Every few months or so something comes up. A holiday, birthday or some special event, and it causes a twinge. It’s a small pain, nothing major, but I feel it nonetheless. Homesickness.
I remember when I first moved to Oregon from my life in California. I left the state to study at a tiny Christian college and with the intent of finding both God and myself. However, after the first few weeks, I was ready to pack up and return to California. My mama helped me press through, of course, and I ended up staying for four years, returning to California only three times throughout.
I went straight from Oregon to Australia, I haven’t seen California in about two years. It was Christmastime. My sister was congested with her annual head-cold. Mom had laced sparkly garland through the bars of the stair banisters. My hair was cut short, the shortest I’ve ever had it. It took a lot of getting used to. Dad made a cameo appearance. It was a good Christmas.
Last Christmas I spent on the coast of the Indian ocean. It must have been in the nineties, we stayed in the water till midnight and were sweating even still. Everyone I spent that holiday with was a temporary friend, a surface acquaintance. Now, a year later, I don’t see any of those people, I can’t even remember most of their names. After spending one of the most meaningful of holidays together, my life goes on unaffected by their company.
This year, I’m in a similar boat. Still in Australia, oceans away from loved ones. Still having a summertime Christmas and still missing my family and our intimate Christmases terribly. This year, however, I have a wonderful relationship and a beautiful apartment to be thankful for. I’ve decided to dig into my Creole roots and wake up early to make gumbo for dinner (fingers crossed the roux will come out the right colour). My sister is making the same thing, and although my celebration will occur 15 hours before hers, it will be nice to know we’re having the same Christmas dinner.
Presents are being sent via Internet and UPS (two more things to be mighty thankful for) and will be arriving late as usual. Oh well, it is what it is. Perhaps next Christmas I’ll be able to hand-deliver them myself. That is if my plans to travel to Singapore fall through.
Love Always and Merry Christmas.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Moth-Like
Sometimes I place my hands over my face and, after a while, blink rapidly. My eyelashes feel like moth’s wings, smooth and almost powdery. I think of how it feels to hold a moth between my cupped hands, the insect’s wings fluttering against my palms as I run toward an open door to release it. I think of how the creature chooses a smaller world out of curiosity, drawn from the moon to the glow of a table lamp and then, though momentarily, makes itself to suffer the claustration of my cupped hands before it’s exhaled back into nature.
I’m not really sure what all that was about. Somewhere tucked neatly amongst the dramatic phrasing and colourful prose is an insightful metaphor with regard to our personal choices and the reasoning behind them or where curiosity may lead us or how life comes full circle. And maybe it’s none of that. In the meantime, I remove my hands from over my eyes and see my boyfriend standing there and smiling down at me trying to understand what I’m doing.
At the beginning of our relationship, I found myself pitying those poor suckers forced to be in our company. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Every spare moment, every pause between words, was spent kissing. We were unable to walk past each other without allowing our hands to graze the other’s arms or lower back, or bottom. At present, we’re still as excited to touch and kiss each other, but we’ve managed to control our public displays.
And now, as we approach the breadth of our relationship, we lie in bed next to each other and talk about our new place and our excitements and worries. After a few silent moments, he sighs and moves his face a bit closer to mine. He looks at me thoughtfully and asks, “Is this what love feels like?”
We kiss and then I press my face against his and blink, letting him feel the moth’s wings.
I’m not really sure what all that was about. Somewhere tucked neatly amongst the dramatic phrasing and colourful prose is an insightful metaphor with regard to our personal choices and the reasoning behind them or where curiosity may lead us or how life comes full circle. And maybe it’s none of that. In the meantime, I remove my hands from over my eyes and see my boyfriend standing there and smiling down at me trying to understand what I’m doing.
At the beginning of our relationship, I found myself pitying those poor suckers forced to be in our company. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. Every spare moment, every pause between words, was spent kissing. We were unable to walk past each other without allowing our hands to graze the other’s arms or lower back, or bottom. At present, we’re still as excited to touch and kiss each other, but we’ve managed to control our public displays.
And now, as we approach the breadth of our relationship, we lie in bed next to each other and talk about our new place and our excitements and worries. After a few silent moments, he sighs and moves his face a bit closer to mine. He looks at me thoughtfully and asks, “Is this what love feels like?”
We kiss and then I press my face against his and blink, letting him feel the moth’s wings.
Banana Bread
I love banana bread. I love it so much that I will try to make it again, only this time, I will understand that baking powder and baking soda are not the same thing, even though they look the same outside of their packages. Naked, you would not be able to tell the difference between the two, until you put them in your banana bread batter. Baking soda sits there under the heat and does nothing. It has no benefit to the bread and what comes out is a dense loaf. But oh! The batter was so promising, beautiful and glossy and so sweet.
The childishly cute, curly-haired supermarket attendant didn’t know the difference. Why didn’t he know? He spends all day shelving it, shouldn’t he know the difference between powder and soda?
Now my beloved first-try banana bread smells like heaven and tastes like gross. Yeah, it tastes like gross tastes. But the scent is heavenly. We should sling this thick mass against every wall in the house, tuck slimy chunks into every drawer and even toss a few of the flavourless sultanas into the laundry for added fragrance, because that’s all it’s good for.
When the boyfriend walks through the door, he will inhale deeply and experience the same giddy euphoria that children experience upon coming home from school to warm, freshly baked cookies. He will sigh in disappointment after following the scent to the kitchen where he’ll find my flat, raisin-studded loaf.
He’ll come into the bedroom after trying a piece and, forcing a smile, say, “Hey Baby.”
“It didn’t come out right,” I’ll whine and chuckle a bit for humour.
He’ll laugh at my banana brick and hold me saying, “At least the frosting’s good.”
The childishly cute, curly-haired supermarket attendant didn’t know the difference. Why didn’t he know? He spends all day shelving it, shouldn’t he know the difference between powder and soda?
Now my beloved first-try banana bread smells like heaven and tastes like gross. Yeah, it tastes like gross tastes. But the scent is heavenly. We should sling this thick mass against every wall in the house, tuck slimy chunks into every drawer and even toss a few of the flavourless sultanas into the laundry for added fragrance, because that’s all it’s good for.
When the boyfriend walks through the door, he will inhale deeply and experience the same giddy euphoria that children experience upon coming home from school to warm, freshly baked cookies. He will sigh in disappointment after following the scent to the kitchen where he’ll find my flat, raisin-studded loaf.
He’ll come into the bedroom after trying a piece and, forcing a smile, say, “Hey Baby.”
“It didn’t come out right,” I’ll whine and chuckle a bit for humour.
He’ll laugh at my banana brick and hold me saying, “At least the frosting’s good.”
Everything All At Once
Women like us, we wear ourselves out. We check ourselves into mental hospitals at age forty-five, seeking some kind of rest. We, at age 23, sit in our bedrooms and cry when our boyfriends leave for work or basketball. Not because we miss them in their absence, no, actually the contrary is true. We cry to give release to all of the emotion and little stresses throughout the day. And they are little things:
I can’t run three laps around the park without having to stop and breathe for a few seconds; I’m feeling fat.
I can’t cook in time for you to eat without rushing and that’s because I was reading a novel when I should have been chopping peppers.
The people at work throw the word “rape” around like it’s not anything at all. On a busy night, they say, “We totally got raped tonight” and upon hearing this I wonder if I’ll always react with a pang in my stomach. Will I always be a victim?
The dishes in the sink are waiting for me and they certainly are not going to wash themselves.
And I look ridiculous sitting on the bed crying. The boyfriend comes in because he forgot to ask me something and he sees me wet-faced and red-eyed and I smile because maybe that will hide it. I make sure my eyes always light up when he walks into the room. I make sure I empty my arms when he approaches just in case he wants to hold or be held. I long to take care of him. It is my thankless joy, though he is appreciative. But I’m never satisfied. Women like me are insatiable.
What is this need to please? Am I sick? Are women like me sick?
He finds me crying on the bed, and I’m smiling up at him trying to hide the sincerity of my tears and whatever emotions caused them and his sweet face crumbles, his shoulders slack, and he asks, “Are you okay, Baby?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” and as I nod and smile, two more tears make their way down my face, “It’s nothing at all. I’m great.”
“Can I hug you?”
“Sure,” I say nonchalantly. But I really wish he wouldn’t. I really wish he would turn and leave the room. Don’t come any closer, Boyfriend. If he approaches, I know I’ll sob.
Between sobs I stammer, “It’s nothing. It’s really nothing at all.” And I believe this because it really is nothing, but it’s everything as well. It’s everything all at once.
And as his arms wrap around me, my hands find his back, which I rub soothingly, like I would were he the one with the wet face and red eyes. And I think, “It’s okay, Baby. You just let it all out. It’s okay.”
I can’t run three laps around the park without having to stop and breathe for a few seconds; I’m feeling fat.
I can’t cook in time for you to eat without rushing and that’s because I was reading a novel when I should have been chopping peppers.
The people at work throw the word “rape” around like it’s not anything at all. On a busy night, they say, “We totally got raped tonight” and upon hearing this I wonder if I’ll always react with a pang in my stomach. Will I always be a victim?
The dishes in the sink are waiting for me and they certainly are not going to wash themselves.
And I look ridiculous sitting on the bed crying. The boyfriend comes in because he forgot to ask me something and he sees me wet-faced and red-eyed and I smile because maybe that will hide it. I make sure my eyes always light up when he walks into the room. I make sure I empty my arms when he approaches just in case he wants to hold or be held. I long to take care of him. It is my thankless joy, though he is appreciative. But I’m never satisfied. Women like me are insatiable.
What is this need to please? Am I sick? Are women like me sick?
He finds me crying on the bed, and I’m smiling up at him trying to hide the sincerity of my tears and whatever emotions caused them and his sweet face crumbles, his shoulders slack, and he asks, “Are you okay, Baby?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” and as I nod and smile, two more tears make their way down my face, “It’s nothing at all. I’m great.”
“Can I hug you?”
“Sure,” I say nonchalantly. But I really wish he wouldn’t. I really wish he would turn and leave the room. Don’t come any closer, Boyfriend. If he approaches, I know I’ll sob.
Between sobs I stammer, “It’s nothing. It’s really nothing at all.” And I believe this because it really is nothing, but it’s everything as well. It’s everything all at once.
And as his arms wrap around me, my hands find his back, which I rub soothingly, like I would were he the one with the wet face and red eyes. And I think, “It’s okay, Baby. You just let it all out. It’s okay.”
Friday, October 26, 2007
Proceeding With Caution
Some relationships just feel temporary, they come with a "Best if sold by..." date. In relationships like those, you start thinking things like "when we break up, I am totally stealing that DVD" and "the next person I date won't inhale his food like he's afraid it's gonna run off the plate." I like to believe I've denounced my title as the Summer Fling Queen but the only reason I acquired such a title is because I am unable to tell the difference between the temporary and the permanent. I have problems with depth perception. I was once so enthralled in a summer fling that I got engaged to the poor guy and, needless to say, it proved to be of a semi-permanent nature and I grew up enough to realise I was too young for the commitment.
But this thing that I'm in now, this relationship, if you will, doesn't feel that way. There is, however, an approaching deadline. My Australian visa expires in mid-March and then it's back to the good ol' U.S. of A. for this Californian. In the meantime, I feel myself growing attached. He's showing me that I can trust the opposite sex again. He believes our relationship can be beneficial to my healing and says that wherever our relationship and my coping overlap, he wants to provide extra support and care in those places. How can I not feel myself growing close to him while he's stitching up my torn heart with such respect and thoughtfulness?
"We're like a carton of milk, our relationship is. And we're trying to drink every drop before it spoils," I told him once. He laughed at my musings and agreed, calling me insightful.
"So you're definitely going to break up once you leave?" a workmate asked me. We were talking about our beaus whilst standing in the sunlit beer garden at the pub where I'm employed, stacking dirty pint glasses in metal racks to be washed and polished.
I wedged the last glass into the rack and sighed, "Yeah, well, I guess we'd have to, huh?"
"You don't have to do anything," she asserted and I thought: Isn't that just like a 20-something?
To live day-to-day, moment to moment, with a subconscious disregard to the future, is the essence of youth. Sometimes, however, I am a very elderly twenty-three year old and find myself tip-toeing through this relationship out of fear of the inevitable trip to the international airport. I've got a little more than five months to get caught up in this romance and I plan on being very efficient with my time.
What happens if I love him? If we love each other? What then? Well, what wouldn't I do for love?
A long-distance relationship is one thing, an inter-continental relationship is something else and neither of the two have reliable track records. And who knows how long this will even last? The mid-twenties is a state of flux and though we crave each other now, those feelings may grow cold by the end of summer as emotions often do. Well, if that were the case, then I suppose my departure would come just in time. But what if the exact opposite happens and we become a unit, an "Us" and a "We"? Then at least things would end on a positive note and if he were ever in the States, he could definitely look me up.
But this thing that I'm in now, this relationship, if you will, doesn't feel that way. There is, however, an approaching deadline. My Australian visa expires in mid-March and then it's back to the good ol' U.S. of A. for this Californian. In the meantime, I feel myself growing attached. He's showing me that I can trust the opposite sex again. He believes our relationship can be beneficial to my healing and says that wherever our relationship and my coping overlap, he wants to provide extra support and care in those places. How can I not feel myself growing close to him while he's stitching up my torn heart with such respect and thoughtfulness?
"We're like a carton of milk, our relationship is. And we're trying to drink every drop before it spoils," I told him once. He laughed at my musings and agreed, calling me insightful.
"So you're definitely going to break up once you leave?" a workmate asked me. We were talking about our beaus whilst standing in the sunlit beer garden at the pub where I'm employed, stacking dirty pint glasses in metal racks to be washed and polished.
I wedged the last glass into the rack and sighed, "Yeah, well, I guess we'd have to, huh?"
"You don't have to do anything," she asserted and I thought: Isn't that just like a 20-something?
To live day-to-day, moment to moment, with a subconscious disregard to the future, is the essence of youth. Sometimes, however, I am a very elderly twenty-three year old and find myself tip-toeing through this relationship out of fear of the inevitable trip to the international airport. I've got a little more than five months to get caught up in this romance and I plan on being very efficient with my time.
What happens if I love him? If we love each other? What then? Well, what wouldn't I do for love?
A long-distance relationship is one thing, an inter-continental relationship is something else and neither of the two have reliable track records. And who knows how long this will even last? The mid-twenties is a state of flux and though we crave each other now, those feelings may grow cold by the end of summer as emotions often do. Well, if that were the case, then I suppose my departure would come just in time. But what if the exact opposite happens and we become a unit, an "Us" and a "We"? Then at least things would end on a positive note and if he were ever in the States, he could definitely look me up.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Friendship, or lack thereof.
The Boyfriend (yeah it's official, it's actually a cute story, I'll write it at the end of this blog entry) has been out of town for a week-long series of work-related conferences and I'm bored. I mean really bored. I've been working tons of hours and I've even managed to finish the first half of my thesis while he's been away... So now what?
I was walking home from work today when I realised that I don't have very many friends. I'm kind of a loner. The Pizza Guy (who will hereforth be known as 'The Boyfriend') has tons of friends and a few really good ones and with me being, well, friendless, I quickly latched onto his friends like they were my own. We have group outings and dinners, it's lovely to be in a crowd sometimes. Then The Boyfriend says,
"So, Porsch, you've met all my friends now. When am I gonna meet yours?"
Hmmm, I think to myself. I dunno when, Darling, but if I make some, you'll be the first to know.
I recently got an email from the managers of the student housing complex I live in. It seems there are some major shin-digs coming up, an "American Style" Halloween party and an End of Semester bash. Everyone who lives in the Student Village is invited to attend and bring people with them. The End of Semester Bash is supposed to be a blow-out as it is every year. It's a shirt-signing theme where everyone brings an old white t-shirt and a marker and they get their friends to sign it like a yearbook. It's supposed to commemorate the friends you've made whilst living in student housing.
But I haven't made any friends.
Not really. And I don't know anyone's name, other than my neighbour's. Maybe I can just buy a white t-shirt and write notes all over it in different handwriting and show up to the party like the most popular girl at the disco. Is that lame? I'm twenty-three and considering forging friendships.
