Sleep is taking longer to come this evening. Usually, it's Shaun who prowls the house with lights low. Tonight, it's me, and I've a business to run tomorrow and an early-morning run to take with my love. In years past, I tossed and turned, gnashed my teeth and greeted the dawn with a naked face, scrubbed free of sleep. Since Shaun, since this huge love that looms over me larger than anything else before it, I sleep soundly. Quietly. My fingers form sentences of calm on the sheets; toes curl comma-like into other phrases. My mind's been occupied, not in a bad way, with possibility. Last week, I was in a strangely sunny Seattle, and Shaun called to say that he'd gotten more grades back from law school. Multiple As and he's only got another year left. Then, we gather up ourselves and our possessions and head westward, where I will write and finalise the plans that have been hatching since I arrived here. Being patient is difficult; I've never been known for being particularly patient. Less than a year at this point, beautiful beginnings and a culmination. Earlier, I read through these journals and the handwritten ones and saw the growth, the truth. I wonder if I could write the things now that I did then. I was so brave. I think that I could still unfold those petals now. The desire remains.

It was good to see those journals. The awkwardness, the pain bared willingly and openly, my wild gypsy life both before and post-Arco. All of it exposed. My freedom to express myself and display vulnerability. The many lives I've lived in this one, long body. The many more hiding at my heels. So tonight, I make a cradle of my hands and invite the stars to take a seat. I comb the mermaid-tangles from my hair and rinse the sea from my mouth. Every little dream is becoming a reality, and I am a softer shade of sweet than I've ever been before. Don't mistake this for being content. I am simply ready for what comes next. I am ready and unconcerned as to how it will impact anyone else.

awake awake awake

Yesterday, I took the train to Centre City, far too early to be stirring. Yet, there were other stirrers on the train. We sat in the quiet car. In the quiet car, you get in trouble if you talk or make noise, although I still don't understand what they could possibly do to you. Blow a whistle at you and embarass you or throw you off the train? Shaun brought a newspaper, and I leaned on his shoulder, half-asleep, but alert enough to do crossword puzzles with him. He walked me to my destination, he with his hair going curly from the humidity and rain, a huge grey sweatshirt swallowing him, and a law student's backpack on his shoulders. I looked like I didn't belong to him with my long tailored coat and adult shoes. We held hands, and no one cared much because no one in this city looks long at love.

Several hours later, the train took me close to home. I was in the quiet car again, by some divine mistake because I can't even get a pen out of my bag without making noise. The ride was short. I ran underneath the tracks, through the graffiti tunnel, and shivered at the cold April air and the steel wheel dragon-breath of the train as it started to go again. Five cemeteries are within a mile radius of my house. I passed each of them, and paused next to the chain link fence of the closest one. This cemetery had baby-graves, short and awkward. The baby-graves have little marble beds and "Asleep" or "Resting" carved at the feet. I started crying for no reason because I've felt asleep here, but I'm not in the ground, feeding the roots of peach trees and greedy daffodil bulbs. Sometimes, I wish that I were food for the flowers because so much of me is asleep. "Love is only sleeping," he says, he tells me, as he tucks me in at night.

I don't know how to sleep, only that I know I need too much of it lately.

Prayers are wishes sent to the universe. People have different tongues for their prayers and different ways of doing it--kneeling at the foot of the bed with hands steepled or on a rug faced to the sun--but they do it. It doesn't have to do with religion or belief in a higher being. I know atheists who pray--not to a great creator, but to whatever it is that grants wishes and makes everything all right in the world. Prayers are hopes given a human language. We pray every time we tell a hidden truth or when we reveal our secret wicked heart's wishes.

Writing or creating is the closest that I get to prayer--most of the time. Yet, I pray every day for the world, for myself, for everything I see that hurts me somewhere deep. Now, I pray for trees.

I live on a narrow street, where the houses lean like crooked teeth and there's just enough space for cars to pass. Nothing larger can safely navigate my street. Because my neighbourhood is close to a major freeway, trucks sometimes barrel through the Main Street area. Main Street can take it. My little street cannot. A few weeks ago, a semi took out half of the two trees in front of my house.

These trees are my friends. In the living room, I often read my books in a window box overlooking the street. From there, I watch squirrels leaping from branch to gutter and back again like little aerialists. The birds feather their nests in the spring to make room for the open mouths and pleading cries of bald, pink infant birds, so ugly they're adorable. The branches grow heavy and lazy with blossoms and honeybees in May. I like these trees. In Philadelphia, nothing seems natural or sprung from the earth. This has been one of the biggest adjustments for me in moving here. In Arizona, the natural world was my world, singing a song from my blood to my bones.

So, a semi-driver took out half of the trees by making a shortcut on our narrow street. I returned home to find branches clutching the air like hands on the sidewalk. The truck driver laughed about it. Anger clenched my fists. The landlord filled out a police report. Shaun and I worried that the trees--our trees--would not survive because so much had been taken from them and so much now lay wasted. Then, a second driver hit our trees. This driver did not stop, but we ran after his truck to get his information and file a complaint. We were certain that if the trees didn't die the first time, they would this time. Our landlord chain-smoked on the steps of our building, upset about the trees dying. I was glad that I had a landlord who'd be upset about trees.

