Banging Against A Wall

When is it time to bow out?  When is the curtain closing?  Has the fat lady sung?

I feel like I've been ramming my head into a wall.  Repeatedly.  For months now.  Have I hit my head hard enough?  Is the velocity correct?  How can I better connect my head with the wall?

No suggestion.  No real answer.

I thought my ramming was sufficient.  And it was.  Or is.  If I only want to ram my head against this wall.  This, the bottom rung of whatever ladder we climb in earnest.

In stupidity.
In desperation.
In hunger.

But I won't be satiated.  Not with this rate of banging.  You should bang longer.  Ask for more banging.  Take the initiative to bang.

Fuck this.

I don't want to bang my head against a wall.  I do not find completeness.  Or happiness.  Or satisfaction.

I know what I want to do.  It isn't this.  I've told you.

So you ask again.
And I say again.
Give me creative.
Should I say it louder?
Give me design.
Give me colors and templates and fonts galore.
Give my kerning and leading and transparency.
Symbols. Glyphs. Photography. Alignment. Revising.  Rewriting.  Concepting. Reviewing. Proofing.  Collecting.
All of it.  I'll be a sponge.  I'll be a star.  A workaholic, if you can't see that I already am.  Just not for this work.

This banging I'm doing now.
I hate it.  No, I'm not happy but I'll say it, obviously.  I like eating and paying my mortgage monthly

Teleport Me

< A short story >

I can feel my palms getting sweaty.  Standing in the long line at the teleport station this Friday afternoon, my discomfort rises.

I hate teleporting.  Which, I know, sounds weird.  But it’s true.  It’s not the concept I find problematic.  Shooting from New York to L.A. or Paris or Zimbabwe or Tokyo in the few minutes it takes to deconstruct and reassemble every single atom in your body is great.  You can go anywhere in the world in 2-3 minutes.

I just get sick every time I do it.  So that puts a damper on my worldwide travel.

It’s called telo-sickness.  And I’m a part of the lucky 10% of the population that’s affected.  It starts with tingling across your entire body, then comes dizziness that dissolves into nausea that lasts for hours.  No amount of Dramamine helps.  I’ve tried.

But sometimes it’s worth it.  As long as it’s not too short of a trip.  I’ve been to Venice for Mardi Gras and four different cities for the past four New Years.

I had a week’s worth of vacation for those trips.  For this one I’ve only got the weekend.

The entire line moves up a step.  I move with them, rolling my bag behind me.  Closing my eyes I try some deep breathing.

But after 5 breaths, I can’t sense a slowing in my pulse, so I stop.

I know it’s not just the teleporting that has me worked up.  It’s why I’m traveling from home in Seattle back to where I grew up in Cedar Rapids.  To bury my father.

It was unexpected.  But then most heart attacks are.  I am surprised we don’t have a cure for this yet.  We can travel the globe in an instant, but stopping plaque buildup in coronary arteries is too much of a stretch for science.

While they’re at it, couldn’t scientists find a cure for telo-sickness too?

Movement disrupts my thoughts.  The portly man in front of me hands his ticket to the clerk.

“ID?” the clerk asks.

The man fumbles for his wallet.  I roll my eyes. Technology can get sophisticated as it wants, but it never fails that we get stuck in lines.  Like herded cattle.

“Joshua Browning.”  The clerk reads, comparing ticket and ID. 

Portly man nods.

The clerk stamps his ticket and waves him toward the cylindrical chamber embedded in the wall.  It’s identical to the others along the wall.

The frosted glass door slides open automatically.  The man just barely fits into the opening with his suitcase.  The door closes.  And he could be in Costa Rica right now.

A wave of emotion barrels into me.  I wish I was headed anywhere else in the world.

“Next,” says the clerk.

I reach into my jacket for ticket and ID.

“Marin Starling,” he says.  Checking that my ticket, ID and face match, he appears satisfied and stamps my ticket.

“Thanks,” I say.

My small suitcase trundles along behind me as I approach the opening in the wall.

Right after I enter, the frosted glass slides shut.  It’s a good thing I’m not claustrophobic.

A robotic female voice instructs me to “Insert ticket into the cyan slot.”  It takes me a couple times to insert, since my hands aren’t very steady.

The vaguely British voice says, “Thank you, you will be arriving in Cedar Rapids momentarily.”

Bluish numbers above the ticket slot illuminate the otherwise white walls.