Let's take a step back here. People love me. I'm fun and generous, considerate and sweet, easy-going and all-around lovely. My workmates and I get on so well, we all hug and kiss hello and goodbye. We laugh and high-five when it's necessary. We all sit back and have a few drinks after work, it's good. But those are workmates, not friends. Not people you choose to be around, people you go out of your way to enjoy the company of, people you call when you feel like crap or when you feel like celebrating.
Back in The States, I have AMAZING friends. I honestly couldn't ask for a more loving, sincere, and wonderful group of friends. But I'm not in The States. I've been here in Australia for over a year and still don't have a solid group of girlfriends... and it sucks. What do you think? How do I go about making friends with people, or turning the acquaintances I have into real friendships?
***********
The Pizza Guy picked me up for breakfast one Sunday morning (which actually happened to be his 24th birthday). We went to a cafe and had our usual breakfast.
His: 2 scrambled eggs, buttered toast and sautéed mushrooms.
Mine: 2 poached eggs (must be runny or I will send them back, much to his embarrassment), grilled tomato and dry toast.
Then he told me he had plans for us after breakfast, but first he needed to know something. He pulled a note from his pocket and reached across the table and handed it to me. The note contained the sweetest poem filled with inside jokes exclusive to the two of us. The last line asked me to officially become his girlfriend. It was just pure, corny sweetness. I loved it.
Prior to that, I'd been saying how I'd like to get my nose repierced. I had to take the piercing out last summer because of my last job but where I'm currently employed allows piercing and visible tattoos.
I said yes. I was tired of the in-between stage we were in. Our relationship had been exclusive since we'd met and we weren't fooling anyone with the whole, "No, we're not together, we're just seeing each other" thing.
We kissed, got into his car and he started driving toward the city. He pulled into a parking lot adjacent to a tattoo and piercing parlour.
"You ready?" he asked excitedly.
I smiled, a bit unsure of what was going on.
We left his car, he grabbed my hand, and we entered the parlour. We met the sweet girl at the front counter, face bedazzled with piercings.
"We have a 12:30 appointment for Porscha," he said confidently.
Awww, I thought. He's put so much thought into this.
The pierced girl looked at her clipboard and then returned her eyes to mine with a smile, "Alright, Porscha. We're piercing your nose today."
So now my nose has been repierced for about a week and a half which is exactly how long I've been in this official relationship. Isn't that cute?
I was walking home from work today when I realised that I don't have very many friends. I'm kind of a loner. The Pizza Guy (who will hereforth be known as 'The Boyfriend') has tons of friends and a few really good ones and with me being, well, friendless, I quickly latched onto his friends like they were my own. We have group outings and dinners, it's lovely to be in a crowd sometimes. Then The Boyfriend says,
"So, Porsch, you've met all my friends now. When am I gonna meet yours?"
Hmmm, I think to myself. I dunno when, Darling, but if I make some, you'll be the first to know.
I recently got an email from the managers of the student housing complex I live in. It seems there are some major shin-digs coming up, an "American Style" Halloween party and an End of Semester bash. Everyone who lives in the Student Village is invited to attend and bring people with them. The End of Semester Bash is supposed to be a blow-out as it is every year. It's a shirt-signing theme where everyone brings an old white t-shirt and a marker and they get their friends to sign it like a yearbook. It's supposed to commemorate the friends you've made whilst living in student housing.
But I haven't made any friends.
Not really. And I don't know anyone's name, other than my neighbour's. Maybe I can just buy a white t-shirt and write notes all over it in different handwriting and show up to the party like the most popular girl at the disco. Is that lame? I'm twenty-three and considering forging friendships.
Let's take a step back here. People love me. I'm fun and generous, considerate and sweet, easy-going and all-around lovely. My workmates and I get on so well, we all hug and kiss hello and goodbye. We laugh and high-five when it's necessary. We all sit back and have a few drinks after work, it's good. But those are workmates, not friends. Not people you choose to be around, people you go out of your way to enjoy the company of, people you call when you feel like crap or when you feel like celebrating.
Back in The States, I have AMAZING friends. I honestly couldn't ask for a more loving, sincere, and wonderful group of friends. But I'm not in The States. I've been here in Australia for over a year and still don't have a solid group of girlfriends... and it sucks. What do you think? How do I go about making friends with people, or turning the acquaintances I have into real friendships?
The Pizza Guy picked me up for breakfast one Sunday morning (which actually happened to be his 24th birthday). We went to a cafe and had our usual breakfast.
His: 2 scrambled eggs, buttered toast and sautéed mushrooms.
Mine: 2 poached eggs (must be runny or I will send them back, much to his embarrassment), grilled tomato and dry toast.
Then he told me he had plans for us after breakfast, but first he needed to know something. He pulled a note from his pocket and reached across the table and handed it to me. The note contained the sweetest poem filled with inside jokes exclusive to the two of us. The last line asked me to officially become his girlfriend. It was just pure, corny sweetness. I loved it.
Prior to that, I'd been saying how I'd like to get my nose repierced. I had to take the piercing out last summer because of my last job but where I'm currently employed allows piercing and visible tattoos.
I said yes. I was tired of the in-between stage we were in. Our relationship had been exclusive since we'd met and we weren't fooling anyone with the whole, "No, we're not together, we're just seeing each other" thing.
We kissed, got into his car and he started driving toward the city. He pulled into a parking lot adjacent to a tattoo and piercing parlour.
"You ready?" he asked excitedly.
I smiled, a bit unsure of what was going on.
We left his car, he grabbed my hand, and we entered the parlour. We met the sweet girl at the front counter, face bedazzled with piercings.
"We have a 12:30 appointment for Porscha," he said confidently.
Awww, I thought. He's put so much thought into this.
The pierced girl looked at her clipboard and then returned her eyes to mine with a smile, "Alright, Porscha. We're piercing your nose today."
So now my nose has been repierced for about a week and a half which is exactly how long I've been in this official relationship. Isn't that cute?
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
The Pizza Guy: a love-life update
"Hi! I'm really hungry right now and I don't know what to get. It can't be like a sit-down kind of thing because I'm here with friends and they're all standing around and drinking."
"Alright," I thought for a moment while glancing around me. I saw the swirl of laughing faces and heard the clang and twinkle as yet another highball glass hit the concrete and shattered. "Uhhh, why don't you get a pizza? What do you like?"
"I dunno, what's good?"
This guy is attractive but I honestly don't have time to step away from working and chat about pizza toppings. The table over in the corner is waving at me to come take their order for another round of shots. My arms are full of glasses, plates and a half-eaten bowl of chips.
"The artichoke pizza is to die for," I reply.
"Yeah? What's babaganoush?"
My sister and I had this exact same discussion a few weeks ago which is the only reason I know the answer. "It's an eggplant dip. There's only a little bit on the pizza."
"Oh, I'm kind of a carnivore though sooo...."
"Oh alright, try the pepperoni with bacon and mushroom."
"That sounds perfect."
So, after that rivetting conversation I took his money, sent in the order, and gave him a lanyard with a number on it.
"Make sure you wear this so the waitress bringing out the pizza will be able to spot you, okay?"
"Will you bring it out to me?" he asked.
"Um, I'm really busy right now. We'll see."
"Alright," he said hopefully, crossing his fingers.
******Cut to Present Tense******
The Pizza Guy and I have been hanging out for about three weeks now and we're both really happy. We're not anything official, however we do officially enjoy each other's company. The way we're going about things is really interesting. We don't set plans for the future. Instead, we say,
"So... in December, if we're still hanging out, it would be cool to hit up Rottnest Island." (note: summer lasts from November till Febuary here.)
But things are good, really good.
Is it all happening a bit soon, though? It's been about a month and a half since my trauma, which I told him about. It was a really difficult conversation, I must say.
"Uhhhh... the reason I don't want to go to that restaurant is because I, ummm, used to work there."
"Okay. What happened? Did you leave on bad terms with your bosses or something?"
"No. Alright, I wasn't sure of whether or not to tell you this but I guess it's a good thing for you to know if we continue to see each other..."
"Okay..." his voice sounded hesitant, worried. We were on the phone discussing our plans for dinner that coming Friday evening. He mentioned a place he wanted to take me in Subiaco but hadn't said the name of the restaurant. Because I'm so paranoid, I managed to jump to the idea that he would want to take me to where I used to work, where I met my rapists. I freaked out, my mind raced with the idea of my rapist taking our orders and serving our drinks. That's when I realised I had to say something, not just because I didn't want to go there but because I felt like it would explain a lot of my strange hesitations and hangups.
"A little less than a month ago, I was raped."
He exhaled the breath he'd held whilst I tiptoed through that last sentence. The sound he made showed shock and sympathy. A perfect response. We talked through it, he asked me questions, asked if there was anything he could or shouldn't do to help, asked how I was healing.
Since then he has been proving himself as trustworthy and kind. It's really something.
So this Sunday is my noble Pizza Guy's 24th and I really want to get him something special (but not too over-the-top, it's only been about three weeks or so) and I have no idea of what to get him. What do you think? He's smart, getting his Master's degree, loves basketball, is Christian, has a great job... goodness, he sounds pretty lovely. What do you get the guy who has it all?
"Alright," I thought for a moment while glancing around me. I saw the swirl of laughing faces and heard the clang and twinkle as yet another highball glass hit the concrete and shattered. "Uhhh, why don't you get a pizza? What do you like?"
"I dunno, what's good?"
This guy is attractive but I honestly don't have time to step away from working and chat about pizza toppings. The table over in the corner is waving at me to come take their order for another round of shots. My arms are full of glasses, plates and a half-eaten bowl of chips.
"The artichoke pizza is to die for," I reply.
"Yeah? What's babaganoush?"
My sister and I had this exact same discussion a few weeks ago which is the only reason I know the answer. "It's an eggplant dip. There's only a little bit on the pizza."
"Oh, I'm kind of a carnivore though sooo...."
"Oh alright, try the pepperoni with bacon and mushroom."
"That sounds perfect."
So, after that rivetting conversation I took his money, sent in the order, and gave him a lanyard with a number on it.
"Make sure you wear this so the waitress bringing out the pizza will be able to spot you, okay?"
"Will you bring it out to me?" he asked.
"Um, I'm really busy right now. We'll see."
"Alright," he said hopefully, crossing his fingers.
The Pizza Guy and I have been hanging out for about three weeks now and we're both really happy. We're not anything official, however we do officially enjoy each other's company. The way we're going about things is really interesting. We don't set plans for the future. Instead, we say,
"So... in December, if we're still hanging out, it would be cool to hit up Rottnest Island." (note: summer lasts from November till Febuary here.)
But things are good, really good.
Is it all happening a bit soon, though? It's been about a month and a half since my trauma, which I told him about. It was a really difficult conversation, I must say.
"Uhhhh... the reason I don't want to go to that restaurant is because I, ummm, used to work there."
"Okay. What happened? Did you leave on bad terms with your bosses or something?"
"No. Alright, I wasn't sure of whether or not to tell you this but I guess it's a good thing for you to know if we continue to see each other..."
"Okay..." his voice sounded hesitant, worried. We were on the phone discussing our plans for dinner that coming Friday evening. He mentioned a place he wanted to take me in Subiaco but hadn't said the name of the restaurant. Because I'm so paranoid, I managed to jump to the idea that he would want to take me to where I used to work, where I met my rapists. I freaked out, my mind raced with the idea of my rapist taking our orders and serving our drinks. That's when I realised I had to say something, not just because I didn't want to go there but because I felt like it would explain a lot of my strange hesitations and hangups.
"A little less than a month ago, I was raped."
He exhaled the breath he'd held whilst I tiptoed through that last sentence. The sound he made showed shock and sympathy. A perfect response. We talked through it, he asked me questions, asked if there was anything he could or shouldn't do to help, asked how I was healing.
Since then he has been proving himself as trustworthy and kind. It's really something.
So this Sunday is my noble Pizza Guy's 24th and I really want to get him something special (but not too over-the-top, it's only been about three weeks or so) and I have no idea of what to get him. What do you think? He's smart, getting his Master's degree, loves basketball, is Christian, has a great job... goodness, he sounds pretty lovely. What do you get the guy who has it all?
Been a while
Hey Beauties,
I know it's been a stretch since I've written and I've got tons of stories stored up but just no time to write them out so give me a few more days.
Expect an interesting story regarding my waxing and waning love life, my experiences in healing and all things new.
Love You,
Porsch
I know it's been a stretch since I've written and I've got tons of stories stored up but just no time to write them out so give me a few more days.
Expect an interesting story regarding my waxing and waning love life, my experiences in healing and all things new.
Love You,
Porsch
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
What not to say
I wonder that I may be a bit too understanding sometimes. That my benevolent patience and tolerance (and not to mention humility) could abound to a fault. Despite these very admirable qualities I possess, someone has still managed to successfully piss me off today. Lemme tell you about it. Hold on, I'll preface this by saying that I understand social awkwardness and I know that some conversations can leave one without words, but this is something else. This is a complete disregard to... to everything.
A male friend of mine (someone I used to date) had been asking me to take some time and catch up with him lately, especially since the recent events (if you don't know, click here and read all the posts following because I haven't written about much else). He's been behaving like a very concerned friend, intent upon making himself more than available to my needs right now whether they be talking, listening, whatever. Today was the first day we saw each other since the incident and that was on purpose. I simply wasn't ready to see him. I wasn't ready to see him because... because of what I knew he'd say.
We were getting on fine, I was updating him on how I've been handling everything when he asked who the men that abused me were. I told him they were co-workers at my old job. He took this information in and then said,
"Well, be wary of the people at your new job. The guys I mean."
Only a few words, I know. But it came out feeling like, "Well, I hope you've learned your lesson."
"What are you saying?" I asked, "that this may happen again?"
"No, Porscha," he replied. "I'm just saying that this is a really silly situation."
Ummmm... WHAT?!!! This is why I avoided seeing this person. This is the reason right here.
I managed to keep calm but I got up and left shortly after that. I understand the depth of the topic we were discussing and how it can loom overwhelmingly between two people. I understand how difficult it can be knowing the right thing to say. Nothing spoken can heal me. Some words, however, smooth over my wounds like a balm while other words scrape into them like sand. If you don't know what to say, here's what to do: lean your body toward me with a concerned look on your face and be silent. If you're afraid of saying the wrong thing, don't say anything at all.
Later on I called to tell him how his words made me feel, but I decided against it and hung up mid-ring. Instead (in a more passive-aggressive way, perhaps) I decided to write it out.
DO NOT EVER SAY THAT TO ME AGAIN.
Thanks.
A male friend of mine (someone I used to date) had been asking me to take some time and catch up with him lately, especially since the recent events (if you don't know, click here and read all the posts following because I haven't written about much else). He's been behaving like a very concerned friend, intent upon making himself more than available to my needs right now whether they be talking, listening, whatever. Today was the first day we saw each other since the incident and that was on purpose. I simply wasn't ready to see him. I wasn't ready to see him because... because of what I knew he'd say.
We were getting on fine, I was updating him on how I've been handling everything when he asked who the men that abused me were. I told him they were co-workers at my old job. He took this information in and then said,
"Well, be wary of the people at your new job. The guys I mean."
Only a few words, I know. But it came out feeling like, "Well, I hope you've learned your lesson."
"What are you saying?" I asked, "that this may happen again?"
"No, Porscha," he replied. "I'm just saying that this is a really silly situation."
Ummmm... WHAT?!!! This is why I avoided seeing this person. This is the reason right here.
I managed to keep calm but I got up and left shortly after that. I understand the depth of the topic we were discussing and how it can loom overwhelmingly between two people. I understand how difficult it can be knowing the right thing to say. Nothing spoken can heal me. Some words, however, smooth over my wounds like a balm while other words scrape into them like sand. If you don't know what to say, here's what to do: lean your body toward me with a concerned look on your face and be silent. If you're afraid of saying the wrong thing, don't say anything at all.
Later on I called to tell him how his words made me feel, but I decided against it and hung up mid-ring. Instead (in a more passive-aggressive way, perhaps) I decided to write it out.
DO NOT EVER SAY THAT TO ME AGAIN.
Thanks.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Innocence
"You were so cool that night, Porscha. You totally wanted it. I don't know why you're saying this," that's my rapist talking. I can see him sitting on his couch in front of the television. Bare feet on wine stained carpet. He's holding his phone while using his left hand to gesture for emphasis. "Porsch, rape is such a strong word. You don't just throw it around like that. I didn't hold a knife to your neck or anything. I didn't do anything wrong."