For weeks, I've been watching both trees. At night, when I return from work, I go out to them, put my hands on the rough bark, and say, "Grow. Grow. Grow. Live. Live. Live." Shaun isn't as weepy over them, but he will pat their trunks and say, "Keep hanging in there, guys." I've turned the hand-carved tree spirit figurine my father made towards the trees. Yesterday, I noticed the trees were trying to grow bark over the bare places, making safe what was injured. The branches are starting to bud. I think that the trees will live. Every night, I pray to whatever protects them that they'll continue to survive.

We're all like trees in this world, terrified that someone will tear us apart, but reaching towards the sky still the same. Reaching, spreading our fingers out to hold doves and prayers and sunlight. We face spiritual and physical evisceration, and yet, we are stronger than we know. We have skin thicker than history and lies. So we pray and we grow.

talullah jewel

Days are a blur of trying to stay away from the greedy hands of debt and working long hours. While the majority of my staff are great people, they take me for granted in glaring ways. After a fashion, I've tried to be the type of boss to my employees that I always wanted. I work with people's schedules, tests, and other frivolities. No one's birthday goes unnoticed (there's usually a treat of some sort, a card, and a little handmade gift). People who practice certain religions get their religious holidays off without ever having to ask. I create educational guides and manuals to help, have endless pep-talks and coaching sessions, and touchbases. Yet, sometimes I feel like I am trying to draw blood from a stone. How is it that intelligent and reasonably rational people can forget the simplest of details? I'm being driven mad by employees who keep testing boundaries and limits, all the while proclaiming how much they respect me. This completely boggles my mind. Respect is shown, not said. I could give a damn about the words of people, especially if the words don't match the deeds. In all of it, being present makes a difference.

There are days when I don't even want to get out of bed to face my commute, but I remain present at all times. My mind calculates how to fill the gaps and accomplish the day's goals. Workhorse that I am, I am not satisfied unless I have done my job outstandingly. I do not accept mediocrity in myself or in the people I know. I'll allow anyone a little silliness or accept any manner of personal quirk, but please don't come to me without ambition or content with being the lowest common denominator. Square or cube me, and I'll surprise you even more. Tear me down to mathematics and geometry, and feed me to the dogs of intellect and reason. I'll grow a new liver and rise from these ashes. I'll make wings of dirty shingles and weave city weeds into my hair. The landscape has shifted, but my ability to accept less has never changed.

I must thrive in absorbing my surroundings because I've started wearing Victorian cuffs and fabric flowers on everything, while the turquoise and silver remains sacred in the bedroom jewelry armoir. The ghosts that haunt this city are not ancient; they are young ones, like lost children, searching for parents. The ghosts of the desert are the spirits of the land that rise at dusk and turn the cacti into dancers and the barren rivers into gushing silver streams. I'm uncertain of how to survive with so much resting on my shoulders and my creature comforts so far away, but I must. I must.

Choice was never a part of this equation, and hope attempts to leave every night, but I tie her to the bed. I need her here with me now. We'll live here a little while longer yet. Shaun has a little over a year to finish his law school task. We tumble into bed at night, exhausted, clutching hands like children, while I whisper secrets and songs and stories into his ears. He takes everything I give him, unconditionally. He gives me everything and also, a great, puppy joy.

city city city jewel

Sometimes, I am very grateful that anyone has ever wanted to live with me at all. I once wreaked complete havoc on an International Dolls of the World set that an aunt had given me. Me, a bee-bee gun, and one of my brothers throwing the dolls out the window while I waited on the ground with my gun held aloft, yelling, "Pull!" just like it was clay pigeons. Doll parts littered our yard ever-after. I was known to rule my brothers with an iron fist, although I never dressed anyone up in female clothes. I was known as an enforcer of sorts. I was never an instigator, and instead was always the one that pounded you five times harder because you'd dared to pound me once.

My first roommate was a gay man (who insisted he be called Harry the Gay, King of all Gays because "That asshole Richard stole the title 'the Lionhearted'). HtG invited drag queens into our living room. Frequently, I'd come home to real-life enactments of Mommie Dearest. Often, the queens used me as a dress-up doll of sorts. It was here that I learned the art of glamour and gained a love for feathers that remains to this very day.

That was fun until said gay ruler of the free world became a coke addict and started listening to all this tweaker music and inviting slum-dogs into our cozy little pad at all hours of the day and night. I've lived with a number of folks--from a good friend who regularly enjoyed five or six beers while taking a shower to the performance artist who liked to stage gory scenes with catsup and Big Wheels (picture a faux accident scene on the side of the road with a child's thrift store shoe and you get the idea). Somehow, I've managed to out-weird and out-silly everyone. How, I don't know because living at Arcosanti, I lived with some odd motherfuckers. I've always sort of worried that maybe I am too difficult to live with because I am eccentric and have the largest and heaviest collection of books and artifacts outside of a museum or library.