         3

         2

         1

I sharply inhale the last breath of Seattle air and dissolve.

<     >

The Past is Blocking My Writing

So I am having the most interesting of writers blocks lately.

It is one that is not so much a box, more so a web.

I am able to write and outline my stories.

I am able to be around others to workshop my stories.

I have time to write, outline, workshop these stories in a comfortable environment.

What I am unable to do is to find a fragment of my past.

Prose from the past is impeding my future.

I cannot find it in my web of computers.

I cannot find it on the internet.

I cannot find it in email.

Somehow I cannot continue to write unless I review the past.

But I am writing, yet my heart yearns to read it again.

I have found other writings, but this one was from a younger woman.

Someone who like now had ample time to write and attain critique.

Do I want to be her again or do I want to just do a quick review of the past?

I do not miss the past for it is only odd that I crave it now.

When the pen cannot go across paper fast enough.

Words I Am Excited Never to Use Again After I Quit My Job and Go to Grad School

I know, never say never, but it'll be a brief reprieve at the very least.

And what am I reprieving myself from? Well, I'm glad you asked. Here are he words and phrases I'm exciting to ban from my vocabulary and why I hate them.

• Branding Opportunity: It means (and I quote) to, "put our company shit on shit" and it's pointless.
• ROI (Return on Investment): This is how we tell if what we're doing is making money. Which we can't do because we don't track anything. Which doesn't matter because we're not making money. SUCCESS!
• Company Culture: FUCK the words "company culture." If you ever apply to a place that brags about its "company culture" be prepared to be faced with a lot of miserable employees that have been beaten to death with buzzwords.
• "Marketing Should Drive the Ship": Okay, but how do we-
• "Marketing Should Be Sales Support": But I thought you just said-
• "Marketing Should Take Control": We're trying, but you keep-
• "Why Isn't Marketing Getting Anything Done?": BECAUSE OF BULLSHIT LIKE THIS!!!
• "Why is Grace daydreaming about tearing down all the posters and running through the halls screaming Alan Ginsberg's 'Howl'?": Just kidding, they don't say this . . . but they should . . . and they will . . .

In other news, work has actually been okay recently. Things are calming down. I just thought it would be funny to write this post. And it is! At least, I think it is. And that's what really matters.

Love you and miss you all. <3 

Anti-Anxiety Medication

I'm going to try to keep this post short, because I feel like I have a whole novel's worth of feelings inside of me.

Things have been good in a lot of ways recently, but in others they have been not as good. The good= family, friends, boyfriend, personal life.

The bad=work and anxiety. Lots of anxiety.

It all came to a head when I went in for a recent's doctor appointment (trying to get everything done while I'm under my parent's health insurance for another month) and ended up crying hysterically.

Fortunately, the doctor is a family friend and is nice, He said he could prescribe me anti-anxiety medication. I've been resistant to this option thus far because every time I go into therapy, everything seems to get better and I feel like maybe it's gone. Maybe I don't have anxiety anymore.

But the other day I was looking at timehop (which I have since uninstalled from my phone) and realized just how many happy looking pictures I see of myself where I recall feeling miserable.

Weddings and birthdays and baby showers and holidays. Why do I remember escaping to the bathroom to cry or freaking out about how many calories where in that piece of cake?

Because anxiety.

And, of course, the worst part is that once you decided to get help it is a PAIN IN THE ASS to figure out insurance shit and where I'm covered, blah blah blah.

So, anyway, today I am making the call to my doctor to get anti-anxiety medication. (After I check with some insurance stuff with my parents.)

I have been thinking the most awful things about myself the last couple of weeks.That I'm selfish and weak and that everybody hates me. I don't want to think those things anymore.

So wish me luck. It's supposed to be pretty low impact, but I don't know what to expect. I'm going to try and get into therapy soon though that might take another couple of weeks.

Also, I should probably quit my job because it daily drains me of all my self esteem. But that's proving harder than I thought.

One step at a time.

So I bought a house

… and other updates

I made an offer on a house and it was accepted and now I guess I'm buying a house.  AHHH.  We did all of the inspections and found knob and tube wiring in the house.  What is knob and tube wiring, you ask?  The devil's wiring from a century ago.  NBD.  Except that a lot of insurance companies don't like covering the devil's wiring.  On account of the minor fire hazard when it's in the open air and has random splices throughout the wiring.  And it's not like that's all over the attic and basement.  Oh, wait. It is.

