Archive | August, 2013

White Magic For Lovers

27 Aug

When I’m in love, I don’t read my horoscope. Obviously because the universe has provided me everything I need and I’m happy, so why even bother looking up or tempting fate.

I am not in love.

At night lately I’ve been dealing out 3 tarot cards and scouring them (plus two books to help me decode) for my past, present, and future. I hold the cards over my heart after I shuffle them in an effort to, I don’t know, sync them up with my beat.

I read my extended, $4.99 a month horoscope and then pass it on to my friend Rachelle, who was born a mere 24 hours after me. We celebrate our birthdays together every year and together we also lament that Astrologer Susan Miller has been telling us we’re going to get pregnant every month for years. Which, I mean. We could get pregnant each month. Technically.

I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in Jesus. The closest I get to a religion is this frantic shuffling and dialing and wondering, when the future is uncertain, if there is any way I can divine that I am going to be okay.

But I know, in my greedy secret heart, that the only way things are going to be okay is if I make them that way. That the only signs I’m going to find are ones I have painted and placed upon the path I choose. And it’s a real drag. I want prayers, potions. I want grand signs in the sky that I am being looked out for, that I am special to someone who is very, very wise.

When Things End

19 Aug

My upstairs neighbors just moved and now I’m never going to know if the guy is ever really going to nail “Hallelujah” on the acoustic guitar. I almost asked them to keep in touch just so I could find out. 


I Told You Once I Can’t Do This Again

13 Aug

A few months ago, I sat in a circle of very enlightened people eating gluten-free kale salad and learned about hakomi, a mind-body therapy that encourages mindfulness and explores the physical manifestations of trauma, depression, etc.


I’m just getting used to “normal” therapy and I approach every appointment with a to-do list because my heart is still poor. I have neither time nor money to waste on hiding things or being, you know, special. I work things out as best I can with a therapist I love and trust entirely, but the core of me remains the same. I am a hardhearted and hard working person and I am often ashamed of the abundance in my life. I believe that there is a time to set aside childish things and choose responsibility for ourselves regardless of what has or has not happened. For the people I know, that time is, well, now. It’s now, you guys. We’re in our thirties. Work on your shit.

I’ve heard a lot, at that gluten-free meeting and in my own therapy, about leaving our childhood selves behind and all the quirks, defenses, and personalities we create to weather sadness, trauma, adolescence, etc. That in adulthood, we can set ourselves free from the kinds of people we had to be to survive and now we can be who we really are, who we want to be.

And that seems nice, to me. That would be nice.

I’m in a “time of transition” right now. I just broke up with my dude and my freelance stuff is slowing down. I have a lot of time on my hands and a lot of activity in my heart hole. I’ve been having many dreams where people (everyone from my mother to my ex-dude’s sister, whom I adore) are imploring me to let me guard down and, you know, just be.

In reality, though, I believe there are two kinds of people: those of us who make messes and those of us who clean them up. I’m a cleaner. And to suggest that I stop cleaning, even for a precious moment, is to forget that there are people like my ex-dude (I love you, baby, but goddamn am I mad at you) that are never going to stop making messes. There will never be a shortage of people who don’t do what the fuck they are supposed to do because they just don’t feel like it. And I’m a special breed, a person who’s never really considered that not wanting to do something is any kind of valid reason for not doing it. So I’d like to abandon the tiny, chubby solider that wandered out of my childhood but I can’t. I wouldn’t have survived then and I sure as fuck wouldn’t survive now.

How Is It?

8 Aug

That I am sitting on the couch in my scuzzy little apartment but I just heard someone walk through the back door of my childhood home? 


All I Want

2 Aug

From 4:44 on is what I want. It takes a pretty righteous man to hug his girl like that. Or, his ex-girl, at least.