And for a while, as his voice comes through the my phone's speaker and slides against my eardrum, I feel sorry for him. I feel guilty for what I've said. I feel bad for feeling like I was forced to have sex with him against my will. I feel guilty for the panic attacks, the nightmares, the uncontrollable crying fits and the need to speak to a counsellor twice a week. I feel bad because I might be ruining his life by telling people that he may have ruined mine.
"I don't know what to say," I tell him quietly.
He's called out of nowhere. It's 7:20 on Wednesday night. I'm at home, instant messaging my sister on Skype while watching that horror flick with John Cusack, 1408. My phone rang, it was a private number. I answered. Cut to present-tense.
"Porscha," he starts. My name in his mouth makes my stomach churn. I imagine his hot breath against my face as I slipped in and out of consciousness. I feel my body rocking with his movement. I remember curling up and turning over to sleep but him continuing to penetrate me, despite my exhaustion and unresponsiveness. "One of the girls at work said you think I did something really bad to you."
I take a deep breath and prepare myself, "I just need you to listen for a little while." My voice sounds like it's fighting to escape my throat, it sounds tired and worn through. "That Sunday when I woke up, I looked around and couldn't, for the life of me, remember how I got there. I couldn't remember anything that happened the night before or anything..."
"Well what the fuck, Porscha. So you had a bad hangover. Now you think I raped you. You can't remember what happened? I'll tell you what happened." He goes on, "You were good, we had fun. I just wanted to have a good time."
Is there ever an absolute truth? Postmodernism says that truth lies in our relative perception. My truth is that I was raped. Someone used my body simply as a means to orgasm and didn't bother with asking my permission, though I was in no state to give it. His truth is that he and I both had a good time. That I wanted it and was okay with everything. The law states that it is completely illegal to have sex with someone who is under any influence whatsoever because it is impossible to fully gain that person's consent.
"Rape is sexual intercourse without consent or with indifference to consent. Indifference to consent is a legal term that means, for example, if a man has sex with a woman who is drunk or drugged and who does not protest, because she is not in a condition to give consent, it is rape. This means that the man does not care whether she gives consent or not (indifference)." CYH.com
"So, Porscha, if you ever want to talk, I mean it doesn't have to be about this, it could be about whatever, then just call me," he finished.
I hung up my phone feeling very confused. What was I supposed to say? I called my counsellor.
"Wow, Porscha, I'm sure that has got to be really difficult for you. Now that he's called, you're going back on things and doubting yourself?"
"Yeah, I just feel like maybe I'm wrong. If he thinks that it was all fine, then maybe I'm blowing this out of proportion."
"This happens so often and it's normal to feel confused and doubtful. Sometimes all we can go on is our perception of what happened. If you believe you were taken advantage of then that's right. He could have waited till you were sober; he didn't. He could have stopped at anytime; he didn't. If he thought you were okay, he was wrong because it turns out you weren't but he didn't bother to check," my counsellor assured me.
After making sure I wasn't feeling self-destructive, she told me she'd schedule another meeting for early next week for me and I thanked her and hung up.
I feel a little better now. My feelings are real and I know that. This is my truth.
And for a while, as his voice comes through the my phone's speaker and slides against my eardrum, I feel sorry for him. I feel guilty for what I've said. I feel bad for feeling like I was forced to have sex with him against my will. I feel guilty for the panic attacks, the nightmares, the uncontrollable crying fits and the need to speak to a counsellor twice a week. I feel bad because I might be ruining his life by telling people that he may have ruined mine.
"I don't know what to say," I tell him quietly.
He's called out of nowhere. It's 7:20 on Wednesday night. I'm at home, instant messaging my sister on Skype while watching that horror flick with John Cusack, 1408. My phone rang, it was a private number. I answered. Cut to present-tense.
"Porscha," he starts. My name in his mouth makes my stomach churn. I imagine his hot breath against my face as I slipped in and out of consciousness. I feel my body rocking with his movement. I remember curling up and turning over to sleep but him continuing to penetrate me, despite my exhaustion and unresponsiveness. "One of the girls at work said you think I did something really bad to you."
I take a deep breath and prepare myself, "I just need you to listen for a little while." My voice sounds like it's fighting to escape my throat, it sounds tired and worn through. "That Sunday when I woke up, I looked around and couldn't, for the life of me, remember how I got there. I couldn't remember anything that happened the night before or anything..."
"Well what the fuck, Porscha. So you had a bad hangover. Now you think I raped you. You can't remember what happened? I'll tell you what happened." He goes on, "You were good, we had fun. I just wanted to have a good time."
Is there ever an absolute truth? Postmodernism says that truth lies in our relative perception. My truth is that I was raped. Someone used my body simply as a means to orgasm and didn't bother with asking my permission, though I was in no state to give it. His truth is that he and I both had a good time. That I wanted it and was okay with everything. The law states that it is completely illegal to have sex with someone who is under any influence whatsoever because it is impossible to fully gain that person's consent.
"So, Porscha, if you ever want to talk, I mean it doesn't have to be about this, it could be about whatever, then just call me," he finished.
I hung up my phone feeling very confused. What was I supposed to say? I called my counsellor.
"Wow, Porscha, I'm sure that has got to be really difficult for you. Now that he's called, you're going back on things and doubting yourself?"
"Yeah, I just feel like maybe I'm wrong. If he thinks that it was all fine, then maybe I'm blowing this out of proportion."
"This happens so often and it's normal to feel confused and doubtful. Sometimes all we can go on is our perception of what happened. If you believe you were taken advantage of then that's right. He could have waited till you were sober; he didn't. He could have stopped at anytime; he didn't. If he thought you were okay, he was wrong because it turns out you weren't but he didn't bother to check," my counsellor assured me.
After making sure I wasn't feeling self-destructive, she told me she'd schedule another meeting for early next week for me and I thanked her and hung up.
I feel a little better now. My feelings are real and I know that. This is my truth.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
A Few Changes
It's been a little over a week, well, it's been about nine days since the incident and a lot has changed.
For starters, I'm thinking about leaving Australia early. My sister is in Georgia and my mother is in California and it would be nice to see the both of them for Christmas. I'm not completely sure about that yet so I'm not stocking up on boxes and looking at flight rates but I'm definitely considering it.
I'm really focused on finishing my thesis. I want this time in Australia to be worth something. I don't want to remember it as "that place where I was raped". I want it to be "that place where I proved how strong I am and got my Master's degree... sucka". "Sucka" was added for emphasis.
I'm feeling better. I'm not crying as often; I've almost fully gotten my appetite back (after eating like a bird for five days); and when I'm feeling good, I'm really feeling good. It's almost like the happy times when I'm enjoying a friend's company mean so much more because those times are pretty rare right now.
I started a new job. After the panic attack I mentioned in the video in my last post I knew it would be impossible for me to recover while still working at the same place. I had to find a new place. I told my manager that I couldn't work there any more and the very next day I was hired someplace else. No one at my new job knows about what happened and I don't plan on telling them. I just don't want to be known in that way, I know I'm a victim and that's something I need to learn to live with, but I've noticed that it changes the way a person is received. I don't want someone coming up behind me, rubbing my back and asking if I'm okay every five minutes.
I'm understanding that some days are just bad and that's that. If I wake up and feel melancholy, that's my right. I'm learning that if I take a walk and think through the pain, sometimes it goes away and I can be around people and have a good time. If it doesn't fade (and I don't have to work or have any other pressing engagements) then I'll mope for a little while and allow myself to feel that way. What's interesting is that a few weeks ago I wrote in Oh, Apathy that I was having trouble sussing out my emotions. I couldn't stir any feeling for anyone. Now it seems like all those tears were stored up for this reason. Strange, isn't it?
So I know the writing in this post is a bit different from my usual stuff so I'll get into writer-mode and tell you a little story.
***********
My Voyeur
Sometimes, most of the time, when I'd look up from the dishes I was washing or the vegetables I was dicing, I'd see him standing there. It used to give me a start, but I got accustomed to it, believe it or not. He stood at his bedroom window and watched me move about my kitchen and living room with such still interest, I wondered that I might have had him hypnotised. When I came home from work late and turned on my kitchen light, he'd turn on the light in his bedroom like he'd been waiting for me.
The idea of having a voyeur used to excite me, though I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the idea of being interesting to someone else, that watching me vacuum my rug might be a form of entertainment for someone. It's nice to be considered fascinating, especially when you feel your life is anything but. When I had a boyfriend, I'd make sure the kitchen window was open so the stranger watching me from the apartment opposite mine could see us kissing.
He never waved hello to me from his post at the window or said anything when I passed him on campus. I never told him I saw him standing there all those times, even during the times when it was obvious he was trying to hide his silouette behind the curtain. I never did anything about it except pull my shade down when I wanted to be alone.
Then one night, I looked up from the sink full of dishes and saw him pulling on a coat. He ran his hands through his hair a few times as he stood evaluating himself in a mirror. He didn't even look toward his window. I watched him adjust the collar of his shirt, spritz on a bit of cologne, shut off his light and leave his bedroom.
Since that night, he hasn't been around at all. When I come home from work and switch on my kitchen light, his bedroom remains dark. He shuts his curtains more often as if he doesn't want me looking in on him. It all seems a bit silly but I'm a little offended by it. I was the one being watched and now he's out and about while I'm at home entertaining no one. And where the hell is he going? How is it that the wierdo who used to stand at his window, sip tea and watch me clean out my fridge has a better night life than I do? I find myself sneeking into my kitchen just to peek out the window and see if his light is on. Does he have a girl in there? What's he doing right now? It looks like he might have gotten a life of his own and perhaps I've become the voyeur.
So I know the writing in this post is a bit different from my usual stuff so I'll get into writer-mode and tell you a little story.
My Voyeur
Sometimes, most of the time, when I'd look up from the dishes I was washing or the vegetables I was dicing, I'd see him standing there. It used to give me a start, but I got accustomed to it, believe it or not. He stood at his bedroom window and watched me move about my kitchen and living room with such still interest, I wondered that I might have had him hypnotised. When I came home from work late and turned on my kitchen light, he'd turn on the light in his bedroom like he'd been waiting for me.
The idea of having a voyeur used to excite me, though I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the idea of being interesting to someone else, that watching me vacuum my rug might be a form of entertainment for someone. It's nice to be considered fascinating, especially when you feel your life is anything but. When I had a boyfriend, I'd make sure the kitchen window was open so the stranger watching me from the apartment opposite mine could see us kissing.
He never waved hello to me from his post at the window or said anything when I passed him on campus. I never told him I saw him standing there all those times, even during the times when it was obvious he was trying to hide his silouette behind the curtain. I never did anything about it except pull my shade down when I wanted to be alone.
Then one night, I looked up from the sink full of dishes and saw him pulling on a coat. He ran his hands through his hair a few times as he stood evaluating himself in a mirror. He didn't even look toward his window. I watched him adjust the collar of his shirt, spritz on a bit of cologne, shut off his light and leave his bedroom.
Since that night, he hasn't been around at all. When I come home from work and switch on my kitchen light, his bedroom remains dark. He shuts his curtains more often as if he doesn't want me looking in on him. It all seems a bit silly but I'm a little offended by it. I was the one being watched and now he's out and about while I'm at home entertaining no one. And where the hell is he going? How is it that the wierdo who used to stand at his window, sip tea and watch me clean out my fridge has a better night life than I do? I find myself sneeking into my kitchen just to peek out the window and see if his light is on. Does he have a girl in there? What's he doing right now? It looks like he might have gotten a life of his own and perhaps I've become the voyeur.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Monday, September 3, 2007
First Session
The woman sitting across from me has a compassionate and engaged look on her face. She is leaning forward and nodding her head as I speak. During the silent moments, she doesn't talk, she just lets me breathe and figure out what I need to say next.
"... and when I woke up, I was naked, lying in bed next to this guy I barely know. He doesn't even really speak English. I know I would never give my consent to sleep with him."
"Well, there you go, Porscha," she says assuringly. "You've just said it. You know that this was not your choice..."
We move on, she asks me about how I'm feeling physically.
"I haven't slept for more than two hours, I just keep having these disturbing dreams."
"Like what?" she asks.
"They don't have anything to do with the incident, well, only one of them does. My other dreams are abstract. Like there's a loaf of bread and it's perfect except there are two ants crawling on the bottom of the crust. And there's another one with a man who looks like the epitome of masculinity and he's standing naked and as my eyes trace his body, I discover he has a vagina."
"Hmmm, that's interesting," she says thoughtfully. "And what about the other one?"
"Ummm, well, I guess that one's more linked to the incident. I'm in bed with two men and I'm having sex with both of them, but I'm enjoying it."
"Are these the two men who raped you?"
"No. These look like older businessmen. It's weird, one of them leaves the room and I continue with the other one until he comes back and then I switch."
"Wow, that is disturbing isn't it? How do you feel when you wake up from this dream?"
"I remember feeling peaceful at first and then confused."
"Alright. How else are you feeling?"
"I'm experiencing waves of intense nausea at random moments. I haven't been able to eat since the incident, so that's been about three days. I stare off into space for long periods of time and at any given moment, I will burst into tears. I can't seem to control it. It's almost like a sneeze or something and all of a sudden I'm hunched over my kitchen sink, sobbing into the dishtowel," even as I'm saying this, my eyes are stinging with fresh tears. I reach for a new Kleenex, I already have three damp balls of tissue in my lap.
"Don't worry about the food, you'll eat when your body is ready. This is all common when you experience a trauma. Your digestive system shuts down, your body is on auto pilot. It is very important that you try to stay active, go for a walk or something each day. You're at a point where you can very easily sink into depression. Are you having morbid thoughts?"
I think back to the taxi ride home from the hospital and the calmness I felt about crashing the car, part of me hoped the driver would become distracted and swerve the car off the road.
"Yes," I say quietly, shifting my eyes to the floor.
"That's normal, but don't indulge in those thoughts. Spend some time in nature and enjoy the beauty of life around you. Porscha, I know you're trying to make things go back to normal. You don't want special treatment and you don't want anyone to know. Pushing this away will only hurt your recovery. I hate telling victims this but your life will never be the same. What you've experienced has, in some way or another, changed you."
"... and when I woke up, I was naked, lying in bed next to this guy I barely know. He doesn't even really speak English. I know I would never give my consent to sleep with him."
"Well, there you go, Porscha," she says assuringly. "You've just said it. You know that this was not your choice..."
We move on, she asks me about how I'm feeling physically.
"I haven't slept for more than two hours, I just keep having these disturbing dreams."
"Like what?" she asks.
"They don't have anything to do with the incident, well, only one of them does. My other dreams are abstract. Like there's a loaf of bread and it's perfect except there are two ants crawling on the bottom of the crust. And there's another one with a man who looks like the epitome of masculinity and he's standing naked and as my eyes trace his body, I discover he has a vagina."
"Hmmm, that's interesting," she says thoughtfully. "And what about the other one?"
"Ummm, well, I guess that one's more linked to the incident. I'm in bed with two men and I'm having sex with both of them, but I'm enjoying it."
"Are these the two men who raped you?"
"No. These look like older businessmen. It's weird, one of them leaves the room and I continue with the other one until he comes back and then I switch."
"Wow, that is disturbing isn't it? How do you feel when you wake up from this dream?"
"I remember feeling peaceful at first and then confused."
"Alright. How else are you feeling?"
"I'm experiencing waves of intense nausea at random moments. I haven't been able to eat since the incident, so that's been about three days. I stare off into space for long periods of time and at any given moment, I will burst into tears. I can't seem to control it. It's almost like a sneeze or something and all of a sudden I'm hunched over my kitchen sink, sobbing into the dishtowel," even as I'm saying this, my eyes are stinging with fresh tears. I reach for a new Kleenex, I already have three damp balls of tissue in my lap.
"Don't worry about the food, you'll eat when your body is ready. This is all common when you experience a trauma. Your digestive system shuts down, your body is on auto pilot. It is very important that you try to stay active, go for a walk or something each day. You're at a point where you can very easily sink into depression. Are you having morbid thoughts?"
I think back to the taxi ride home from the hospital and the calmness I felt about crashing the car, part of me hoped the driver would become distracted and swerve the car off the road.