Yet, I am in love with the sweetest, most compassionate man, and he seems to rather like living with me. I've known this man long enough to have actually seen his transition from college student to young man. He tolerates the songs of questionable merit I sing and the fact that I thought Gertrude Hawk was the name of the little old lady at the candy story and had no idea it was a chain chocolatier. "Do you think that the waiter at Bob Evans is named Bob Evans, too?" my love howled. I hammer all manner of shit to our walls, and he smiles and continues reading his law books, telling me how much he adores me. The newest addition is a miniature plaster deer head. The deer has a wreath of (also plaster) flowers around its neck. It'll go next to my linocut of a skeleton bride.

Now that I'm sending roots and tendrils into the soil here, I've discovered Ikea. The other night, I proudly hammered and cursed together a night-stand. The next night, after celebrating my success a little too heartily with lemon-drop martinis, I pinned the instructions for the Malm drawers to the 'fridge. I wrote "A+++! Good job! WOW!" in red Sharpie all over the instructions. Shaun noted this development with an arch of brow and a good-natured smile. "You are fun to live with," he said and tucked me into bed.

My Ikea report card remains on our 'fridge. Just wait until I put together the bureau of drawers tomorrow night. I've got gold stars and Swedish meatballs. I went to Ikea tonight so I could buy meatballs and have dinner. I don't know how anyone can live with me.

jalullah tewel

When I consider the course of my life, I have been relatively lucky in having few burnt bridges. The ones in shambles are the ones I meant to be destroyed, for the most part. One pattern that I see repeating itself--and I am a fervent believer in patterns and finding the lessons in them--is that I have spent a good part of my life trying to dim my own light and talents so that others are not threatened by me. I make myself the harmless genius, rather than a force of reckoning--all because I am afraid that someone won't like me or will think I am too bright to keep whole and that I'll be torn apart by the people I love and respect. In my younger years, I even used to stand with my legs wide apart so as to appear on eye-level with my shorter companions.

Those days are passed. I survey the world in my hoof-heel shoes, standing with feet firmly planted, even if I do sometimes topple crown-of-head over toes. Yet, I still find this pattern emerging of jealousy being the glint in someone else's eyes as she regards me. I really am tired of it at this point, being a grown-ass lady and all. There is no hubris in admitting the truth, only bewilderment. Maybe the button-pusher in me is amused, a little. I'm amused by those who make up weird things instead of facing their mistakes.

Lately, I've dealt with slings and arrows aplenty and have to think that I must be some kind of phenomenal badass for other people to spend so much time with my name in their mouths and my life a focus of their lies and machinations. Truly. When someone despises you enough to say your name more than she says the names of her loved ones, you possess an inhuman power. You possess the power of life eternal when someone hates you with such conviction. Even more if that someone decides to spew lie after lie about you, rather than letting your true deeds and character tell the story of who you are. I am coming to the realisation that I must be a formiddable foe for someone to wage war on me without me ever lifting a finger or caring enough to loft my sword.

This is me, standing tall and telling no untruths. It's kind of neat to be here, even though I am a good deal tired and have wept a little over some of the lessons I've recently learned. I just know that every time someone else tries to steal my light, I only shine brighter and grow stronger. It's as one of my old pieces says: go ahead and underestimate me. You make me stronger that way. I'll sharpen my teeth on your bones and shred your soul with my laughter.

No regrets. No regrets. No regrets. I live forever and win again.

Athenalynx Jewel-unicorn

P.S. I love Shaun and how he has my back no matter what and a great lot of you who do, too. It's good to have friends who fight with you back-to-back, but trust you enough to let you send the hounds into battle yourself--not that I need any hounds. Everyone is his or her own undoing. Our actions define us, but do not limit us.

I am rediscovering myself lately. Since coming to Philadelphia, I fell away from myself. In the beginning, it was finding-a-job crisis-mode. Then, once I found a job, it was dealing-with-job crisis-mode. Once my former manager left, I was immersed in rebuilding a store that had endured unethical employees, people's personal dramas, and inconsistency. Many weeks, I wouldn't even have a day off. I worked over twelve hours a day at least two shifts a week. I trained a batch of new, bewildered employees. I struggled to rid the store of an overabundance of old products. I organised the stockroom and storage spaces. I recounted the inventory and attempted to right the $4,000 error the previous manager left. I turned the numbers of a stagnant store around, and earned accolades for my hard work. Mostly, I lost myself, and in losing myself, I wondered what I'd lost. Stress made me forget all the hard work I'd done on myself. I started really hating myself again, playing the pain-game in my head.

It wasn't that I messed things up completely. I just got a little off-track.

I forgot to celebrate myself. We teach other people how to love us by how we love ourselves. If we trap ourselves in our bodies, becoming prisoners to the flesh that gives us life, we guide others in trapping and deceiving us, in making us like caged beasts. If we focus on stress and make all of our interactions surface, others will never try to go deeper than what we present on top. If we give too much to others, they will learn to take from us, and not reciprocate. If we don't view ourselves with fierce, loving, and forgiving eyes, no one else will forgive us our mistakes.

