haiku on masturbating all night

If I were braver
I’d call you/leave a message
to say I’m coming.

— Staceyann Chin

want

There’s much more to my verbal preening than I’d like to let on…

But maybe I am giving too much

maybe I am revealing more than I should

There’s a restlessness inside me

I don’t know what it is

But I sit here wanting to explode into a million bits so I can experience everything

But here I am solid, static energy, immobile and stagnant

  I need inspiration

Lately the only inspiration I’ve gotten was myself

I’m inspired in spits and starts but the object of that inspiration most likely will fail to catch my attention for more than a moment or two

 I bore myself to pieces

Maybe then I will push off into some state that embraces action

  I need emotional outpour

I need Passionate confessions,

I need deep conversation,

I need depth and Intensity. 

I am craving, wanting needing. 

I want to be surrounded in darkness and whispered to with lilting,

comforting phrases that render me hot and wet.

I want Desire. 

I want Grace.

my secret lover

I am sorry but I am re-posting this for freshness, this is still a work in progress. Cheers.

I have recently discovered, to my surprise, that I hold an odd affinity for scruffy bookish weirdos with a penchant for snobbery. I am strangely drawn to those peculiar men who have replaced their televisions for an array of obscure books authored by obscure men who write about obscure bookish types who look down on much of conventional society.

In my fantasy, I should probably call it that, this man is quite an inoffensive, introvert with a job like librarian or dog walker or Information Technology Guru, he is worn around the edges and bears a striking resemblance to Charles Manson or the Unibomber, –bordering on lining his apartment walls with tin-foil type–He possess Jeffrey Dahmer eyes and eats cheese sandwiches alone on some grassy knoll feeding the pigeons. Undoubtedly, he is intellectually superior to most.

In reality he probably holds an upstanding position in the community, plays in a jazz band or he’s a math rock drummer or is independently wealthy due to some freak accident befallen by an aging great grandparent. He goes home to some random enclave of Chicago’s city where his books are stacked on top of one another like man-sized towers about to collapse. Nietzche, Bukowski, Pynchon, Heideger, Einstein, Plato, Greenspan (yes, Greenspan Kevin), Rollins, Emmerson, Cummings, Baldwin, Neruda, Hawking. He has an ancient record player and puts on some Leonard Cohen while sipping a snifter of brandy before night fall. Stacks of the economist and The Wall Street Journal line his bathroom floor.

He plays the guitar or maybe even an antique upright bass because he has an edge that’s what his tattoos signify at least. Pictures of his travels in uneven procession are flanked on his fireplace mantle, Tokyo, Nepal, Thailand and the history of his passed loves peeking behind those. He has a wind up grandfather clock and a weathered globe unhinged from its axis by a mid-sized bong bleeding with schwag and soot. There are rolling papers on his bedside table on top of a stack of old atlases. He is tall and lanky with dark hair that tends to cover his eyes most of the time. He reaches for a lamp chain with long elegant fingers and clean fingernails and the room is filled with soft yellow light. Somewhere a cat mews for someone’s attention and then there is silence, Leonard Cohen becomes Tom Waites as the player drops another vinyl disc onto a spinning turntable that scratches and whirs. He sits in a ragged hand me down leather airline chair and thumbs through a small mound of postcards from ex-lovers and ex-pats from Australia or Vietnam. His phone never rings because he hasn’t got one. He eats his dinner from a tin and sets the leftovers on the floor by his feet. He finds trivial knowledge and conversations trite, so when out with friends he stays quiet hoping someone brought their chess set. He is dark and brooding, but strangely smiles a great deal.

Oh the things that run through his head at times like these.

He holds most in bitter judgment but secretly wishes he could just be understood. He has friends but they are the sort who come around when they want to talk politics or philosophy or feel superior in the mere presence of him. His passions lie somewhere between architecture and Jazz and his loves have left a long time ago. he meters the room , searching for an attractive equal but rarely finds her and becomes disillusioned in his pursuit…

Still working on this one, but oddly, i find him incredibly attractive. Go figure.

Jeff Buckley- painfully beautiful.

some dumb prose

Blue neon digital numbers scream in blazing blinks.