"Yes," I say quietly, shifting my eyes to the floor.
"That's normal, but don't indulge in those thoughts. Spend some time in nature and enjoy the beauty of life around you. Porscha, I know you're trying to make things go back to normal. You don't want special treatment and you don't want anyone to know. Pushing this away will only hurt your recovery. I hate telling victims this but your life will never be the same. What you've experienced has, in some way or another, changed you."
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Do you want to talk?
On the way home from the hospital, the taxi driver was pleasant. The car smelled of tobacco and vanilla deodoriser. He made small talk about his night so far and asked me about mine, obviously curious about my pickup location. I rested my head against my hand but immediately jerked my head upright because of the sharp pain the tender bruise on my temple caused when pressed.
"You'll have to direct me, I've only been taxi-driving a short while. The university student housing?"
"Yeah," I said. "Just turn right up here." I calmly thought about leading us into a car crash. The streets were dark, I could lead us down a dead end, maybe we'd crash into a light pole. These morbid thoughts flipped through my mind like slow-turning pages.
I paid the driver, got out of the cab and into my small apartment. I locked the doors, set my purse on the floor, stood in front of the full-length mirror and began undressing. I took great consideration in the removal of my clothing, how each layer revealed more and more of my skin, until I stood in front of the mirror, naked except for a pair of panties. I gazed at my reflection, noting the way the dim light cast small shadows beneath my breasts and defined the muscles on my stomach. I examined the scratches and carpet burns on my elbows and thought about my state of helplessness.
After I pulled on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants, I rifled through my purse and pulled out the card the doctor had given me. I grabbed my phone and, with trembling fingers, dialed the number. The woman who answered took my name and phone number and said I'd be receiving a phone call soon.
I hung up and sat there waiting. I thought about what I would say to whomever called. I thought about telling my friends and how I would go about doing that. I thought about how I would tell my mother.
My phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hello," the soft female voice came through. "May I please speak to Porscha?"
"This is her," I replied.
"Hi Porscha, this is Lisa. I'm a counselor from the Perth Rape and Crisis centre. Do you want to talk?"
"Yes," I replied timidly, my voice sounding weak and cracked. "Yes I do."
"You'll have to direct me, I've only been taxi-driving a short while. The university student housing?"
"Yeah," I said. "Just turn right up here." I calmly thought about leading us into a car crash. The streets were dark, I could lead us down a dead end, maybe we'd crash into a light pole. These morbid thoughts flipped through my mind like slow-turning pages.
I paid the driver, got out of the cab and into my small apartment. I locked the doors, set my purse on the floor, stood in front of the full-length mirror and began undressing. I took great consideration in the removal of my clothing, how each layer revealed more and more of my skin, until I stood in front of the mirror, naked except for a pair of panties. I gazed at my reflection, noting the way the dim light cast small shadows beneath my breasts and defined the muscles on my stomach. I examined the scratches and carpet burns on my elbows and thought about my state of helplessness.
After I pulled on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants, I rifled through my purse and pulled out the card the doctor had given me. I grabbed my phone and, with trembling fingers, dialed the number. The woman who answered took my name and phone number and said I'd be receiving a phone call soon.
I hung up and sat there waiting. I thought about what I would say to whomever called. I thought about telling my friends and how I would go about doing that. I thought about how I would tell my mother.
My phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hello," the soft female voice came through. "May I please speak to Porscha?"
"This is her," I replied.
"Hi Porscha, this is Lisa. I'm a counselor from the Perth Rape and Crisis centre. Do you want to talk?"
"Yes," I replied timidly, my voice sounding weak and cracked. "Yes I do."
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
A Mess to be Made
Isn't it funny how you can almost imagine things into being? We can, if we think about it enough, transfer our dreams and fantasies to fruition. Although, it never quite ends up like the imagination inspires, does it?
I'm talking about the tall, sexy, coffee-coloured man walking through my tiny, feminine apartment, having to bow his head to pass safely through the doorframes, hunching down a little to admire himself in the full-length mirror. I wanted to dip that man in sweet almond oil and watch him glisten.
Note the use of past-tense.
The subject of my Chocolate-Man fantasies and I went out on a date last week. We went for dinner, then ice cream, and then for a very long walk around downtown during which we had a very insightful conversation about almost everything we're made of: our childhoods, families, religion, education, hobbies, past relationships, all of those interesting topics that make you feel like you know a person.
We'd been walking for at least an hour when we decided to sit on a bench located in an isolated outdoor rotunda surrounded by a garden and post-modern art structures. Tall, metal geometric shapes adjacent to billowy willow trees and stout shrubs stood around us, listening to our quiet conversation:
"Wait a sec. You can't cook at all?"
"No," he replied and went on to give me the awful details of his past cooking attempts. This man must never be left alone in a kitchen.
So we decided I would teach him to cook. The following Sunday was to be our first lesson.
Sunday morning found me irritable and with a sore throat. I'd worked a late shift the night before, slept only five hours and needed to be back at work at ten. I thought about calling him and postponing our plans but I figured that by the evening my mood would soften. After three cups of coffee, I was a more pleasant person to be around but still exhausted from the previous night. Thankfully, the day passed in a rush and, suddenly it seemed, we were walking through the farmer's market and I was smelling mangos and testing avocados for firmness.
It's safe to say that he was absolutely no help at all. He was indecisive and without words leaving me with the duty of filling the silence with conversation, and, with my being exhausted, I didn't have much to say. I'd noticed our slight struggle with communication early on during our first date. He wouldn't speak unless I prompted him, wouldn't emphasise unless I asked him to explain himself, and wouldn't share a story unless I'd shared one of my own. It was a good thing he'd mentioned that he wasn't interested in a relationship at present because, although I found him lovely to look at and enjoyed spending time with him, I felt our dialogue was draining.
On our way to my place, we sat in silence. A silence I was very much enjoying after hearing people talking over each other all morning and afternoon. I rested my head against the cushion and thought of nothing but how iridescent the rain clouds looked after the brief storm we'd experienced while picking through vegetables at the market. He turned to look at me and asked why I was so quiet.
"I'm just a bit tired," I replied.
He said that he was a quiet person and it would be no good if we were both quiet so he hoped I wouldn't be that way all night long.
Hmmm.
"I'll perk up when we start cooking. Let's just enjoy this silence right now."
He seemed disconcerted by my reply. Perhaps he was nervous to be entering my house for the first time, either way the silence was uncomfortable for him.
We had fun and the dinner was fantastic, flaky fillets of white fish, tons of roasted vegetables and bulgar wheat with onions and spinach. Everything turned out delicious.
We drank wine throughout the evening and ended up cuddling and kissing to close the night.
*******
After he'd left and I was alone in my apartment I began to feel confused. If he said he'd only wanted to be friends, then why did he kiss me and hold my hand? If I said I didn't want a relationship, then why did I kiss him back? Is it safe to just spend time with a heterosexual member of the opposite sex? Is it impossible for me to just be friends with someone?! Why is it so difficult for me to do what I really want? I want to be single but I am certainly not behaving like it.
Last night he called. After chatting for a bit, I dove into what had been bothering me.
"I thought you said you didn't want a relationship"
To which he replied by telling me not to put words in his mouth.
"But," I came back, "when we went out for dinner that night you said, 'I don't want a relationship right now, I just really want to focus on completing my studies'."
He said something to the affect of that being a general comment he'd made before he'd gotten to know me and now that he's had the opportunity to spend time with me, he'd like to pursue a relationship.
I suddenly felt like I didn't have much of a say in the matter and that this could very well be how a lot of my other relationships began. There's never any official commencement; I just fall into relationships. He holds my hand and all of a sudden I'm somebody's girlfriend. I end up having to ask my friends after a few weeks into it, "wait a sec, do I have a boyfriend?" I don't need him to get down on one knee but I'd like to be asked first or just made aware of his intentions before his friend says, "Oh, you're so-and-so's girlfriend." I am?! Since when? Am I that dense and naive? No. Not this time.
I took a deep breath and said into the receiver, "But I'm not sure I want a relationship."
"Really?" he said as if the thought never crossed his mind.
"Really."
He said he didn't want to discuss it over the phone and we'd talk about it once we saw each other face to face.
Hmmm.
I'm talking about the tall, sexy, coffee-coloured man walking through my tiny, feminine apartment, having to bow his head to pass safely through the doorframes, hunching down a little to admire himself in the full-length mirror. I wanted to dip that man in sweet almond oil and watch him glisten.
Note the use of past-tense.
The subject of my Chocolate-Man fantasies and I went out on a date last week. We went for dinner, then ice cream, and then for a very long walk around downtown during which we had a very insightful conversation about almost everything we're made of: our childhoods, families, religion, education, hobbies, past relationships, all of those interesting topics that make you feel like you know a person.
We'd been walking for at least an hour when we decided to sit on a bench located in an isolated outdoor rotunda surrounded by a garden and post-modern art structures. Tall, metal geometric shapes adjacent to billowy willow trees and stout shrubs stood around us, listening to our quiet conversation:
"Wait a sec. You can't cook at all?"
"No," he replied and went on to give me the awful details of his past cooking attempts. This man must never be left alone in a kitchen.
So we decided I would teach him to cook. The following Sunday was to be our first lesson.
Sunday morning found me irritable and with a sore throat. I'd worked a late shift the night before, slept only five hours and needed to be back at work at ten. I thought about calling him and postponing our plans but I figured that by the evening my mood would soften. After three cups of coffee, I was a more pleasant person to be around but still exhausted from the previous night. Thankfully, the day passed in a rush and, suddenly it seemed, we were walking through the farmer's market and I was smelling mangos and testing avocados for firmness.
It's safe to say that he was absolutely no help at all. He was indecisive and without words leaving me with the duty of filling the silence with conversation, and, with my being exhausted, I didn't have much to say. I'd noticed our slight struggle with communication early on during our first date. He wouldn't speak unless I prompted him, wouldn't emphasise unless I asked him to explain himself, and wouldn't share a story unless I'd shared one of my own. It was a good thing he'd mentioned that he wasn't interested in a relationship at present because, although I found him lovely to look at and enjoyed spending time with him, I felt our dialogue was draining.
On our way to my place, we sat in silence. A silence I was very much enjoying after hearing people talking over each other all morning and afternoon. I rested my head against the cushion and thought of nothing but how iridescent the rain clouds looked after the brief storm we'd experienced while picking through vegetables at the market. He turned to look at me and asked why I was so quiet.
"I'm just a bit tired," I replied.
He said that he was a quiet person and it would be no good if we were both quiet so he hoped I wouldn't be that way all night long.
Hmmm.
"I'll perk up when we start cooking. Let's just enjoy this silence right now."
He seemed disconcerted by my reply. Perhaps he was nervous to be entering my house for the first time, either way the silence was uncomfortable for him.
We had fun and the dinner was fantastic, flaky fillets of white fish, tons of roasted vegetables and bulgar wheat with onions and spinach. Everything turned out delicious.
We drank wine throughout the evening and ended up cuddling and kissing to close the night.
After he'd left and I was alone in my apartment I began to feel confused. If he said he'd only wanted to be friends, then why did he kiss me and hold my hand? If I said I didn't want a relationship, then why did I kiss him back? Is it safe to just spend time with a heterosexual member of the opposite sex? Is it impossible for me to just be friends with someone?! Why is it so difficult for me to do what I really want? I want to be single but I am certainly not behaving like it.
Last night he called. After chatting for a bit, I dove into what had been bothering me.
"I thought you said you didn't want a relationship"
To which he replied by telling me not to put words in his mouth.
"But," I came back, "when we went out for dinner that night you said, 'I don't want a relationship right now, I just really want to focus on completing my studies'."
He said something to the affect of that being a general comment he'd made before he'd gotten to know me and now that he's had the opportunity to spend time with me, he'd like to pursue a relationship.
I suddenly felt like I didn't have much of a say in the matter and that this could very well be how a lot of my other relationships began. There's never any official commencement; I just fall into relationships. He holds my hand and all of a sudden I'm somebody's girlfriend. I end up having to ask my friends after a few weeks into it, "wait a sec, do I have a boyfriend?" I don't need him to get down on one knee but I'd like to be asked first or just made aware of his intentions before his friend says, "Oh, you're so-and-so's girlfriend." I am?! Since when? Am I that dense and naive? No. Not this time.
I took a deep breath and said into the receiver, "But I'm not sure I want a relationship."
"Really?" he said as if the thought never crossed his mind.
"Really."
He said he didn't want to discuss it over the phone and we'd talk about it once we saw each other face to face.
Hmmm.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Oh, Apathy.
Do I seem like I have issues? You read my blogs, do you think I have issues?
For some reason, I cannot feel anything romantic for... anyone. I want to make things work, I want to be the girlfriend of his dreams, and I want to be so satisfied in every way that a relationship can satisfy a person, but my heart is feeling nothing.
And when he talks to me, I can't bring myself to give my full attention, I barely listen at all. I sometimes wish we were kissing just so we don't have to talk, but when we kiss, I just want to be alone.
It's not him, it's definitely me.
Can I blame this on my ex? About a year ago I wrote this (it's posted on my second entry on this site):
Sometimes I wonder if we give our past relationships too much credit. We attribute our present behavior to something awful that was done to us. So as soon as someone treats us badly, we lose all authority over ourselves? It makes us free to treat other people the exact same way that damaged us in the first place and we remain very nearly blameless while leaving the tab with the invisible culprit (the ex) who initiated the cycle.
Why don't I feel anything for this person?! He's smart, he's an avid fan of my writing (well, he was a fan, I'm pretty sure this entry will put an end to that), and he’s lovely to look at, even-tempered, thoughtful. All those good things that people pretend to be when they write ads for personals.
I told him I wanted to go back to being friends. When I got off the phone, I found myself walking through an empty park in a light spring rain. It was the perfect moment to cry. To cry for all my failed relationships, for my future husband and the fact that I'm missing him without even knowing his name, to cry about this feeling of apathy that has been plaguing me since my last boyfriend. But I couldn't. Not one measly tear. I even tried to get it started by thinking of sad things such as my dog dying when I was fifteen, how disappointing the ending was in the last book I read, and the grass stains on my white Keds, but nothing happened. So I simply shrugged my shoulders and kept walking.
The fact is, I don't know what I'm feeling. I'm not depressed; I laugh and sing, do my Pilates workout; meet friends for coffee and all that jazz. Maybe I just need to be alone for about a year or so, what do you think?
For some reason, I cannot feel anything romantic for... anyone. I want to make things work, I want to be the girlfriend of his dreams, and I want to be so satisfied in every way that a relationship can satisfy a person, but my heart is feeling nothing.
And when he talks to me, I can't bring myself to give my full attention, I barely listen at all. I sometimes wish we were kissing just so we don't have to talk, but when we kiss, I just want to be alone.
It's not him, it's definitely me.
Can I blame this on my ex? About a year ago I wrote this (it's posted on my second entry on this site):
Sometimes I wonder if we give our past relationships too much credit. We attribute our present behavior to something awful that was done to us. So as soon as someone treats us badly, we lose all authority over ourselves? It makes us free to treat other people the exact same way that damaged us in the first place and we remain very nearly blameless while leaving the tab with the invisible culprit (the ex) who initiated the cycle.
Why don't I feel anything for this person?! He's smart, he's an avid fan of my writing (well, he was a fan, I'm pretty sure this entry will put an end to that), and he’s lovely to look at, even-tempered, thoughtful. All those good things that people pretend to be when they write ads for personals.
I told him I wanted to go back to being friends. When I got off the phone, I found myself walking through an empty park in a light spring rain. It was the perfect moment to cry. To cry for all my failed relationships, for my future husband and the fact that I'm missing him without even knowing his name, to cry about this feeling of apathy that has been plaguing me since my last boyfriend. But I couldn't. Not one measly tear. I even tried to get it started by thinking of sad things such as my dog dying when I was fifteen, how disappointing the ending was in the last book I read, and the grass stains on my white Keds, but nothing happened. So I simply shrugged my shoulders and kept walking.
The fact is, I don't know what I'm feeling. I'm not depressed; I laugh and sing, do my Pilates workout; meet friends for coffee and all that jazz. Maybe I just need to be alone for about a year or so, what do you think?
Saturday, August 18, 2007
I'm it.
The lovely Natural Muze has tagged me to write, in detail, ten things I like about myself and then tag five people whilst saying something nice about them. Alright, let's go.