So now, I am focusing on nurturing myself as much as I nurture my co-workers, guests, and lover. I'm buying healthy groceries again--whole grains, asparagus, silky soy milk, cloves of garlic, bunches of broccoli, blueberries, glossy red peppers, long stalks of celery, pistachios and trail mix, imported Spanish olives, and low-fat almond butter. Rather than grabbing a quick bite in the middle of working, I am packing nutritious lunches and giving myself whole breaks.

Cooking at home has become a joy again, with me turning on my favourite music, chopping ingredients, and settling down to eat with the books I'd been ignoring. The other day, I had a lunch of stuffed grape leaves, fresh heirloom tomatoes rubbed with sea salt, and a simple, but flavourful dish. You take 1/2 cup of water, 2 teaspoons of soy sauce, 2 minced cloves of garlic, and throw them into a saucepan to boil. While waiting for the temperature to rise, you cut up a head of broccoli. Once the mixture is simmering, throw the broccoli in, and cover it. Wait about five minutes for the yummiest dish ever. The water evaporates, infusing the broccoli with the soy and garlic flavour.

I've also been returning to the gym, sometimes even rising super-early to do my cardio and weights. Going to the gym is like a natural anti-depressant. My moods are a lot more stable, and I'm better able to deal with stress as a result of getting my adrenaline going and punching it out in the studio. The next item on my agenda is finding a boxing studio in the city. In Arizona, I boxed four or five days a week. Although I was very self-critical, I realise that I was on a great track. I'd like to continue with that.

Another item on my agenda is to answer a letter I got from The Sun magazine in July. Their manuscript editor found my "Becoming You" piece at Fresh Yarn, and sought me out. She sent a packet of magazines and an extremely flattering letter to my Arcosanti address (which was then forwarded to my Philly place). Not only did she have glowing praise for my work, she also invited me to personally mail her manuscripts or other work for publication in the magazine. She seemed to be selling the magazine to me, as a place that I should send my work. A shy secret is that about ten years ago, I sent The Sun a piece for publication, and their editor, Sy, kindly but soundly rejected it. I told myself that I'd keep honing my work, and ready myself for a quality publication like The Sun. It seems that we've been brought together again, so I'd like to create something just for them. We'll see where this goes, but I know that I've desperately missed my writing and publication work. It's the basis of why I do everything that I do--writing and love.

Speaking of love, I still have a tremendous partner in Shaun. He is supportive, loving, open-hearted, and a joy to know. He understands me, and is so kind and gentle that he teaches me more about love than I've ever known before. Even though we are both very busy people--he with going to law school on full scholarship and working part-time in a law office--and me with managing a high-volume business and doing all the charity work that my company demands--we make time for each other. We plan dates and always go to bed happy, rather than angry. There are times when we're both too exhausted to say much, but we snuggle up and express our love.

Tonight, we're going to Center City for tapas and hand-holding over a candlelit table. We'll meet friends and laugh, shake off the weight of a long week and be grateful to be alive. For now, I've dishes to do and a bedroom to clean up, a gym to see, and errands to run. Yesterday, I sat down to make jewelry for the first time in ages. What I made was gorgeous and a real pleasure. Just me, sitting on the floor and listening to the abacus-like click of semiprecious stones in my hands. I went for hours, not even realising how much time had passed. When I finished, I had completed a four-strand bracelet with topaz, Peruvian opals, Bali silver, and champagne pearls; a multistrand necklace with amber, seed beads, green opals, and brown pearls; a nine-strand bracelet with red coral, abalone, and more Bali silver; and a pendant studded with topaz, citrine, peridot, garnet, amethyst, and other stones. I've plans in my head for something that contrasts the lime-green shine of the peridot with the jacaranda tree blue-purple of the iolite. I'd forgotten how much I needed to be creative, and how peaceful being creative makes me. It stills the violet storm that I can be.

I forgot to love myself, and I think I'm falling back in love with my life, just a little. It isn't perfect, but it's on its way to better.

miss jewel of the spirits

I'm glittering eyes and teeth these days, all spirit-deep stares and a heart that won't die. I look hungry, but I am not. The more I return to my healthy eating habits, the brighter my skin is, and the stronger my nails grow. Each day sees me better able to resist the temptations that a few weeks ago plagued me. I am returning to my roots and myself, seeing what remains when I've burned away all the bad that I can be.

My formerly Awful Haircut is growing back to something that might be charming, perhaps if it were on another girl's head. For me, it's always messy, even when I wake up early and try to tame and coax it into something resembling neatness. Strange little cowlicks poke like petals at my brows and worsen when the weather is damp. The air has been watery and heavy in this Philadelphia. My hair is a fright, falling against my cheek and twirling in my hands when I'm pensive. I've much to consider. My mind is racing with insomniac thoughts.