So I asked for the $4500 quoted to remove the knob and tube wiring.  The seller flat out refused.  And proceeded to ignore the other couple of fixes we requested.

But I really want the house right?  So I went back and asked only for the plumbing fix.  And now this asshole want to give me a credit for fixing the pipes instead of getting a plumber out there to fix the damn thing himself.

Argh.  I knew buying a house would be a long process, but this is a lot longer and more involved than I  thought.

On a happier note, the house is adorable.  It's a brick bungalow, 2 bedroom, 1 bath and has a 1 car detached garage.  The floor is all hardwood, and the kitchen is updated with new stainless steel appliances.  And it's got a nice big deck.

Y'all are welcome to come anytime after I close on Feb. 19!!


In other news, I met a guy from OkC that isn't a total psycho.  We've gone on 3 dates now. (First, dinner and walking around the mall.  Second, dinner and a movie.  Third, he made lasagna at his place and we watched Minority Report and 2 episodes of Arrow.)  And after the last one, I realized I don't really like him.

It's unfortunate.  He's nice and opens doors for me and pays for dinner and stuff.  But even on the first date, I didn't think he was all that attractive.  But he's a little geeky and likes a lot of the same shows and I thought I'd give him a little time to grow on me.  But he didn't.

Then he texted me about going out next Saturday for Valentine's Day…. I don't want to lead him on.  I don't want to be a jackass.  I've never had a date on Valentine's Day.  But I'll admit I was tempted to tell him I would be out of town next week.

Any advice, lovelies?

A Final Chapter

For OFFMO 2014


The sun beats down mercilessly here.  And my tanned skin bordering on deep red, soaks up each ray. My eyes are closed behind black sunglasses.  The drink in my hand sweats.  A droplet slides down to my pointer.

I take a deep breath.  They come easier now. Easier than they ever did in New York.  And it's not just the lack of smog and yesterday's garbage on the curb.

It is nine years, almost to the day, that I last breathed in the intoxicating and toxic fumes of the island of Manhattan.  The day I pulled my last job. 

My lip curls.

It was flawless. I pulled the big one.  The one you retire after.  Of course, after pulling the largest windfall from the mob in history, you have to retire.  Or they'll hit you with their own compensation package.

I went with the fake-your-own-death plan, as opposed to their usual get-whacked-when-you-just-try-to-change-your-identity-and-get-out-of-dodge policy.

The two bikini-clad twenty-somethings burst out in giggles.  It was going well.

Island life suited him.  The slow pace.  The constant crash of waves instead of ambulance sirens and honking horns.  The laze of an afternoon where the most important decision would be what drink to have next and not which member of your crew would get laid into while you make your escape.  

Almost a decade.  And his screams still haunt.

I down the remainder of my rum.  The blonde beckons me to join their antics in the pool.  I jump in and oblige.

____

The next day, I am woken by banging.  A pause.  More banging.  I roll over to stare at the ceiling, wondering why Magdalena hasn't answered it yet.

One of the girls coos beside me.  Dammit, she's visiting family this weekend.

The banging gets louder, if that's possible.  "Get this door open," orders a gruff voice.

"Sounds like he means business," I mutter to the brunette.  She replies in a breathy giggle.  "Unfortunately, I'm a little preoccupied." I work her mouth with my own.

The banging now sounds less like knocking and more like breaking in.

Ah.  The realization clicks in my hungover brain.  This is it.

Island life has made me sloppy. The intruders are inside by the time my hand feels the reassuring coolness of my 9mm.  The girls are whimpering.  The door bursts open.  I am taking aim.

"Scalisi."  He says.  A name I haven't been called for nearly a decade.  Said by a face I hoped to never see again.  In a voice I still hadn't stopped hearing ricochet in my mind.  

But he wasn't screaming this time.  Johnathan Parker with nine years of lines etched into his face and a much more crooked nose than I remember.

The girls have fled the bed.  My gun is lowering.  The weight suddenly heavy.

I recognize the other men.  Carro's enforcers.  Some are wearing stupid grins.  Pleased to see the retribution for the theft of the family's income.

My eyes glide over his now outstretched arm with the pistol, and meet Parker's own.

It's quieter than I expect with the silencer.

Then it's dark.  And I don't have to hear the screams.