1) I have the BEST relationship with my sister. I honestly could not wish for a better person with whom to share parents. Even though I'm thousands of miles away, our relationship hasn't suffered at all. I am so thankful for her and our friendship.
2) I am one of the most passionate people I know. I don't just like something, I love it. It's a part of who I am and is apparent in the way I talk to people or dive into new experiences or tell stories, which brings me to my next item...
3) I am a fantastic story-teller. I believe I can make the action of putting on a pair of socks sound riveting. I believe this is why I write nonfiction, it's not so much that my life is very interesting, it's all about the way you tell the story.
4) I traveled all the way to West Australia to get a master's degree. I am so proud of myself for doing this. I'm thrilled with my choice to come here and I'm amazed that I was able to come here alone, knowing no one, get into a university and get a second degree. I feel so courageous and like I've gained so much since I've been here. I can also tell people that I lived in Australia for a little over a year and a half, which will sound sooo cool to my future in-laws.
5) I prefer a small cafe or pub to a crowded club any day. When I say "I wanna do something fun," that means that I want to go to the local cafe and people-watch while sipping lattes or a good glass of wine, (red wine, never white!) and have a good conversation. Uh, this is a little off topic but I really dislike white wine and I don't care for champagne or sparkling wines unless it's a sparkling rose. I don't like sweet red wine like Merlot, although I'll deal with it if it's a Merlot blend like Cabernet-Merlot or something.
6) I LOVE my uniquely West Coast accent. I've had some people pick up on it instantly saying, "What part of California are you from?" and I love it. I use the words "totally", "like", "definitely" and "whatev" freely and I don't feel bad about it at all. Who cares if I sound like an extra from Laguna Beach?
7) I am so comfortable in my own skin. I love who I am and I'm fine with or without someone keeping me company. I don't mind perusing a bookstore on my own but if you want to join in, you're more than welcome.
8) I embrace my blue moods. I think it's important to really feel every emotion so when I'm feeling down I allow myself to sulk, play sad music, watch sappy movies and whatever. I even made a playlist on my iTunes specifically for this purpose. Yeah, I know it's a little strange but, like Madonna says, "express yourself, don't repress yourself". I think it will save money on therapy later on in life.
9) I love my musical background. My sister and I are the daughters of a romantic, soul-searching jazz musician and I'm very proud of that fact. When I was younger, music was always floating in the air, Dad was always strumming his guitar and humming the melody of songs when he'd forgotten the words. Lovely.
10) I generally don't care about what people think of me. I know it sounds cliche but I really don't. I mean, I love hearing the good things like "Porsch is so nice, I really like her," but if someone is saying or feeling negative things about me, it doesn't really bother me too much. I know it's impossible to please everyone and, in the end, what matters most is that I love myself.
A few extras...
11) I'm really happy I decided to go natural with my hair. It's so much healthier and it's nice not to be chemical-dependent anymore.
12) If the whole PR thing doesn't work, I'm pretty sure I have a future in preaching. I know my Bible. I can spout off verses left and right for nearly any situation. I attended a private Christian college for four years of my life and have read the Bible at least three times during that period. I know for a fact that whatever it is you're going through, there is a Bible verse, passage or story relevant to the issue, and I can probably tell you what it is and where to find it.
Alright, now on to the tagging...
My Lovely Sister, Nikki, a phenomenal chef and a great writer who doesn't write nearly as much as she should.
Ms. Puddin', a beautiful young woman who is a fantastic writer and that I relate to immensly.
Megan, my lovely friend who is honest, witty, and absolutely delightful.
Heathie, my favourite Australian. So smart and simply amazing, I adore him.
Jenna a wonderful, passionate and over-analytical person who knows me so well, it's ridiculous.
Take care!!!
1) I have the BEST relationship with my sister. I honestly could not wish for a better person with whom to share parents. Even though I'm thousands of miles away, our relationship hasn't suffered at all. I am so thankful for her and our friendship.
2) I am one of the most passionate people I know. I don't just like something, I love it. It's a part of who I am and is apparent in the way I talk to people or dive into new experiences or tell stories, which brings me to my next item...
3) I am a fantastic story-teller. I believe I can make the action of putting on a pair of socks sound riveting. I believe this is why I write nonfiction, it's not so much that my life is very interesting, it's all about the way you tell the story.
4) I traveled all the way to West Australia to get a master's degree. I am so proud of myself for doing this. I'm thrilled with my choice to come here and I'm amazed that I was able to come here alone, knowing no one, get into a university and get a second degree. I feel so courageous and like I've gained so much since I've been here. I can also tell people that I lived in Australia for a little over a year and a half, which will sound sooo cool to my future in-laws.
5) I prefer a small cafe or pub to a crowded club any day. When I say "I wanna do something fun," that means that I want to go to the local cafe and people-watch while sipping lattes or a good glass of wine, (red wine, never white!) and have a good conversation. Uh, this is a little off topic but I really dislike white wine and I don't care for champagne or sparkling wines unless it's a sparkling rose. I don't like sweet red wine like Merlot, although I'll deal with it if it's a Merlot blend like Cabernet-Merlot or something.
6) I LOVE my uniquely West Coast accent. I've had some people pick up on it instantly saying, "What part of California are you from?" and I love it. I use the words "totally", "like", "definitely" and "whatev" freely and I don't feel bad about it at all. Who cares if I sound like an extra from Laguna Beach?
7) I am so comfortable in my own skin. I love who I am and I'm fine with or without someone keeping me company. I don't mind perusing a bookstore on my own but if you want to join in, you're more than welcome.
8) I embrace my blue moods. I think it's important to really feel every emotion so when I'm feeling down I allow myself to sulk, play sad music, watch sappy movies and whatever. I even made a playlist on my iTunes specifically for this purpose. Yeah, I know it's a little strange but, like Madonna says, "express yourself, don't repress yourself". I think it will save money on therapy later on in life.
9) I love my musical background. My sister and I are the daughters of a romantic, soul-searching jazz musician and I'm very proud of that fact. When I was younger, music was always floating in the air, Dad was always strumming his guitar and humming the melody of songs when he'd forgotten the words. Lovely.
10) I generally don't care about what people think of me. I know it sounds cliche but I really don't. I mean, I love hearing the good things like "Porsch is so nice, I really like her," but if someone is saying or feeling negative things about me, it doesn't really bother me too much. I know it's impossible to please everyone and, in the end, what matters most is that I love myself.
A few extras...
11) I'm really happy I decided to go natural with my hair. It's so much healthier and it's nice not to be chemical-dependent anymore.
12) If the whole PR thing doesn't work, I'm pretty sure I have a future in preaching. I know my Bible. I can spout off verses left and right for nearly any situation. I attended a private Christian college for four years of my life and have read the Bible at least three times during that period. I know for a fact that whatever it is you're going through, there is a Bible verse, passage or story relevant to the issue, and I can probably tell you what it is and where to find it.
Alright, now on to the tagging...
My Lovely Sister, Nikki, a phenomenal chef and a great writer who doesn't write nearly as much as she should.
Ms. Puddin', a beautiful young woman who is a fantastic writer and that I relate to immensly.
Megan, my lovely friend who is honest, witty, and absolutely delightful.
Heathie, my favourite Australian. So smart and simply amazing, I adore him.
Jenna a wonderful, passionate and over-analytical person who knows me so well, it's ridiculous.
Take care!!!
Monday, August 13, 2007
Black Beauty
There are so few African-Americans here in Australia it's absolutely striking. African natives, however, are everywhere. They look at me with a mixture of curiosity and familiarity and I feel like mixed up fragments of the future gazing at the beauty of the past. I also feel like an outsider, being both African and American makes me a bit too multicultural to fully fit in with either group, a feeling I've grown accustomed to. People look at me trying to figure out what land I'm native to. Just two days ago, a lovely African couple approached me and asked, "Where are your people from?" Well... My roots are the same as yours but somewhere along the lines, things got mixed up and the branches became caramel skinned with curly hair and hazel-brown eyes. I don't like hearing Black people say, "I'm part this and part that and one-fifth this... with a little bit of (insert random Native-American tribe here)..." but faced with this question, I was stumped. We barely look African-Anything, I wear my hair natural and people still can't figure out what my heritage is. For some reason, I felt my being African-American was a cop-out, like I'm not really Black at all. In the States, you can be as Black and Afro-centric as you want to be but once you see a group of Nigerians who just left the Mother Land two weeks ago, you will definitely feel like the odd man out. I told the couple that I'm African-American and they nodded, smiled, and told me I'm beautiful. Thank you, you two are gorgeous.
I feel obliged to preface the following by saying that for the last few months I've been experiencing a slight obsession to date a darkly skinned African man. I feel silly writing this but I really want to see an African man's dark chocolate-y skin against mine. To see this tall dark being walk around my girly apartment and kneel to look at himself in the full-length mirror or have to bow his head slightly as he passes through the door-frames. I want to admire him up close: high cheekbones and angular features, full lips and dark eyes, it excites me. There are tall, beautiful, athletic-looking African men all over this city but none have ever approached me. This brings me to Charlie.
Charlie is a tall, slim, handsome man from Congo. His skin is as dark and smooth as black coffee. He is employed by a crowd-control agency that sends its employees to all the high-profile bars in Perth city. I see him every Friday and Saturday night while I'm at work. Drunk women stumble and fall against his statuesque frame, he just smiles and helps them steady themselves. As he stands there, his presences alone keeps rowdy party-goers in check while his tall, erect posture dwarfs everyone in the venue. He sees me carrying trays of cocktails and coffee cups, laughing and chatting with customers but because we're both working, we've never had the opportunity to speak to one another; I had never heard his voice before Sunday night.
I was having my dinner break outside in the staff courtyard when I heard two men talking nearby. He and a fellow bouncer entered the courtyard deep in a conversation about various troublesome customers who'd been causing problems in the restaurant. While listening, Charlie's eyes glanced around the area and met mine. I smiled, a bit embarrassed sitting at a table while hunched over a caesar salad and the day's newspaper. I knew he'd linger once his coworker left and we'd have our first opportunity for conversation. The idea of finally being able to talk to him after eight months of watching him out of the corner of my eye made me nervous. I never thought about what I might say to him if we ever talked. "I like the way you look" seems a little blunt, doesn't it?
Sure enough, his company left and we were alone. I looked up from the paper and smiled, "Hi."
"Hi," he said and came closer.
Then, with the silence between us broken we began to ask each other the questions fuelled by the need to satisfy the curiosity we both felt every time we saw each other.
"What's your name?" he started.
"Porscha, what's yours?"
"Charlie."
"Where are you from?" I asked, noting his rich accent from the way he pronounce his name "Chah-lee".
"I'm from Congo. What about you?"
"The U.S., California."
"Oh," he nodded. "Are you just working and traveling or do you live here now?"
"I'm studying here, what about you?"
"I'm studying as well."
"Really? What are you studying?"
"Mechanical engineering."
"Oh? Wow."
"What are you studying?"
"I'm getting my master's in public relations. Do you like your job?" I don't know why I asked that. I guess I just wanted to get away from each other's stats and learn more about him as a person.
"No," he chuckled, white teeth gleaming. "I hate it. I just do it to cover my expenses."
For some reason the way he said, "cover my expenses" captured my intrigue. I think it's because it's an intelligent way to say, "I work cuz I need to pay for stuff." I feel like my degree in journalism makes communication skills of the utmost importance for me upon meeting someone. This makes me way too easy to impress and an all around fool for a man who can turn a phrase.
"Did you come here alone or do you have family here?" I continued with our friendly interrogation.
"No, I came here alone. What about you?"
"Same. How long have you been here?"
"About a year and a half. You?"
"A little over a year."
We nodded at our similar situations.
His coworker's voice buzzed the walkie-talkie Charlie was holding.
"I gotta go back in. It was nice talking to you. See you in there," he said.
"Yeah, see you."
And that was all.
Just for clarification, I must say that yes, I am currently dating someone that I care about very much. He is a wonderful person and I am very happy to be in a relationship with him. But, as a writer, I feel it's my duty to express my thoughts, feelings and experiences and I refuse to censor myself. Thank goodness my guy understands and loves this about me... right?
I feel obliged to preface the following by saying that for the last few months I've been experiencing a slight obsession to date a darkly skinned African man. I feel silly writing this but I really want to see an African man's dark chocolate-y skin against mine. To see this tall dark being walk around my girly apartment and kneel to look at himself in the full-length mirror or have to bow his head slightly as he passes through the door-frames. I want to admire him up close: high cheekbones and angular features, full lips and dark eyes, it excites me. There are tall, beautiful, athletic-looking African men all over this city but none have ever approached me. This brings me to Charlie.
Charlie is a tall, slim, handsome man from Congo. His skin is as dark and smooth as black coffee. He is employed by a crowd-control agency that sends its employees to all the high-profile bars in Perth city. I see him every Friday and Saturday night while I'm at work. Drunk women stumble and fall against his statuesque frame, he just smiles and helps them steady themselves. As he stands there, his presences alone keeps rowdy party-goers in check while his tall, erect posture dwarfs everyone in the venue. He sees me carrying trays of cocktails and coffee cups, laughing and chatting with customers but because we're both working, we've never had the opportunity to speak to one another; I had never heard his voice before Sunday night.
I was having my dinner break outside in the staff courtyard when I heard two men talking nearby. He and a fellow bouncer entered the courtyard deep in a conversation about various troublesome customers who'd been causing problems in the restaurant. While listening, Charlie's eyes glanced around the area and met mine. I smiled, a bit embarrassed sitting at a table while hunched over a caesar salad and the day's newspaper. I knew he'd linger once his coworker left and we'd have our first opportunity for conversation. The idea of finally being able to talk to him after eight months of watching him out of the corner of my eye made me nervous. I never thought about what I might say to him if we ever talked. "I like the way you look" seems a little blunt, doesn't it?
Sure enough, his company left and we were alone. I looked up from the paper and smiled, "Hi."
"Hi," he said and came closer.
Then, with the silence between us broken we began to ask each other the questions fuelled by the need to satisfy the curiosity we both felt every time we saw each other.
"What's your name?" he started.
"Porscha, what's yours?"
"Charlie."
"Where are you from?" I asked, noting his rich accent from the way he pronounce his name "Chah-lee".
"I'm from Congo. What about you?"
"The U.S., California."
"Oh," he nodded. "Are you just working and traveling or do you live here now?"
"I'm studying here, what about you?"
"I'm studying as well."
"Really? What are you studying?"
"Mechanical engineering."
"Oh? Wow."
"What are you studying?"
"I'm getting my master's in public relations. Do you like your job?" I don't know why I asked that. I guess I just wanted to get away from each other's stats and learn more about him as a person.
"No," he chuckled, white teeth gleaming. "I hate it. I just do it to cover my expenses."
For some reason the way he said, "cover my expenses" captured my intrigue. I think it's because it's an intelligent way to say, "I work cuz I need to pay for stuff." I feel like my degree in journalism makes communication skills of the utmost importance for me upon meeting someone. This makes me way too easy to impress and an all around fool for a man who can turn a phrase.
"Did you come here alone or do you have family here?" I continued with our friendly interrogation.
"No, I came here alone. What about you?"
"Same. How long have you been here?"
"About a year and a half. You?"
"A little over a year."
We nodded at our similar situations.
His coworker's voice buzzed the walkie-talkie Charlie was holding.
"I gotta go back in. It was nice talking to you. See you in there," he said.
"Yeah, see you."
And that was all.
Just for clarification, I must say that yes, I am currently dating someone that I care about very much. He is a wonderful person and I am very happy to be in a relationship with him. But, as a writer, I feel it's my duty to express my thoughts, feelings and experiences and I refuse to censor myself. Thank goodness my guy understands and loves this about me... right?
Saturday, August 11, 2007
In a coffehouse
The elderly couple sitting at the table next to me is having a full on discussion regarding what the woman had eaten that day and whether or not she'd like a sandwich or another cup of coffee. "I had two chocolates and a banana..."
"Well maybe you'd like something else that's sweet," her husband suggests.
"No, I don't want a sweet, I've already had two chocolates."
"You want another coffee?"
"Well, I just had tea this morning and then coffee..."