Like luminol pushed into open wounds

grand gestures blanketed beneath masks of sinful smiles

and half closed eyes…

grace never showed her face to these walls

nor did hope

and they fought with each other all day any way

so why even bother trying to get the two together?

I spotted a shadow over my left shoulder

thought it might have been you, I

guess I was wrong.

My smile was caught in the pillow

lost in the wash

never to return here again

 

guilty cubicles

What is this paralyzing feeling I have about going to work in the morning? 

After 10 months I should be jumping for joy, right? 

Usually I am pumped, putting out clothes, getting excited about starting a new week.  I feel challenged and hopeful and alive and ready to take on the world because with a paycheck I can actually pay bills and get myself back together agian.

What is wrong with me that I am not even enthusiastic about the actual start of turning things around?  Is it that my debt has piled so insurmountably that there seems to be no end or relief in sight no matter what I make at this point?  Can I not breathe under the thought of working to continually pay for debt—It’s like being on the wheel in the mouse cage.  It really is.  I should feel blessed and lucky but I just feel burdened by the fact that I will still be struggling.  Atleast without a job you have an excuse.  With one you have no excuse to choose living over debt. 

Food for the week? or Cell Phone Bill?

DInner or Toilet Paper?

Weekly Bus Ticket or electricity?

After my first big interview I noticed something odd.  When the interview went well I felt like I needed to throw up and I got real depressed and edgy.  I was scared.  I was scared of failing at the job if I got it.

Something is brutally wrong.  I am starting to realize that I am having ridiculous mini anxiety attacks, they are brief and quelled once I face these trivial little fears but they are anxiety attacks none the less…when did this happen.

 I must have been creating it all this time being out of the loop; I have been making myself sick by silent hateful self-talk that I hadn’t even been fully conscious of.  I have been reminding myself how unworthy I am of work, of fairness, of money, of kindness or even a break.  I have been secretly convincing myself that I don’t deserve luck, that I am not worth any fortune.  I have been carrying around guilt for things I can’t yet identify, I am bad talking myself every chance I get behind my own back. 

I read this unbelievably beautiful and quietly poignant ARTICLE written by Milly in Wixed Mords that I still refer to from time to time and I should go there right now and re-read it but I think I really need some meditation…I feel poisoned and I did it to myself.

 Gross.

i was a 32 year old virgin…

I was 19 when I kissed a boy for the first time. He was the brother of my next door dorm neighbor.  Scotts’ brother was visiting for the weekend and somehow we ended up in my friend Eric’s dorm room downing Jim Beam with Coke backs, listening to Pearl Jam, Bad Brains and The Red Hot Chilli Peppers all night talking about the glory days of High School and our bright young futures after college.  I found myself, at the end of the night, flung in this very tall persons arms and pressed tightly against his body slowly dancing to Sade’s Love Deluxe  {excellent make out CD, by the way, even today}  and we ended up kissing for 5 hours straight.  Standing there in the middle of Eric’s dorm room, Eric passed out on the bottom bunk— a trash can next to him, his foot on the floor to calibrate his inner ear…as he snores quietly to the heady, sexy, slow thump of No Ordinary Love. 

I was so nervous.  i had no idea what to do with my hands, how to position my neck, we bashed teeth atleast a dozen times, but it took absolutely no time to get into the swing of things and ride without the training wheels.  Wierdly enough, I had my friends voices in my head…

kiss with your whole body,

don’t be self conscious, do you. 

It’s never about him but about you,

use him the way he’s using you,

let it be your fairy tale, it only happens once…

I felt like I was stuttering against his weight, I shook for a very long time and he held me so sweetly and I was caught up in this cradle of flannell and Men’s Obsession and spit and hot breath and Jim Beam and I just surrendered to the moment.  Eric’s faint snore in the background, more than likely him peeking with one eye opened and me reaching my fumbling arms up to his neckless mass trying to find comfort in his desire for me. 

That was the more difficult part, my feeling insignificant under someone elses gaze.  I always felt unworthy of their attraction, if not unworthy then untrusting of it.  I couldn’t believe that someone else would ever find me, the ugly girl from Bayside Middle School, pretty, let alone-kissable.

This event was quite portentous, as my life has unfolded — with each untried thing finally consummated one could say Pandora’s box was opened and each successive experience I had became more and more involved or advanced or serious. 

