bin in order to expose the melodramas between Barbie, Stacey, and Ken.

At thirteen, I deemed myself immature and abnormal for living in a world of make believe. But as I look back on the play habits of my youth, I can't help but laugh because I now understand my fascination with these toys. I did not enjoy playing with Barbie because I could dress her up in pretty dresses and do her hair, rather I played with Barbie because each play time became a new story, a new plot line, a new adventure.

As a writer, I am always searching for characters to share their stories. I wait for them to whisper their experiences in my ear. Barbie simply happened to be the  protagonist of my youth. While sitting in algebra or drawing maps in Social Studies, she would chatter about Skipper stealing her favorite sweater or her attempt to save the lost city of Atlantis. When I returned home, I replayed the stories she revealed. Though I never recorded her endeavors on paper, the innocent and intense creativity  of our play fueled my passion and pursuit of writing. But instead of reenacting the scenes I see and hear, I now record them on sacred pages.

Holding Barbie in my hands, I brushed her hair smooth and gave her dress a quick straightening before laying her gently in a box marked "donate." As I closed the lid and taped it shut, I whispered a little prayer for my once beloved toy, hoping that she will continue to share her stories and bring joy to another little girl who is eager to retell them.

Fearless Scribbles

I am not going to make any excuses. I have not been writing recently because I simply do not know what to write. I have gotten so caught up in the idea of trying to make every phrase, thought, story, poem, into a publishable masterpiece that I simply put myself down before I write anything on paper. Oh the irony! I am scared to immortalize words in a project that is entitled fearless scribbles.

At the beginning of this project I vowed to write simply for the pleasure of writing and to do so without apprehension. Yet here I am, a few months later, fretting over a fear of words that in reality I do not have. A little fear is always good to have, for if you aren't scared you are not fully doing anything worth doing. So where is all this rambling headed? Well, I am not quite sure. I am, however, certain that I am back and ready for the challenge that is writing.