Why is that interesting? Does being married force you to care about how many chocolates your spouse has consumed that day? It's incredible; they are both so intrigued by the conversation they're having. I'm wondering if people ever run out of things to say to each other. It seems that by the time you run out of topics, you've reached a point where the silence is no longer awkward. You can just look at each other and nod your head in understanding. When you think of something to say, you'll say it.
"Did Janice get you that sweater for Christmas three years ago?"
"No, you bought it for me when Myer was having that sale."
"Oh, right. That's a nice colour."
"Yeah, I quite like it."
Then more silence and a nod here and there.
The seat across from me is empty. There is no one to fill the empty spaces of silence that occur between scribbles in my notebook. No one to tell me if the foam from my latte is on the tip of my nose or to comment on the ambient music in the background. Maybe I'm really happy just being alone. Maybe I shouldn't be in a relationship at all and just let the empty chair watch me sip coffee. At least then the silence is comfortable like the elderly couple's. The only thing is that once I think of something to say, I haven't got anyone to say it to.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Aftermath
The air about us was still and a bit damp as we lay there in the darkness, the silence added weight to our surroundings. For moments at a time I felt as if I could not speak or very well decide if speech was in fact better than silence. At other moments, I felt as if I could open my mouth and pour out a deluge of words, that I could talk well into the dawn never ceasing, and the notion scared me.
"What are you thinking?" he quietly demanded. "Tell me."
And I thought, what am I thinking? I'm thinking about how it feels to have my head nestled against your shoulder and about how difficult it is for me to feel warm while you are laying here utterly perspiring. I'm thinking about what this all means for us and our loving relationship, though we are not in love. I'm considering the feeling of your callused fingertips against my pillow-like lips. I'm wondering why I can't hear the ducks' quacking in the daytime from the lake outside my flat but I hear them so loudly at night. I'm thinking about how every kiss and touch that led up to this was filled with supsense and innocent, unspoken boundaries and I'm wondering if we've lost something.
I shifted a little bit to see the way the moonlight shined on his face. His eyes were closed in waiting.
"I'm happy," I whispered.
"What are you thinking?" he quietly demanded. "Tell me."
And I thought, what am I thinking? I'm thinking about how it feels to have my head nestled against your shoulder and about how difficult it is for me to feel warm while you are laying here utterly perspiring. I'm thinking about what this all means for us and our loving relationship, though we are not in love. I'm considering the feeling of your callused fingertips against my pillow-like lips. I'm wondering why I can't hear the ducks' quacking in the daytime from the lake outside my flat but I hear them so loudly at night. I'm thinking about how every kiss and touch that led up to this was filled with supsense and innocent, unspoken boundaries and I'm wondering if we've lost something.
I shifted a little bit to see the way the moonlight shined on his face. His eyes were closed in waiting.
"I'm happy," I whispered.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Caught Off Guard
This blog is written with great anticipation and a bit of anxiety. I've already written several drafts of this entry over the last few weeks and have finally decided that I had to post something regarding my feelings as of late. Alright, enough with the forewarning. You're going to be saying, "Oh, is that it?" once you read it, I know you will.
I've been seeing someone.
There. I wrote it. Now the entire world knows. Anyway, this person reads this blog and I was nervous about posting anything because this blog is a reflection of my feelings and I was afraid he'd know too much about me after reading it.
Just how valuable is mystery anyway? In the dating gameshows, what would score the most points: Mystery or Transparency? Well mystery has never worked for me in the past, if I'm trying to be mysterious with a boyfriend I end up walking around disheartened and complaining about how he doesn't know me. Go fig? Another reason pretending to be mysterious doesn't work for me is because I talk way too much to do it very well. My life is an open book and once you get me started I'll read you a whole chapter out of it. So, at least for me, trying to appear coy is moot.
The funny thing is, I didn't even know this person was interested in me to begin with. A movie and dinner, dancing and ice cream, evenings full of stimulating conversation, we were developing a great friendship... or more? I wasn't exactly sure so I sought my sister's opinion.
"Alright, Nikki, so I'm seeing this guy... at least I think so. I'm not exactly sure. You tell me if we're just friends, ok?"
"Okay," I could hear Nicole entering older-and-wiser-sister mode.
"So we hang out pretty often-"
"Doing what?" she asked.
"Like we went to a movie then for a walk and dinner, we went for ice-cream and then dancing, he came over for tea... I dunno, we just hang out. He's really smart, I feel like we could talk about anything..."
"Alright. Has he kissed you or made any moves?" The obvious question.
"Well... no."
"And you've been hanging out for, what, three weeks? A month?"
"Yeah," it wasn't looking good.
"Just friends, Porsch. It's no different from what you have with your guy-friends."
Alright then. But I had already started writing journal entries examining my feelings toward him and I had even mentioned his name to one of my best friends at home. I was developing feelings, which may sound simple but has been anything but since my last relationship, which I recently vowed to myself to stop discussing. For a little while, I would meet someone who sparked an interest and then, for the smallest reason (like his shoe was untied or his laugh was weird), I would lose all traces of emotion for that person. There would be no curiosity, no "I wanna get to know you better", nothing.
Because I was convinced he and I were just friends, I poured out all of my feelings and regrets regarding my ex-boyfriends and, er... fiancés, (yeah, plural. I'm starting a ring collection), he told me about his dating history, we shared stories of our childhoods, we exchanged opinions on controversial topics, we spoke so freely I began wishing he'd start to pursue me as something more.
Then, as he was saying goodnight after a wonderful evening of dinner and dialogue, he gently cupped my face between his hands, leaned in, and kissed me. I would have been shocked if it weren't for the strangely familiar feeling that we'd been kissing since we'd met. It felt so comfortable to kiss his gorgeous mouth that I almost didn't realise he'd kissed me at all. It seemed perfectly natural that the person with whom I'd shared so many thoughts and stories should share breath as well, that those same mouths engaged in conversation should press against one another as a sealing of a sentence or end of a paragraph. We continued to kiss, learning the sensations of each other's lips and tongues, it was... well, it was fantastic.
Goodness, my face just grew hot while typing that last sentence. Is this too much? Is he going to read this and say, "Woah there, Porsch! I didn't know you were feeling me like that!" Well then so be it. I'm not deleting a single line. Blogging takes courage, damnit, and I've got plenty to spare. Alright, let's get back to it.
After he left, I began to wonder why I hadn't noticed his interest in me from our first date. Hello! A movie and then dinner, ice cream and then dancing, the thoughtful text messages throughout the week, am I blind? Then I realised with some dismay that I am not accustomed to romance. The respect, the patience, the attentive and thoughtfulness that I (along with every other woman) desire was almost lost on me because a girl can't recognise something she's never seen before. The way he laces his fingers between mine and kisses the back of my hand, the way he asks me things I thought only mattered to me like "how was work today?" or "what did you have for dinner?" and the way he waited to get to know me before kissing me; I'm really impressed.
So... yeah, now you know how I feel. So much for mystery, eh?
I've been seeing someone.
There. I wrote it. Now the entire world knows. Anyway, this person reads this blog and I was nervous about posting anything because this blog is a reflection of my feelings and I was afraid he'd know too much about me after reading it.
Just how valuable is mystery anyway? In the dating gameshows, what would score the most points: Mystery or Transparency? Well mystery has never worked for me in the past, if I'm trying to be mysterious with a boyfriend I end up walking around disheartened and complaining about how he doesn't know me. Go fig? Another reason pretending to be mysterious doesn't work for me is because I talk way too much to do it very well. My life is an open book and once you get me started I'll read you a whole chapter out of it. So, at least for me, trying to appear coy is moot.
The funny thing is, I didn't even know this person was interested in me to begin with. A movie and dinner, dancing and ice cream, evenings full of stimulating conversation, we were developing a great friendship... or more? I wasn't exactly sure so I sought my sister's opinion.
"Alright, Nikki, so I'm seeing this guy... at least I think so. I'm not exactly sure. You tell me if we're just friends, ok?"
"Okay," I could hear Nicole entering older-and-wiser-sister mode.
"So we hang out pretty often-"
"Doing what?" she asked.
"Like we went to a movie then for a walk and dinner, we went for ice-cream and then dancing, he came over for tea... I dunno, we just hang out. He's really smart, I feel like we could talk about anything..."
"Alright. Has he kissed you or made any moves?" The obvious question.
"Well... no."
"And you've been hanging out for, what, three weeks? A month?"
"Yeah," it wasn't looking good.
"Just friends, Porsch. It's no different from what you have with your guy-friends."
Alright then. But I had already started writing journal entries examining my feelings toward him and I had even mentioned his name to one of my best friends at home. I was developing feelings, which may sound simple but has been anything but since my last relationship, which I recently vowed to myself to stop discussing. For a little while, I would meet someone who sparked an interest and then, for the smallest reason (like his shoe was untied or his laugh was weird), I would lose all traces of emotion for that person. There would be no curiosity, no "I wanna get to know you better", nothing.
Because I was convinced he and I were just friends, I poured out all of my feelings and regrets regarding my ex-boyfriends and, er... fiancés, (yeah, plural. I'm starting a ring collection), he told me about his dating history, we shared stories of our childhoods, we exchanged opinions on controversial topics, we spoke so freely I began wishing he'd start to pursue me as something more.
Then, as he was saying goodnight after a wonderful evening of dinner and dialogue, he gently cupped my face between his hands, leaned in, and kissed me. I would have been shocked if it weren't for the strangely familiar feeling that we'd been kissing since we'd met. It felt so comfortable to kiss his gorgeous mouth that I almost didn't realise he'd kissed me at all. It seemed perfectly natural that the person with whom I'd shared so many thoughts and stories should share breath as well, that those same mouths engaged in conversation should press against one another as a sealing of a sentence or end of a paragraph. We continued to kiss, learning the sensations of each other's lips and tongues, it was... well, it was fantastic.
Goodness, my face just grew hot while typing that last sentence. Is this too much? Is he going to read this and say, "Woah there, Porsch! I didn't know you were feeling me like that!" Well then so be it. I'm not deleting a single line. Blogging takes courage, damnit, and I've got plenty to spare. Alright, let's get back to it.
After he left, I began to wonder why I hadn't noticed his interest in me from our first date. Hello! A movie and then dinner, ice cream and then dancing, the thoughtful text messages throughout the week, am I blind? Then I realised with some dismay that I am not accustomed to romance. The respect, the patience, the attentive and thoughtfulness that I (along with every other woman) desire was almost lost on me because a girl can't recognise something she's never seen before. The way he laces his fingers between mine and kisses the back of my hand, the way he asks me things I thought only mattered to me like "how was work today?" or "what did you have for dinner?" and the way he waited to get to know me before kissing me; I'm really impressed.
So... yeah, now you know how I feel. So much for mystery, eh?
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
trying to get over
My ability to hold a grudge needs a Guiness world record award, and if I wasn't so ashamed of it, I'd nominate myself. My ex and I have been broken up since May and I still can't seem to get past all the crap I went through for the sake of the damned relationship. I'm bitter and I'm twenty-three, isn't that a bit young?
I feel like I'm suffering from a mental disorder. At any given moment, I silently rehash all of the details that make up the catastrophe of my last relationship. I think about how dumb I was for taking him back after he accused me of cheating and threw all of my belongings out on the apartment staircase. I think about the $1500 I loaned him to go on a surfing excursion only to find that he'd met someone else while on that "all expenses paid" vacation and I very nearly burn with fury.
I kept his passport till I got back every red cent that he owed me and I try my best to never see him (although he works exactly 30 paces from my job), so it seems that everything should be cut off and this person should never enter my mind.
While rearranging my furniture last night, I realised I was missing two pieces of luggage. I remembered that even while I was kicking him out I was being unneccesarily generous and loaned him a couple of suitcases to carry some of his belongings.
I sent him an email asking if he had them (which I knew he did). He wrote back saying he had the luggage and that I could pick them up from his job at the restaurant tomorrow.
My first feeling upon reading his reply was dread. I was almost resigned to forget the suitcases and just buy a new set before leaving Australia. The suitcases, however, were a thoughtful Christmas present from my Mama and she'd be upset to discover I'd lost them to an ex boyfriend. Alright then. I'll go pick them up. I suddenly wished I had a really sexy new boyfriend (or just guy I knew who could pose as my really sexy new boyfriend) to accompany me. He could hold my hand and we'd laugh while telling my ex that we needed my suitcases because we were leaving next week for a month-long shopping spree in Dubai.
And my ex would stand there, slack-faced and covered in flour and pizza dough.
While typing this, I am actually considering hanging around the city tomorrow and finding a really sexy guy to drag along and fulfil this fantasy, not so much the "Dubai shopping spree" part as the "standing in front of my ex, looking like one-half of the sexiest couple alive" part. I wouldn't even have to know the sexy guy's name, I just need him to stand there looking hot. Why is The Gap Band's Early in the Morning playing in my head?
With or without a sexy guy on my arm, I will be looking completely and utterly fabulous tomorrow. I don't have any idea of what I'm going to wear but the outfit will be of the "damn, Baby!" persuasion. Part of me, however, wants to not even care. Part of me wants to show up in jeans and a hoodie with my hair pulled back, looking like I just stepped out of Fresno, California. I mean, shouldn't I be over the whole "look at me and wish you still had this" thing? I'm a grown-up, didn't I just say so in my last blog entry? But there is no way in hell or high heaven that I'll walk into that restaurant looking like I don't care enough, especially when the truth is, I do care. To be honest, the yearning for him to realise how absolutely beautiful and "too-good-for-him" I am will only be satisfied when he admits he made a mistake and apologises. I think that might really be all I want from him.
This is a bit random but did you ever watch Ricki Lake or Jenny Jones? Well, Jenny and Ricki would always have "Look at me now!" shows where people would anonymously drag other people that they haven't seen in years on to the show just so they could gloat about their weight loss or their sex change. Check the clip:
That whole episode would annoy me. It would always piss me off when the people brought on that show would act like they didn't care or like the person who brought them on the show didn't change for the better, especially when that person is only looking for an acknowledgment for their hard work. Then it would make me mad because the person who was saying "look at me now!" needed to get over it. I mean, yeah the dude bullied you in high school and said mean things about your mama, but you're thirty-five now, Sugar. Move on, already. Is that kind of what I'm doing by going out of my way to look fabulous tomorrow? Am I doing a "look at me now!"? I think I need to take my own advice and move on, already.
This blog's content is directly linked to this MySpace blog entry.
I feel like I'm suffering from a mental disorder. At any given moment, I silently rehash all of the details that make up the catastrophe of my last relationship. I think about how dumb I was for taking him back after he accused me of cheating and threw all of my belongings out on the apartment staircase. I think about the $1500 I loaned him to go on a surfing excursion only to find that he'd met someone else while on that "all expenses paid" vacation and I very nearly burn with fury.
I kept his passport till I got back every red cent that he owed me and I try my best to never see him (although he works exactly 30 paces from my job), so it seems that everything should be cut off and this person should never enter my mind.
While rearranging my furniture last night, I realised I was missing two pieces of luggage. I remembered that even while I was kicking him out I was being unneccesarily generous and loaned him a couple of suitcases to carry some of his belongings.
I sent him an email asking if he had them (which I knew he did). He wrote back saying he had the luggage and that I could pick them up from his job at the restaurant tomorrow.
My first feeling upon reading his reply was dread. I was almost resigned to forget the suitcases and just buy a new set before leaving Australia. The suitcases, however, were a thoughtful Christmas present from my Mama and she'd be upset to discover I'd lost them to an ex boyfriend. Alright then. I'll go pick them up. I suddenly wished I had a really sexy new boyfriend (or just guy I knew who could pose as my really sexy new boyfriend) to accompany me. He could hold my hand and we'd laugh while telling my ex that we needed my suitcases because we were leaving next week for a month-long shopping spree in Dubai.
And my ex would stand there, slack-faced and covered in flour and pizza dough.
While typing this, I am actually considering hanging around the city tomorrow and finding a really sexy guy to drag along and fulfil this fantasy, not so much the "Dubai shopping spree" part as the "standing in front of my ex, looking like one-half of the sexiest couple alive" part. I wouldn't even have to know the sexy guy's name, I just need him to stand there looking hot. Why is The Gap Band's Early in the Morning playing in my head?