It took me a very long time to come to a point where sex was okay for me.  The journey was long and winding and I still can’t pinpoint the exact reasoning behind my choices…all I know is that there were a slew of different reasons; none of which had to do with religion or deep dark secrets or sexual ambiguity.  I have always wanted to be a sexually open and expressive person.  I have always wanted to be free and ballsy and less uptight and I think that in my pursuit for those ideals I needed the time to figure out who I was before surrendering to another sexually.  My friends always asked what are you waiting for?  My boyfriends always asked can I just put the tip in?  My parents at some point even questioned me, probably even my sexuality.

 I don’t know at a certain point it did become a point of contention with everyone…Is she gay, was she sexually abused, what is her deal?  And at a certain point even I questioned myself and why it took so long…But it’s perfectly logical for me.   I had waited too long for someone that I truly respected enough to do it with.  Period.  By the time someone came along that I had actually liked, trusted, respected and would want to see the next morning without kicking myself and jumping out of the nearest window…I was 32.

I do know that the reasons I gave throughout the years have all been valid…

“You’re just not good enough.”

“I want to be in love.”

“I have been frivolous with many things in my life; losing my virginity will not be one of them.”

“It’s the only thing I have left.”

“It makes the conversation more interesting.”

“It’s a great barometer for weaning out the “dick-wads””

“What do I know about sex?”

I have had a cast of characters traipse in and out and sometimes back in to my life and the trip has been wild and heady and fun and amazing…I remember that I was in love—madly, crazy head over heels in love with my best friend Ed who was this cool combination of “suburbanite, frat boy and wannabe hip-hopper viva la raza!” type.  I thought he was cool anyway.  I was 18 when we met at Northern Illinois University in front of the Fraternity house he belonged to.  My friends and I were trawling the streets of fraternity row looking for free booze and stumbled upon three handsome drunk idiots that became life-long friends…well at least for a decade.  I hated Ed when I first met him, he was a frat boy and I despised them…they had a way of turning a location into date-rape central and sharing insipid glances with one another that I always suspected to be code for “Attack!” 

I fell in love with him two years later when he suddenly called me out of the blue two years after me dropping out of college to pursue Hollywood Dreams.  He invited me to a party and I showed up a little less shy than I had been when we first met.  I’ll leave that story for another day. 

Needless to say, I have had some adventures…and I want more, I feel like such a dilletante such a dammned, green late bloomer but I also feel so empowered to be able to make the choices that I have and will/  Because, I guess it’s not neccessarily about being a thirty two year old virgin that has been so unbelievable and amazing it iwas the journey. 

The journey of becoming…and the beautiful thing about that is that it will never end,

will it?

 

The picture in the header is of me and Wheat Toast just 7 days before the “deed”…

 

 

 

 If you want to read a little more about being a thirty-something virgin check out The Dilletantes Ball on The Reason page of this blog.

sexing the ex

So why do we women go against our better judgment and always do the very thing we vowed never to do again?

Just a thought I’d put out there…cause, Gosh Darnit…sexing the ex is always bad news bears.

evil ascetics

A Nightmare had woken me from my anxious slumber…I had dreamt of my old supervisor from a company I worked for a while back…

As soon as I walked in to the quiet office, I noticed she had taken issue with me straight away. The first week she complained about my demeanor over the phone—my inability to file and my overall lack of attention to detail. She trained me on things that she later berated me for doing.

Eventually I caught her changing my work deliberately and accusing me of “once again, fouling up” she was a devout Muslim with very un-Muslim like qualities—needless to say this “ascetic” was evil.

Long story short, I ended up working 9months, 3 weeks, 4 days, 7 hours and 59 minutes too long.

The straw that broke the camels back was apparently I sent an expensive federal Express package to a vendor that was expecting a sizeable check and it arrived with nothing in it. Those checks were in that envelope, I made a habit of stuffing my envelopes and leaving them unopened and untouched before closing them at the end of the day and sending them off, in case the President or VP wanted to add anything.

My desk is sacred and safe. Nothing gets lost there.

Apparently on this day something did.

I left that place, quitting before being let go, feeling inadequate, worthless, lacking basic skills, stupid, inept and shamed for breathing…this woman actually muttered cavalierly to someone over the phone a week after my niece had died…”I know stuff happens and all, but get over it.”