My mother says, "It's all right, it's all right, Jewel, go to sleep," and I do because I trust her. I trust the gentle power of her words and how much she she loves me, if I trust nothing else in this world. Tomorrow, I'll be on a plane to Aruba for a good week. My phone'll be off, so work won't be able to haunt and torment me. I've needed the escape for some time. My immune system is shot, my heart is a ponderous thing in my hands, and I haven't had a true day off in months. Don't even get me started about breaks; I'm lucky to get half of one. But, I have shelves of books, the unconditional love and support of my family and friends, a sense of myself, music, a wicked collection of handbags and vintage scarves, a plant that loves me enough to return from the dead for me, and a hundred eagles where other girls hold empty cages (inside their chests). I also have talents, and I'm realising that my talents need to be carefully nurtured, rather than squandered or used in moments of drunken brilliance.

Shaun says, "Be patient," and it's one of the hardest lessons for me, that fucking patience. I'm not a very patient girl. As I growled to him the other night, "I am not a very nice girl either." He laughed at me. My heart played a fierce, terrible song to show him that there was power to my words. Shit, at least I know what I am, right? How many people know that much?

I've been waiting for this moment my entire life, and I am not scared. I am ready. Look into my blue-black eyes, and you'll see that's true, and yet, there is a hint of laughter and a slight laugh-line writing a story of mischief around my eyes. I laugh, I howl, and I escape.

It's what I do, and what I'll be doing for the next week. I can't wait to see who I'll be when I come back.

First I have to pack. I've a pile of lingerie and MAC make-up on the floor. That's as far as I've gotten. I only leave in less than six hours. I've beaten worse odds, I suppose, all in the name of living la bella vita--as the Italians say, the beautiful life.

And it is a beautiful life. I'm damn lucky to be in it and you can bet I don't take a single second for granted. How could I? There's too much wonder, discovery, joy, and sorrow to ever think it's anything less than amazing.

jewelynx aruba-bound

A year ago, I was carpe diem in dirty jeans, clay-flecked hair, and hardened hands that knew the weight of instruments, lovers, and steel. Now, I am shoes that click and call out army formations, a secret sleeping addiction, and eyes like clouds moving on. I’m always looking to the sky for guidance, hoping that the winds will be kind and show me the places where I belong. The sky here isn’t the vast desert sky that snatches you in raptor claws and sends you to sleep with its pretty violence. This is a sky in submission, a sky whose muscles have atrophied from disuse; it’s still hard for the Philadelphia sky to give up the ghost. Philadelphia people for the most part don’t dare to try; they are comfortable with complacency and mediocrity. O, how I worship you Philadelphians who risk it all. You’re rare and wonderful creatures. You don't step on other people to get what you need.

I am an earthquake of tears and too-sharp teeth, too close and too far. I am gravity and laughing at all the wrong moments, being too loud, and too much, too much, too much. Having my birthday this week was a combination of extremes. You see what you mean to people when you have a birthday. For me, a birthday was always a means to celebrate my mom and dad for bringing me into this beautiful, strange world. I send them a gift every year, as a way of saying that I appreciate this path we’ve traveled. It’s been a long and sometimes difficult one. If you’d told my fifteen-year-old self that I’d miss my parents so much that I’d sometimes cry, I’d have stroked my Mohawk, spit some sass, and told you my parents were dead. We’ve come a long way, and it’s good to know we’ve birthdays to celebrate and ways to celebrate each other.

Isn’t that what a birthday is about? My friends and coworkers have prolonged my birthday, and I LOVE IT, being that I never used to tell anyone when my birthday was because I was scared of being forgotten. Monday night, Shaun took me to a little Southern eatery that made me nostalgic for the swamp moss, street corner voodoo, car-window zydeco, and jaded wonder of New Orleans. We had biscuits with Cajun butter, salty margaritas, grilled scallops with orzo, and met another of the great dogs that always seems to be in my neighbourhood. Slowing down for a breath was what I needed, and that’s what I got. I received a lovely back massage and was sent to bed with a kiss on the nape of the neck.

Tuesday night, Ria and James took me to the most decadent seafood house. I put on the shortest, sleeveless Anna Sui frock in my closet, painted my eyes with pearly powder, and tried to look an Audrey Hepburn type of lady with a patent leather purse and long black gloves. When I entered the restaurant, Ria and James were posing like statues in the doorway. I love them. The restaurant made me a birthday card that the staff signed and even printed a special birthday menu. These little things made a girl feel very appreciated, and I almost wept a little. I’m not the hard-skull, fight-fister that I used to be, and it’s nice to be so soft and strong and bare.

We sat cuddled up in a booth together, drinking strong drinks in long-stemmed glasses, and talking and laughing until deep into the night. Our waiter was the most laid-back but efficient guy. There’s something charming about a man with a Brooklyn accent perfectly pronouncing different reductions and exotic dishes. He leaned into us, gave me three desserts, and broke down the menu so we’d know what the best things to eat would be. No one sang anything embarrassing to me. The conversation was my favourite part of the meal. Well, that and Ria and James’ awesome humour and how lovely they are. Being friends with those two are some of the best things that have come from my time with Aveda.

Then, I came into my office yesterday, and my work girls, lead by Kim had totally cleaned and revolutionised my office. They Feng Shui’ed the hell out of the joint. Now, I have a little betta fighting fish in a bowl, bamboo plant, Buddha picture (I am a Buddhist, and not vocal about it, so this surprised and touched me the most), and very clean desk. I couldn’t have been more surprised or pleased. Although I was alone when I walked into the office, I kept exclaiming, “O my gosh! O my gosh!” Then, I had to call all my pals and tell them how great my little team was.