With or without a sexy guy on my arm, I will be looking completely and utterly fabulous tomorrow. I don't have any idea of what I'm going to wear but the outfit will be of the "damn, Baby!" persuasion. Part of me, however, wants to not even care. Part of me wants to show up in jeans and a hoodie with my hair pulled back, looking like I just stepped out of Fresno, California. I mean, shouldn't I be over the whole "look at me and wish you still had this" thing? I'm a grown-up, didn't I just say so in my last blog entry? But there is no way in hell or high heaven that I'll walk into that restaurant looking like I don't care enough, especially when the truth is, I do care. To be honest, the yearning for him to realise how absolutely beautiful and "too-good-for-him" I am will only be satisfied when he admits he made a mistake and apologises. I think that might really be all I want from him.
This is a bit random but did you ever watch Ricki Lake or Jenny Jones? Well, Jenny and Ricki would always have "Look at me now!" shows where people would anonymously drag other people that they haven't seen in years on to the show just so they could gloat about their weight loss or their sex change. Check the clip:
That whole episode would annoy me. It would always piss me off when the people brought on that show would act like they didn't care or like the person who brought them on the show didn't change for the better, especially when that person is only looking for an acknowledgment for their hard work. Then it would make me mad because the person who was saying "look at me now!" needed to get over it. I mean, yeah the dude bullied you in high school and said mean things about your mama, but you're thirty-five now, Sugar. Move on, already. Is that kind of what I'm doing by going out of my way to look fabulous tomorrow? Am I doing a "look at me now!"? I think I need to take my own advice and move on, already.
This blog's content is directly linked to this MySpace blog entry.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Like a Grown-Up
The ages between twelve and seventeen are what I endearingly call "the ugly years" and mine seemed to last forever. Plagued with acne, braces, glasses, an incorrigibly shiny forehead and a flat chest (I was a late bloomer but packed my undershirt with 2-ply to compensate), the goal of my existence was to pretend that I didn't care. Everything in my "ugly years" was striving toward non-chalance.
It was exactly two years ago that I looked in a mirror and had a revelation of sorts. I was putting the finishing touches on my makeup and preparing for church that Sunday morn when I stepped back from the mirror to examine myself in full. Just then, something (perhaps the expression on my face or the outfit I was wearing) made me gasp and feel spurred to tell my reflection, "I am a grown up." If the world were separated into "Adults" and "Children", I would be on the "Adults" side. I'm not the lanky, greasy-faced twelve to seventeen-year-old anymore; I have breasts (their size does not denounce their presence), a figure, and functional ovaries. I realised that my reasoning had also matured. I'd learned the art of compromise and knowing when to lead and when to follow, I was not any younger than my age said I was.
I grabbed my cell phone and called my mom in California.
"Mom! I just looked in the mirror and I'm really grown up. I look old," I told her.
She laughed, "Miss P., you can't look all that old."
"No, Mom, I seriously look older. I dunno what it is. It's weird. I'm a twenty-something and I look like it," I assured her.
She laughed more. Honestly, I don't know how she deals with me. She is lovely.
I went to church that morning very conscious of my womanhood and the power it carries. Since that day I have embraced each new age in fullness. Growing old doesn't bother me and I'm actually looking forward to the phenomena of grey hair and laugh lines, maybe I'm a rare breed.
Mrs. Maya Angelou said that "if someone shows you who they are, believe them." One of my exes, let's call him Peter Pan, was obsessed with the idea of never growing old. In fact, it was his childish and whimsical nature that attracted me to him in the first place. Mr. Pan would tell me in various ways that he was still a child in need of being taken care of, the thing is he was nine years older than me. He agonised every morning over each hair left in the comb and, for a while, refused to comb his hair at all claiming that he was just "a little jungle boy" when I complained about his wild appearance. I don't know why I didn't take his juvenile antics more seriously.
My guess is that some time before I'd met him he'd had the same revelation I did. One fateful day, he looked in the mirror and saw his face and chest, his broad shoulders and thatch of underarm hair, and felt a shock similar to mine: the sense of surprise that presents itself when changes that occur gradually are finally realised. His experience, however, was different from mine in a very distinctive way. Instead of embracing this evidence of maturity, Mr. Pan rejected it, deciding that emotionally (and in some ways, mentally), he would remain a child and revel in "the ugly years" of non-chalance while his body continued to age independent of his will.
Needless to say, we broke up. Tired of the almost Oedipal structure of our relationship where I was both girlfriend and caretaker, I had to end it. At the time there seemed to be a lot of reasons behind our breakup, I remember spouting them off to my friends, my family, and myself: "Well, he's not very smart. He drinks too much. He has a toxic and addictive personality. He doesn't take things seriously and we can't have an actual conversation without me having to direct his attention away from my chest. He hasn't read a book in I-don't-know-how-long. He doesn't have any long-term, achievable goals. He throws fits when he doesn't get his way... blah blah blah..." The real cause of it is obvious to me now. Back when Mr. Pan was standing in front of that mirror, gazing at the face and body that seemed to reach its age overnight, he made a powerful, unconscious decision that would affect all of his decisions following that moment: he decided to never grow up.
There are times when I look back on certain relationships I've had and give a sigh of relief that goes something like, "Whew! I'm glad I made it through that one!" I chalk them up as experience and add the negative qualities to my "Things I Will Not Tolerate From the Opposite Sex" list, and I grow. I wonder what Mr. Pan does with his past-relationship remnants?
When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I stopped those childish ways.
1 Corinthians 13:11
It was exactly two years ago that I looked in a mirror and had a revelation of sorts. I was putting the finishing touches on my makeup and preparing for church that Sunday morn when I stepped back from the mirror to examine myself in full. Just then, something (perhaps the expression on my face or the outfit I was wearing) made me gasp and feel spurred to tell my reflection, "I am a grown up." If the world were separated into "Adults" and "Children", I would be on the "Adults" side. I'm not the lanky, greasy-faced twelve to seventeen-year-old anymore; I have breasts (their size does not denounce their presence), a figure, and functional ovaries. I realised that my reasoning had also matured. I'd learned the art of compromise and knowing when to lead and when to follow, I was not any younger than my age said I was.
I grabbed my cell phone and called my mom in California.
"Mom! I just looked in the mirror and I'm really grown up. I look old," I told her.
She laughed, "Miss P., you can't look all that old."
"No, Mom, I seriously look older. I dunno what it is. It's weird. I'm a twenty-something and I look like it," I assured her.
She laughed more. Honestly, I don't know how she deals with me. She is lovely.
I went to church that morning very conscious of my womanhood and the power it carries. Since that day I have embraced each new age in fullness. Growing old doesn't bother me and I'm actually looking forward to the phenomena of grey hair and laugh lines, maybe I'm a rare breed.
Mrs. Maya Angelou said that "if someone shows you who they are, believe them." One of my exes, let's call him Peter Pan, was obsessed with the idea of never growing old. In fact, it was his childish and whimsical nature that attracted me to him in the first place. Mr. Pan would tell me in various ways that he was still a child in need of being taken care of, the thing is he was nine years older than me. He agonised every morning over each hair left in the comb and, for a while, refused to comb his hair at all claiming that he was just "a little jungle boy" when I complained about his wild appearance. I don't know why I didn't take his juvenile antics more seriously.
My guess is that some time before I'd met him he'd had the same revelation I did. One fateful day, he looked in the mirror and saw his face and chest, his broad shoulders and thatch of underarm hair, and felt a shock similar to mine: the sense of surprise that presents itself when changes that occur gradually are finally realised. His experience, however, was different from mine in a very distinctive way. Instead of embracing this evidence of maturity, Mr. Pan rejected it, deciding that emotionally (and in some ways, mentally), he would remain a child and revel in "the ugly years" of non-chalance while his body continued to age independent of his will.
Needless to say, we broke up. Tired of the almost Oedipal structure of our relationship where I was both girlfriend and caretaker, I had to end it. At the time there seemed to be a lot of reasons behind our breakup, I remember spouting them off to my friends, my family, and myself: "Well, he's not very smart. He drinks too much. He has a toxic and addictive personality. He doesn't take things seriously and we can't have an actual conversation without me having to direct his attention away from my chest. He hasn't read a book in I-don't-know-how-long. He doesn't have any long-term, achievable goals. He throws fits when he doesn't get his way... blah blah blah..." The real cause of it is obvious to me now. Back when Mr. Pan was standing in front of that mirror, gazing at the face and body that seemed to reach its age overnight, he made a powerful, unconscious decision that would affect all of his decisions following that moment: he decided to never grow up.
There are times when I look back on certain relationships I've had and give a sigh of relief that goes something like, "Whew! I'm glad I made it through that one!" I chalk them up as experience and add the negative qualities to my "Things I Will Not Tolerate From the Opposite Sex" list, and I grow. I wonder what Mr. Pan does with his past-relationship remnants?
When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I stopped those childish ways.
1 Corinthians 13:11
Monday, July 2, 2007
Dibbs
Joe was upset. After spending a few flirtatious hours with Ash, there he was making out with a mutual friend. Ash is a recently single sexpot out on the pussy prowl. Dirty? I know, but there's no nice way to put it. He's been one-half of a couple for two-and-a-half years and wants to satisfy some cravings, which is exactly why I was turned off. Happy to be free from emotional (albeit fleeting) or physical ties to Ash, I took the opportunity to observe.
There was a competition ensuing and Ash wasn't making any decisions. Everyone is employed at the same restaurant, everyone wanted sex and everyone would wake up the next morning with a hell of a headache. The only real difference between Joe and the other girl was that Joe had dibbs. She's known Ash the longest, has the most affinity with him and, while we were at the bar and he was ordering their Jaeger Bombs, confided in me that she "liked” him. That was her "calling it"; she had dibbs.
On a side note, is this entry merely making light of something very serious such as sex and relationships? Maybe. Sex is serious (it's repercussions very serious) but I argue that the One-Night-Stand has become cliché and comical. While I was on the dance floor tonight I began to think on it. I wondered what it would be like if I took someone home, some random stranger who bought me a drink and kissed my neck. I imagined us in the throes of passion interrupted by me saying, "Hey, I have to be at work tomorrow at noon so it'd be great if you left as soon as we're done here. Let's call the taxi now, they should be here in time" because the rest of the night is just sleep. There's no watching the sun rise and talking about your life and your feelings, no one cares enough. The lack of emotion explains my using such a juvenile term.
What affected Joe most was the distinctive sense of deja vu. It was only a few weeks prior to this night that this other girl had slept with a guy Joe had expressed feelings for. What? Did this girl not understand the rules? Australia is one of the only countries in the world where the scales are tipped ever so slightly as to provide a population with .01 percent more men than women. With those odds, surely this girl could find someone else to satisfy her. Clearly the answer here is to keep the personal and work lives separate, though no one abides by it. In fact, in the Test of Life, this may be the answer most missed.
So what, then? I'm not sure. I was happy to leave them all early although now I'm almost kicking myself for not staying around and taking notes for this blog. Make up your own ending, Sweetums. It's 2:58 AM and it's time to press "publish post". Goodnight!
"Hey, I just finished my blog, thanks for waiting. Did you call that taxi yet? Wait, what's your name again?"
There was a competition ensuing and Ash wasn't making any decisions. Everyone is employed at the same restaurant, everyone wanted sex and everyone would wake up the next morning with a hell of a headache. The only real difference between Joe and the other girl was that Joe had dibbs. She's known Ash the longest, has the most affinity with him and, while we were at the bar and he was ordering their Jaeger Bombs, confided in me that she "liked” him. That was her "calling it"; she had dibbs.
On a side note, is this entry merely making light of something very serious such as sex and relationships? Maybe. Sex is serious (it's repercussions very serious) but I argue that the One-Night-Stand has become cliché and comical. While I was on the dance floor tonight I began to think on it. I wondered what it would be like if I took someone home, some random stranger who bought me a drink and kissed my neck. I imagined us in the throes of passion interrupted by me saying, "Hey, I have to be at work tomorrow at noon so it'd be great if you left as soon as we're done here. Let's call the taxi now, they should be here in time" because the rest of the night is just sleep. There's no watching the sun rise and talking about your life and your feelings, no one cares enough. The lack of emotion explains my using such a juvenile term.
What affected Joe most was the distinctive sense of deja vu. It was only a few weeks prior to this night that this other girl had slept with a guy Joe had expressed feelings for. What? Did this girl not understand the rules? Australia is one of the only countries in the world where the scales are tipped ever so slightly as to provide a population with .01 percent more men than women. With those odds, surely this girl could find someone else to satisfy her. Clearly the answer here is to keep the personal and work lives separate, though no one abides by it. In fact, in the Test of Life, this may be the answer most missed.
So what, then? I'm not sure. I was happy to leave them all early although now I'm almost kicking myself for not staying around and taking notes for this blog. Make up your own ending, Sweetums. It's 2:58 AM and it's time to press "publish post". Goodnight!
"Hey, I just finished my blog, thanks for waiting. Did you call that taxi yet? Wait, what's your name again?"
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Loyalty
"He seemed taller before," was the thought that struck me upon first seeing him, "taller and younger." Perhaps my infatuation, occurring long before I'd decided to date my ex, had stretched his legs and smoothed his face. There is no other explanation for these dramatic changes in his appearance. His hair had grown long, creating a thick, jet-black fringe over his eyes.
At any other time I would have embraced him, just so I could breathe in his scent, just to force him to wrap his arms around me, and well, to feel him up. But, no. His presence was much too purposeful to play catch-up. He was at my apartment with strict orders: to pick up the rest of my ex's belongings.
Sensing the potential awkwardness of the situation and not wanting to prolong it, I'd piled all of my ex's things into an armchair near the door. But, strategically betraying myself, I'd 'forgotten' some things in my bedroom just so he'd have to watch my hips sway as I walked away from him to retrieve them.
The living room was warm and smelled like vanilla and Earl Grey. In my anticipation of this moment, I'd found it difficult to keep a still mind and, because of this, forced myself to make a pot of tea that went untouched. Drinking, however, was beside the point. The comfort was found in the filling of the kettle, the scooping of dried leaves and flowers, and the fragrance inhaled as he stepped through the door.
He looked down at the chair and the heap of items calling for his attention, "Wow."
"Yeah," I said, reading his thoughts. "He left a lot of things here."
My ex is an Italian chef so I was surprised to find he'd forgotten all of his pots, pans, and cooking utensils when he moved out. It made me wonder if he was in that big of a hurry to leave or did he only partially move out because he expected himself to be returning soon?
Standing there, my ex's friend made a few feeble attempts at conversation. I tried to help him, "So do you have exams next week?"
"Yeah, haven't started studying yet, though."
"Yeah, well, I'm sure it will all go fine."
"I hope so," he gave a thin chuckle. And then there was silence broken only by the faint music streaming from my stereo, something acoustic and background-ish.
Thinking on it now, I believe we were so ill at ease because it wasn't just the two of us in the room. With my ex's belongings occupying a chair, it felt as if there were three of us present and the third person wasn't contributing anything to the conversation but discomfort.
After a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders, "Well, I guess I'll just grab these things and head out."
"Wait!" I said with more urgency than the situation required. "Before I forget, I think I left a few things in the bedroom. Be right back." I turned and walked away from him, swaying my hips almost aggressively.
When I reentered the room carrying a few items of clothing, he looked a lot calmer, and was leaning against the wall. I'm guessing it was the word 'bedroom' that put him at ease, or the fact that the way I walked whilst leaving the room looked intentional, because it was.
"Okay," I said, adding the clothing to the pile, "I think that's it."
"Alright," he sighed, looking down at the load he was to carry to his car. He looked up at me, smiled, and leaned in to kiss me goodbye, "See ya."
"See you," I said, allowing him to drop a kiss on the ambiguous place that lies on the corner of my mouth.
We both pulled back, smiling politely. Then, out of mutual curiosity, leaned in again and quickly kissed each other on the mouth, like two children kissing someone other than their parents for the first time. We parted, looking intently at one another and waiting for a signal. The song on the stereo changed and that was signal enough.
At the sound of the first chord, we hastily pressed our bodies and mouths together, needing to memorise each other’s taste and touch while we, for the moment, forgot the presence of the third person in the room. I let the prickly shadow on his cheeks scratch my face and lips and lifted my chin, allowing him access to my neck. He returned his lips to mine, his mouth smelling of my perfume and tasting of the salt on my skin.
Tongues, teeth, lips and breath, minutes passed.