I’m talking pure unadulterated evil.

I dreamt of her sabotaging me again. When I had woken, I couldn’t shake her and all the feelings of inadequacy came rushing back and I couldn’t get back to sleep…She really did sabotage me. I had let her. That day at work was okay, but every move I made was metered and unsure and terribly uneasy.

Sheesh. The things I allow myself to get worked up about.

The company asked me to stay another week.

Woo hoo! a paycheck!

thougts for an insomniac v.2

*Why do people applaud Emeril for seasoning his chicken?

*Why do entitled wack-a-doo’s slow down in rush hour traffic to check their blackberries?

*Why does my newstand guy have no shame in reading Barely Legal Bubble Butt Brownies when I go to pick up the Village Voice?

*Why do fat people continue to eat bullshit then complain that their track pants are too tight?

*Why are my track pants too tight?

*Why don’t people pick up after their dogs 5lb heap of steaming shit off the sidewalks?

*Why do creepy old men stare at girls in extremely short shorts walking with their equally scantily-clad peers on their way to first period middle school class?

*Why don’t people say excuse me when they bowl you over with their extremely large handbags?

*Why don’t jerky, entitled, self-absorbed people just jump in front of an extremely large moving vehicle?

*Why does EVERYTHING go wrong when I am PMSing?

*Why does Crazy Mary-the resident schizophrenic bus rider- have to strike up a conversation with me about how she found both her scabies and Viceroys in her cooch?

*Why does Crazy Mary accuse me of stealing her cigarettes?

*Why does my toilet overflow with one lob of tissue?

*Why does it take three weeks to repair a simple clogged drain issue?

*Why do the cutest shoes hurt the most?

*Why aren’t I rich yet?

*Why am I developing jowls and beginning to look my mother and why can’t I have her ass? (She’s got a great ass for a 60 year old)

*Why do I always get that insidious sliver of popcorn kernel stuck between my teeth and my gums?

Why do I loathe Oprah when she does so much good in the world?

*Why is my apartment buildings’ superintendent a whacked-out, overly medicated alcoholic who couldn’t find a key for a lock-out if it saved her life?

* Why do my friends call me when their plans fall through?

*Why do I get ornery after a few gin and tonics?

*Why do some men drive like grandmothers? More to the point, why do men I date drive like grandmothers?

*Why do some men insist on coming on your face?

*Why can I not tolerate some 20 something’s inane conversations?

* Why haven’t I taken out the garbage yet?

* Why does Anthony Bourdain make my loins flare alight?

*Why do I have a weakness for Scorpios, drummers, guys named Matt bartenders or-God forbid-all of the above?

*Why am I still writing inane, self-absorbed, entitled bull-shizah?

Good night.

pork lovers unite…

I received this from a friend in the eleventh hour, but if you happen to be driving through the lilly white valleys of The Vanilla City, please join us for noshing and alcohol consumption…

I know its short notice, but there is an awesome PORK and BEER event at Local Option this Sunday, it’s invite only and I thought you might like to partake with me. The option has utilized the former chef of Ambria, Christian, to create this amazing dinner. I have attached the menu with the beer pairings. It’s $60 per person, which if I may say is an awesome deal. Just please let me know as soon as possible as space is limited, call or e-mail me to confirm your place. Hope to see you there. xoxo jacqueline…

The Local Option
1102 West Webster
773-348-2008
Sunday April 6th 2008 5:00 pm
Two Brothers and Lagunitas beer dinner

Lagunitas Pils
grilled ham and cheese, garlic sausage and salted fingerling potatoes

Two Brother’s Domaine Dupage French Country Ale
charuterie plate with salumi, head cheese terrine, pork rilletes and toasted brioche bread

Two Brothers Cane & Ebel Red Rye Ale
carmelized pork shoulder with scallops, crispy cabbage salad, and caraway

Two Brothers Bare Tree Weisse Wine (2001) big deal!!!
slow cooked pork belly with onion marmalade and toasted orange

Lagunitas Nuevo Noir Belgian Style Brown Ale
chimay cheese with apricot jam and cashews

Lagunitas Censored Rich Copper Ale
crème catalan with spice bread, salt caramel and pine nuts

The cost is $60.