Later, my logan sent me a poem fragment and apparently sang happy birthday to someone else in Spanish. He said that I was with him on desert highways, watching Phoenix creep into the wild places, with him in empty arroyos that wait for a monsoon to make them real. He said, “Jewel, amiga, I hug you close and long this night of your birthday, smiling with you,” and I cried again, a little bit. I miss my soul-mate friend.

My parents sent me a Jasper bracelet from Alaska, money, a Buddha statue made by a Tibetan monk for me, and a hand-painted container that my mom made in her China painting guild. They called from so very far away to let me know that yes, wild girl, we love you. Yes, our wild girl, the distance does not separate. “You’re stubborn as a horse, but you hold true to what you are,” my cute little dad told me. “No one who knows you will forget you. We never will.” A woman in my store made my life by telling me I had amazing skin and that I glowed; she said that she could tell I was special by the light and fire in my eyes. What a birthday treat.

Then, my Boys took me to Quizzo. Quizzo, as some of you true believers may recall, is a weekly date we have to exercise our brains while killing brain cells. At this point, all of the other teams almost hate us, because we always win first or second place. We got booed last night for having a five point lead on all the other teams in the first round, but we didn’t care. We ate Frito pie, crispy salads, and drank like we were pirates (which we so are). We bar-hopped, and made a lot of noise, complained, and laughed. All in all, it was a great night.

My Boys always make me feel good about myself because they’re complimentary and affectionate with me; they tell me that when I walk into a bar, heads turn, and although I don’t believe them, it makes me feel good anyway. I give them advice on girls and law school, life and living hard. They sometimes wistfully ask if I have sisters. I really am their nefarious queen.

Tomorrow, I am being purchased a Blackberry or something else of that nature so that I can communicate more effectively. Hello, texting! I’ve never really done it. I’ve never had a Blackberry, so I am a bit skeptical, but very excited. The evening will spell dancing with James and Ria, a little happy mayhem, and perhaps meeting up with the Quizzo Boys for more flirting and mischief. My birthday might even stretch into Saturday if we make it happen. Damnit, after years of not celebrating my birthday, I want to make it happen. What I said earlier about being able to tell what you mean to people by how they treat your birthday holds true. I was amazed at how many unexpected people remembered it, and then, the people who forgot it or didn’t acknowledge it.

I think of a Buddhist chant in how I view birthdays: Om padme hum or, “The divine in me worships the divine in you.” That is how I always want to live. So happy birthday to me, but happy birthday to you all, too. I am lucky to be alive because of each and every person I know. You were the light bulb giving me light when my world was dark for years. You are the sunlight breaking through this Philadelphia now. Know that I love everyone and I am holding you in strong, fierce arms, loving you over the distance and miles that do not divide but just remind us of how much people need each other.

talullah jewel

There's something all right with the world when you're drunk by five o'clock in the afternoon and you've a date with four boys for a mean game of trivia. Your ass is smaller than the blonde goddess waitress' ass is, no pimples are playing "hi my name is," and you understand whole sentences of Italian on the bus. If you've had a day like that, then welcome to my last Wednesday. It's the first day off I had in ages. Instead of collapsing into a pile of grumpy, your girl Jewel (that's me!) was trotting around downtown, catching some sun, and knowing all the right tricks for meeting the right folks at the right time. Happy hour cocktails and appetisers were had, greetings were crowed, and I got to put my brain to good use.

Wednesday trivia is one of my favourite nights. We go to National Mechanics to face other think tank graduates for the hardest, yet most rewarding game of bar trivia I've ever played. Instead of guessing at answers on a little electronic device, each team has to write down answers. This is not any lame, pansy-ass trivia. Misspelled answers are thrown out. The host is an Irishman calling himself Irish John. He doesn't take any guff from any ruffians. Each time he reads the rules, he says, "And don't cheat by getting the answers on your cellphones or fuckin' Blackberries. It's bullshit and it's pathetic." The trivia he selects ranges from pop culture (Question: Name the famous couple who commissioned Frank Lloyd Wright to design a house for them, but never moved into it because they got divorced in 1969. Answer: Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller) to obscure (Question: Where does the element name Niobium come from? Answer: The Greek myth of Niobe, who bragged of her children to Leda. Leda sent her children, Apollo and Artemis to murder Niobe's seven sons and seven daughters in retaliation.) to the scientific (Question: What's the most common chemical symbol used? Answer: I forgot.). I am a repository of endless, pointless information, so I am all over this stuff.

If you win the three-round game, you get forty dollars off your bar tab. If you come in second place, you get twenty off. My team is usually a point (rarely much less) than a group of Harvard kids (heretofore known as "The Winners") who probably know how to do long division in their heads and shit. I have to sing Schoolhouse Rock songs (in my head, not aloud) to remember my numbers sometimes, so I feel pretty good about this. Granted, I am mildly dyslexic with numbers. I've a crazy genius when it comes to fractions, but I think that's due to playing music my entire life. Figuring out fractions is all a part of keeping time. So when it comes to winning Quizzo, my team (heretofore known as "The Second Place Kids") is always a bridesmaid, never the bride, which is fine by me because I am not sure I believe in marriage.