He stepped forward and I clumsily moved my left foot back. The heel of my foot hit the leg of a chair, a pot fell to the floor with a clamour. We both jumped and looked down at the source of the noise. The third person had cleared his throat. We released each other.
"I'm sorry," he said with guilt.
"Me too." I wondered if we were apologising to each other or the pile of stuff on the chair.
He ran a hand through his hair, composing himself, reached down and picked up the pot. I went to the kitchen and brought him a large bag to make carrying the things easier.
He filled the bag, kissed my cheek and left, still murmuring an apology.
At any other time I would have embraced him, just so I could breathe in his scent, just to force him to wrap his arms around me, and well, to feel him up. But, no. His presence was much too purposeful to play catch-up. He was at my apartment with strict orders: to pick up the rest of my ex's belongings.
Sensing the potential awkwardness of the situation and not wanting to prolong it, I'd piled all of my ex's things into an armchair near the door. But, strategically betraying myself, I'd 'forgotten' some things in my bedroom just so he'd have to watch my hips sway as I walked away from him to retrieve them.
The living room was warm and smelled like vanilla and Earl Grey. In my anticipation of this moment, I'd found it difficult to keep a still mind and, because of this, forced myself to make a pot of tea that went untouched. Drinking, however, was beside the point. The comfort was found in the filling of the kettle, the scooping of dried leaves and flowers, and the fragrance inhaled as he stepped through the door.
He looked down at the chair and the heap of items calling for his attention, "Wow."
"Yeah," I said, reading his thoughts. "He left a lot of things here."
My ex is an Italian chef so I was surprised to find he'd forgotten all of his pots, pans, and cooking utensils when he moved out. It made me wonder if he was in that big of a hurry to leave or did he only partially move out because he expected himself to be returning soon?
Standing there, my ex's friend made a few feeble attempts at conversation. I tried to help him, "So do you have exams next week?"
"Yeah, haven't started studying yet, though."
"Yeah, well, I'm sure it will all go fine."
"I hope so," he gave a thin chuckle. And then there was silence broken only by the faint music streaming from my stereo, something acoustic and background-ish.
Thinking on it now, I believe we were so ill at ease because it wasn't just the two of us in the room. With my ex's belongings occupying a chair, it felt as if there were three of us present and the third person wasn't contributing anything to the conversation but discomfort.
After a few moments, he shrugged his shoulders, "Well, I guess I'll just grab these things and head out."
"Wait!" I said with more urgency than the situation required. "Before I forget, I think I left a few things in the bedroom. Be right back." I turned and walked away from him, swaying my hips almost aggressively.
When I reentered the room carrying a few items of clothing, he looked a lot calmer, and was leaning against the wall. I'm guessing it was the word 'bedroom' that put him at ease, or the fact that the way I walked whilst leaving the room looked intentional, because it was.
"Okay," I said, adding the clothing to the pile, "I think that's it."
"Alright," he sighed, looking down at the load he was to carry to his car. He looked up at me, smiled, and leaned in to kiss me goodbye, "See ya."
"See you," I said, allowing him to drop a kiss on the ambiguous place that lies on the corner of my mouth.
We both pulled back, smiling politely. Then, out of mutual curiosity, leaned in again and quickly kissed each other on the mouth, like two children kissing someone other than their parents for the first time. We parted, looking intently at one another and waiting for a signal. The song on the stereo changed and that was signal enough.
At the sound of the first chord, we hastily pressed our bodies and mouths together, needing to memorise each other’s taste and touch while we, for the moment, forgot the presence of the third person in the room. I let the prickly shadow on his cheeks scratch my face and lips and lifted my chin, allowing him access to my neck. He returned his lips to mine, his mouth smelling of my perfume and tasting of the salt on my skin.
Tongues, teeth, lips and breath, minutes passed.
He stepped forward and I clumsily moved my left foot back. The heel of my foot hit the leg of a chair, a pot fell to the floor with a clamour. We both jumped and looked down at the source of the noise. The third person had cleared his throat. We released each other.
"I'm sorry," he said with guilt.
"Me too." I wondered if we were apologising to each other or the pile of stuff on the chair.
He ran a hand through his hair, composing himself, reached down and picked up the pot. I went to the kitchen and brought him a large bag to make carrying the things easier.
He filled the bag, kissed my cheek and left, still murmuring an apology.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Better Than Before
Eternal Recurrence
The music featured on this video is Blame it on Me by Alana Davis.
I remember a conversation he and I had after he told me the story of his ex-girlfriend. "Do you trust me?" I asked, turing my upper torso toward him on the uncomfortable futon. It was a little after 4 a.m. and the movie we were watching had just finished. Sometimes I wonder if we give our past relationships too much credit. We attribute our present behavior to something awful that was done to us. So as soon as someone treats us badly, we lose all authority over ourselves? It makes us free to treat other people the exact same way that damaged us in the first place and remain very nearly blameless while we leave the tab with the invisible culprit who initiated the cycle.
"Uh..." he paused and was silent while an angel passed overhead. "Sort of."
"Okay," I whispered patiently and turned back the way I was, allowing him to spoon me, his stomach pressed into my back.
"The only reason I say 'sort of' is because all that's happened with my ex." He inhaled deeply and held his lungs tight for a few moments. I could feel the swell of his chest against my shoulder blades, then the deflation as he slowly released the him-scented CO2 into the atmosphere.
I turned back toward him and said, "I understand. I want you to know I would never purposefully hurt you," then I repeated myself with more conviction, "I would never hurt you with intention."
He sighed, "I know" and pressed his dry lips against my cheek.
I turned onto my back, straightening my legs and crossing my ankles. He adjusted his body so his arm still served as comforter to the nape of my neck and he could share my view of the dark ceiling. We lay that way breathing for a little while before I spoke, "I just wish it were possible for us to love with complete abandon, you know?"
"Yeah," he whispered, waiting for me to complete my thought.
"I mean, we give our hearts away, hoping that who we give them to will be gentle but something always happens and they drop them. So then what?"
He was silent, his breath quiet.
"We pick up the pieces and put it back together. But you can still see the cracks. It's never going to be exactly the same as it was. It's dented and scathed. But maybe..." I paused.
"What?" he reached.
I closed my eyes. "Maybe you're better than you were before your heart was damaged. Because at least you know that your heart does what it's supposed to do. At least you know that it works. It breaks, it hurts, it loves again. It works properly."
I waited for my words to bounce off the ceiling into his ear. He shuffled a little into a more thoughtful position, his arms still around me but his musings to himself. I opened my eyes at his movement and glanced over at his face. His eyes were wide and his lips freshly licked.
Finally he said breathily, "I've never thought of it that way." We fell asleep.
The music featured on this video is Blame it on Me by Alana Davis.
I remember a conversation he and I had after he told me the story of his ex-girlfriend. "Do you trust me?" I asked, turing my upper torso toward him on the uncomfortable futon. It was a little after 4 a.m. and the movie we were watching had just finished. Sometimes I wonder if we give our past relationships too much credit. We attribute our present behavior to something awful that was done to us. So as soon as someone treats us badly, we lose all authority over ourselves? It makes us free to treat other people the exact same way that damaged us in the first place and remain very nearly blameless while we leave the tab with the invisible culprit who initiated the cycle.
"Uh..." he paused and was silent while an angel passed overhead. "Sort of."
"Okay," I whispered patiently and turned back the way I was, allowing him to spoon me, his stomach pressed into my back.
"The only reason I say 'sort of' is because all that's happened with my ex." He inhaled deeply and held his lungs tight for a few moments. I could feel the swell of his chest against my shoulder blades, then the deflation as he slowly released the him-scented CO2 into the atmosphere.
I turned back toward him and said, "I understand. I want you to know I would never purposefully hurt you," then I repeated myself with more conviction, "I would never hurt you with intention."
He sighed, "I know" and pressed his dry lips against my cheek.
I turned onto my back, straightening my legs and crossing my ankles. He adjusted his body so his arm still served as comforter to the nape of my neck and he could share my view of the dark ceiling. We lay that way breathing for a little while before I spoke, "I just wish it were possible for us to love with complete abandon, you know?"
"Yeah," he whispered, waiting for me to complete my thought.
"I mean, we give our hearts away, hoping that who we give them to will be gentle but something always happens and they drop them. So then what?"
He was silent, his breath quiet.
"We pick up the pieces and put it back together. But you can still see the cracks. It's never going to be exactly the same as it was. It's dented and scathed. But maybe..." I paused.
"What?" he reached.
I closed my eyes. "Maybe you're better than you were before your heart was damaged. Because at least you know that your heart does what it's supposed to do. At least you know that it works. It breaks, it hurts, it loves again. It works properly."
I waited for my words to bounce off the ceiling into his ear. He shuffled a little into a more thoughtful position, his arms still around me but his musings to himself. I opened my eyes at his movement and glanced over at his face. His eyes were wide and his lips freshly licked.
Finally he said breathily, "I've never thought of it that way." We fell asleep.
Simple love feels like being excited about dessert
So I was going through my old journal entries and found some pretty interesting stuff.
This entry was written June 7th, 2006. Enjoy.
When it comes to relationships, is it possible to just be great? Does there always have to be something hidden, some kind of weird characteristic that explains why you're single in the first place? Alright, well if that's true, then what is my characteristic? Can't it be that some people just haven't been discovered yet? Like talented writers, musicians and painters who can't seem to find the right mode of expression.
A writer tries painting, tries learning the guitar, tries- i don't know- bird watching. Finally, a story makes it's way through and he decides to record the ideas. Beauty is neither created or destroyed, it just takes on different forms. The story is an answer to some deep hidden call. This is all very cliche but I think I'm on the right track. What I'm saying is, perhaps the right person is like the right mode of expression. Where you feel like you can actually love right. Love like you're supposed to. That's kind of amazing.
I think my weird characteristic that explains why I'm still single might be my ability to completely talk myself out of something until it feels as if it never really existed at all. I can do that. I can pull people and situations apart until they're just particles in the air. Nothing touchable or relatively substantial. And that degree of my analytical nature is negative.
You are to me as the story is to the writer, lost and then found and full of hope, conclusion still unknown.
Image originally posted at my myspace page.
This entry was written June 7th, 2006. Enjoy.
When it comes to relationships, is it possible to just be great? Does there always have to be something hidden, some kind of weird characteristic that explains why you're single in the first place? Alright, well if that's true, then what is my characteristic? Can't it be that some people just haven't been discovered yet? Like talented writers, musicians and painters who can't seem to find the right mode of expression.
A writer tries painting, tries learning the guitar, tries- i don't know- bird watching. Finally, a story makes it's way through and he decides to record the ideas. Beauty is neither created or destroyed, it just takes on different forms. The story is an answer to some deep hidden call. This is all very cliche but I think I'm on the right track. What I'm saying is, perhaps the right person is like the right mode of expression. Where you feel like you can actually love right. Love like you're supposed to. That's kind of amazing.
I think my weird characteristic that explains why I'm still single might be my ability to completely talk myself out of something until it feels as if it never really existed at all. I can do that. I can pull people and situations apart until they're just particles in the air. Nothing touchable or relatively substantial. And that degree of my analytical nature is negative.
You are to me as the story is to the writer, lost and then found and full of hope, conclusion still unknown.
Image originally posted at my myspace page.
The usual 20-Something
Recenty- oh wait, that's a lie- since I've graduated with my bachelor's (there ya go) I've been feeling like I should be, I dunno, doing something. Before I graduated, I wasn't sure of what I wanted so traveling seemed like a good enough option and since I was going somewhere, I might as well get a second degree while I'm there.
So I'm in Australia, with a BA in Journalism and a minor in Marketing whilst completing a MA in Professional Communications/ Public Relations. I've bought a camara and have started writing a lot more about my life but what I've noticed is that there isn't much to be said. Being a "professional communicator" means that I should be able to talk to anyone about anything and that I should be a wonderful conversationalist and people-person. I think I'm starting to see that... I am.
Nothing to Write Home About
The song featured on this video is Pretty Little Thing by Fink.
Last night at work (I'm a waitress) a guy at one of my tables invited me to a wedding as his date. The staff at the restaurant I work at all wear nametags, it creates a sense of affinity with the customers.
"So Porscha, wait, can I call you Porsch?" he started.
"Sure," I smiled, pouring glasses of their fourth bottle of Alkoomi Shiraz, (an absolutely gorgeous West Australian wine).
"Well, Porsch, I just got invited to a wedding and I need a date."
"Mmm hmmm," I looked up calmly. The thing is, I'm almost kind of used to these types of conversations. Being a waitress prepares you for life's awkward moments.
"Well, I was wondering if you'd like to come with me," he said this so casually that I'm pretty sure he didn't much care one way or the other. I mean, you can't care all that much if you're inviting your waitress to your friend's wedding.
"It's just that" he continued, "I have to have a date, and you seem like a pretty cool girl. Do you wanna come?"
"Uuuuhhh... Sure. Why not?" Wait, what?! What did I just say? I totally surprised myself and everyone at the table. I shrugged my shoulders, wrote down my phone number and asked about the wedding colours.
The friend whose wedding I would be attending had just joined the guys for drinks and was absolutely ecstatic to have me as a wedding guest.
"I want there to be no black at my wedding. Everyone must wear light, bright colours. The wedding colours are yellow and gold."
"Ummm, okay," I said, mentally scanning my wardrobe. Nope, nuthin' there. Well, at least I have two months to come up with something.
So I'm going to a wedding of some people I don't know with a guy I don't know as my date. It should be pretty interesting. That guy is going to call me soon, which is fine. We should have a few chats before we get all shined up together. I'm excited. Expect an update.
Perhaps traveling and talking to strangers and everything has been about stretching my comfort zone. For two years of my Bachelor degree, I had an amazingly artistic roommate who could visualise beauty and art in everything. I remember being so in love with her and her insights, just pure admiration, ya know? Anyway, when things like this happen, I kinda give her a little credit.
Now... what am I gonna wear?
So I'm in Australia, with a BA in Journalism and a minor in Marketing whilst completing a MA in Professional Communications/ Public Relations. I've bought a camara and have started writing a lot more about my life but what I've noticed is that there isn't much to be said. Being a "professional communicator" means that I should be able to talk to anyone about anything and that I should be a wonderful conversationalist and people-person. I think I'm starting to see that... I am.
Nothing to Write Home About
The song featured on this video is Pretty Little Thing by Fink.
Last night at work (I'm a waitress) a guy at one of my tables invited me to a wedding as his date. The staff at the restaurant I work at all wear nametags, it creates a sense of affinity with the customers.
"So Porscha, wait, can I call you Porsch?" he started.
"Sure," I smiled, pouring glasses of their fourth bottle of Alkoomi Shiraz, (an absolutely gorgeous West Australian wine).
"Well, Porsch, I just got invited to a wedding and I need a date."
"Mmm hmmm," I looked up calmly. The thing is, I'm almost kind of used to these types of conversations. Being a waitress prepares you for life's awkward moments.
"Well, I was wondering if you'd like to come with me," he said this so casually that I'm pretty sure he didn't much care one way or the other. I mean, you can't care all that much if you're inviting your waitress to your friend's wedding.
"It's just that" he continued, "I have to have a date, and you seem like a pretty cool girl. Do you wanna come?"
"Uuuuhhh... Sure. Why not?" Wait, what?! What did I just say? I totally surprised myself and everyone at the table. I shrugged my shoulders, wrote down my phone number and asked about the wedding colours.
The friend whose wedding I would be attending had just joined the guys for drinks and was absolutely ecstatic to have me as a wedding guest.
"I want there to be no black at my wedding. Everyone must wear light, bright colours. The wedding colours are yellow and gold."
"Ummm, okay," I said, mentally scanning my wardrobe. Nope, nuthin' there. Well, at least I have two months to come up with something.
So I'm going to a wedding of some people I don't know with a guy I don't know as my date. It should be pretty interesting. That guy is going to call me soon, which is fine. We should have a few chats before we get all shined up together. I'm excited. Expect an update.
Perhaps traveling and talking to strangers and everything has been about stretching my comfort zone. For two years of my Bachelor degree, I had an amazingly artistic roommate who could visualise beauty and art in everything. I remember being so in love with her and her insights, just pure admiration, ya know? Anyway, when things like this happen, I kinda give her a little credit.
Now... what am I gonna wear?
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