Clean

Scared. Frightened. What do these have to do with me? Love. Encouragement. Why are these my words? Are you selfish for being frightened for someone? Or for loving them? Should they have a say of who can feel for them? For, if I do not want you to love me, feel for me, be scared for me, how could you? Would you trample on me like that? If I told you I didn't want you to love me, could you stop? If you told me that I could no longer feel excited for you when you got ahead, would I be able to do that? How are we allowed to feel emotions for others? I feel it is a right of a person to be able to not allow that. I am doing it to protect you. For if you stop loving me you won't be hurt. And if you won't get hurt then I won't have to worry about you. See? It's all so much cleaner and more rational. Could we just stop the mess of emotions and allow the logic of the situation to assert itself. Rise above the inability to function. No more will you drown in your own emotions. No more would there be breathless moments where you weren't sure that you would be able to breath again for fear. It could all be washed away, it would all be, once and for all, clean.

The Devil

Somehow knowing that you are not going to leave again is refreshing. Knowing that you have unpacked your suitcase, for at least a little bit, is comforting. Here I am in a cafe not a block from my street at ten at night. Live music is in the background while I watch the staff clean up. This sense of comunity is something I have never before experienced. It is less of a broad stroak and more in the subtle hints. The devil is in the details.

Tools of the trade

Once again, here I am. Another journy waiting to happen, as long as I can keep up with it. These are my adventures of life, living, and other poetic stuff that is day to day life. Not entirely sure how long this writing will last, but now that I have a home, it should be more constant.

I have moved four times in the last year, all to very different spots and now I am finally settling down in Lakewood, Ohio. For a year! That feels like such a long time now, but I know it will fly bye.

What prompted me to write this blithering documetary of my life was trying to make dinner. One wouldn't think that preparing a meal would require tools from your toolbox, but that is what I had to resort to. Let me start where one should....

I arive home after a long weekend on the Island and feel a weight lifting. I may have only been here for two days, but already it feels like home. I have the fixings for some brocolli corn cassarole and want to make it before my lovely roommate and costar, Jena, gets home. The breadcrumbs get mixed with the butter, the brocolli is thawing and everything is going well.

That is until I hit the corn. The corn is to be mixed with breadcrumbs, but there is a hitch. I have no way to open the cans. Now by this point I am in my pajamas and could not leave the house. First brainstorm to come to me is see if a fork will make a dent in it. Brainstorm failed. I serch the kitchen to find a knife! Success! But rather, not. Next to attempt the trial is the corkscrew. And yes, I do realize that if we have a corkscrew then we should be properly stocked enough to have a can opener. Point in fact we have two corkscrews, but still no can opener. By now there are plenty of dents, but no true success. More scouring. At last! I have found the holy grail! A beautiful hammer.

Now you may be thinking this will end badly, but I am here to reasure you that it does not end as horribly as you are expecting. Except, perhaps, for the neighbors downstairs who had to listen to this racket, I managed to hack and claw my way in to the corn. Sure, it may look like a deseased racoon went to town on it, but the corn is mine.

The broccolli has now thawed and everything goes smoothly. The casserole is currently in the oven warming for Jena's return and for dinner to commence. Order of buissness for tomorrow: get a can opener.