We get twenty dollars off our tab, have a great time, and get to exercise our minds while subsequently killing brain cells. Last Wednesday was no different. We ordered a whole catastrophe of food, saw our regular waitress, and proceeded to kick tail and ask for names later. Once the trivia ended, we went for a walk, ostensibly to find one of the best cheesesteaks in Philly. We ended up passing by a club with the door half-cracked and a long stretch of wooden dancefloor. The doorman threw out free drink coupons to me, so we had to go inside. The boys cuddled me up, saying they never got free drinks unless they were with me. For some reason, that made me feel good, every bit as much as having a tribe of boys to surround me while I danced and keep anyone else from encroaching upon my space. A few interlopers tried, but my little tribe circled me and all was well.

I don't define myself by the words or opinions of others, but it's still nice to be told that I am smart, fun, beautiful, and the best damn dancer in the city, especially by those I am coming to like and love. It's not true, but it's still nice to hear. One of the reasons I most like Wednesday trivia is that it reminds me to think and learn hard and that knowing so many strange things has its strange rewards. Sometimes, I'm so exhausted that I forget the simplest of things, like whether I locked the door before I curled up or a word I knew a few weeks ago, so it makes me feel that my brain isn't rotting.

I worry so much that it might.

Jewella

I kind of have a little crush on my partner. Maybe it's not so little. Without Shaun in my life, I don't know how transitioning into Philadelphia would have been. It's no secret that I find the city a bit rougher and dirtier than I like my cities to be. However, Philly and I have a mutual admiration society developing between us. I mean, Hall and Oates came from Philly and who doesn't love the part of "Out of Touch" when Daryl Hall just busts out with "WOW?" Don't say "I can't go for that (no can do)." You know you shake your hips when "Private Eyes" comes on the radio in your little room. It's all right. We all do it. It's Hall and motherfuckin' Oates.

Anyway, this post wasn't supposed to be about blue-eyed soul and secrets thrust into the open. (I refuse to think of anything I like as a guilty pleasure because I won't be guilty about taking pleasure as I see fit. I won't, so there you have it. I once almost got into a fight at a Hall and Oates concert. Two years ago, true story.) This week alone has been nothing short of chaotic, and Shaun (not Hall or Oates) has been there with foot-rubs, a quickly-grabbed meal, and a listening ear whenever I've needed it. That says a lot about him, as he's been in the middle of finals for school (he's attending Temple Law on scholarship); studying for this round has been particularly brutal. Last Friday, he met me downtown after work and we went to a dimly lit Asian bistro, held hands over the table, watched the jewel-scaled fish in the tank, and sucked soy-ginger sauce from our fingers after a little snack. Our moment wasn't long enough, but it was enough to help me unwind and feel incredibly loved, which he manages to make me feel nearly every interaction we have.

Although time is a rare commodity for him, he still finds time to do endearing things. I'm about to let slip a huge confession: I have stuffed animals once again. The practice started in Arizona when Shaun sent me a little stuffed dog (we were doing the long-distance relationship dance after he moved to Philly from Arizona) to keep me company. Then, the stuffed dog had a bear as a companion. And damn straight Hello Kitty got in on the action, too. A little army of five has slowly materialised. Shaun calls them The Guys and when I come home, he often has them arranged in ridiculous situations. "I tried to keep The Guys out of your stuff, but they weren't having it," he'll say just in time to show me the stuffed animals bedecked in my clothing and accessories. Last weekend, I plotted some cookies to make and bring into work for Mother's Day. After I returned from work that night, I found the stuffed animals on the bed, holding miniature DIY picket signs.

The slogans on the signs made it even better. A few gems:

"Give us brownies or we'll have frownies!"

"Oatmeal raisin HELL!"

I was charmed and had to cover his face with baby-kisses and sit on his lap and tell him what toys I wanted for Christmas this year. How utterly delightful to have such a dorky, fun partner.

Maybe you had to be there. Trust me. I'm glad I was. I love him enough that I only bust out the Hall and Oates when he's drunk. Not "Sara Smile" either. I do it up right.

Jewel Hall-Oates (or is it Jewel Oates-Hall?)

My mom has begun to measure her success by the amount of grandchildren she has. Right now, the tally is zero. Each time she lunches with long-time friends, they present her with pictures of their grandchildren or their daughters with blooming bellies, having gained so much weight that they are unrecognisible from the teenage friends I once knew. "Don't take it personally," my dad advised me the last time I visited, "she doesn't mind. She just wishes she had grandchildren."

"My daughter's stories are my grandchildren," she's been known to proudly proclaim, all the while never quite erasing the wistful tone in her voice. She'll reach for other people's babies at the supermarket and discount drugstores, flea markets and any old restaurant. She's good with kids, it's true. It's hard for me to understand because I spent much of my childhood dealing with her now-managed mental illness. She's the kind of mother to the babies of strangers I might have wished for, once upon a time. The last time she held a baby in my presence, she confided she'd like to have babies again.

When I was younger, I swore thirty would be the year to make babies. Twenty-five was allocated to marriage, thirty to babies. It seemed like a reasonable plan. Then, I hit twenty-five and I was still having too much fun sowing my wild oats and learning about life beyond the restrictions of a partner. The idea of being in a committed relationship seemed mythical; getting married was outright ridiculous. Although I've witnessed good, solid marriages with other people I am still uncertain about marriage. Marriage appears to be a legal construct in this society. If I do it, it'll be a spiritual bonding, not some paper document that, if ever severed, means my mate or I have loads of money to lose.

But babies. Now that I'm over thirty, I haven't felt the ticking of my biological clock. I keep waiting for it because I do adore children and I am uncannily good with them. It's the combination of my untamed little heart and the girl inside that'll always make mischief, even when I'm eighty and very much a woman. Kids and I understand each other and have a grand time doing it.

I keep waiting for the day when I'll see a baby and think, "O, if only."

The awful thing about this is that I've discovered that my biological clock is ticking. For puppies. Every time I see a dog--and my neighbourhood is loaded with the cutest dogs--I act like my mother does with babies. I pet them, coo over them, love on them, and wish I had one for my very own. My own Little McGoo lives with my parents. When I call my family, my father puts the phone up to the dog's ears and he leans into the phone, wagging his tail at the sound of my voice. I love him too much to remove him from his happy home. I long for a little dog of my own.

Sometimes, the conversations I have with Shaun about puppies resemble those that infertile couples have when they're wishing for babies. A happy dog will trot by with an equally happy person, and I get this queer pang inside and I will even race to the window to spy on the dog. "I want a puppy," I say to Shaun. He strokes my hair from my face and pats my leg. "We'll have one in the fall, maybe," he replies softly. I nod and envision what type of dog it'll be and the kinds of things we'll do.

Each time Shaun asks me how many dogs I want, the number increases. I think we're up to seven dogs now, my own dog-pack. I don't see this number diminishing any time soon. Is it wrong to want dogs instead of babies? Because I love my mother, I want to please her. Somehow I don't think she'd appreciate me asking her to think of my dogs as her grandchildren. I've tried to explain to her that my biological tick is working; it's just that I want puppies.

Mind you, I'd never want to give birth to more than one creature at a time, much less a litter of them. I have immense respect for the bitches that bring puppies to the world. It certainly makes the world a better place.

All of this doesn't change the fact: I want a damn dog. I think I'd be a tremendous dog-mom.

SF ISO PUPPY HEAVEN

A photograph of my life would reveal bursts of frenetic energy, rest like death, and too few spaces for nothing more troubling than reading the newest issue of Nylon, checking out the new prints from Missoni, ferreting out the perfect Diane von Furstenberg wrap-dress at the thrift stores, hitting the gym with the old vim and vigour, and learning how to cook the way I always wanted to (no recipes and a pinch here and there of this and that). Time is my enemy, my forbidden lover. I am continually wanting more of it, and scheming to have my way with it. I would not discard time the next morning in a haze of smeared lipstick, whiskey-breath, and rumpled sheets. I’d at least offer it a cottage on my property, a chance to be my mistress. If things worked out, time could be my number one.

“No time, no time, no time,” is the chant I cry when I race through the streets on the way to one job or leaving the next. I hurry through the laundry, dishes, bed-making, and all the other mundanities that keep life balanced. My feet are a fright of pain. On the bedside table is a stack of books that I got at used bookstores that I desperately want to read. My showers consist of running soap across my body as quickly as I can and shaking the water from my hair. I attain no small pleasure in that humid little chamber, not with the knowledge of greeting the day clean or of the warmth on my skin like a lingering hand. This is the busy time, where I pay off the bills of my past and become responsible. It won’t last forever—this being busy all the time—but it will be worth it. I tell myself that every morning when I rise, too exhausted to muster much enthusiasm. I remind myself of this when I am sitting in traffic or riding the bus, surrounded by people with the film of apathy over their eyes. I won’t be one of them. I won’t!

After it all, Shaun tucks me into bed, exhausted, and clawing at my pillow from sheer fatigue. Some days, I manage four to six hours of sleep; other days, I am lucky enough for eight to ten. The lack of a regular schedule keeps me out of balance. Arizona saw me rising with the sun (around five to six in the morning) and taking my sleep once the sun had set (tenish, unless it was a drinking German Riesling and howling at the moon kind of night). I loved connecting to the natural world by nature’s cycles. In the city, no one cares about when the sun rises or moon sets. No one talks about how precious being rained on and walking in it is. In the desert, rain is like a gift from the heavens. You could watch a thunderstorm roll in for miles, hoping it would reach you because the air was turning your skin to dry scales. Sometimes, the storm would swerve and you’d miss it by a few miles. Other days, the magical, lush desert days, the storm would barrel straight into you, and you’d have fifteen minutes of wet glory.

Then, you’d talk about the music the sky makes with your friends, while remembering desert-magic.

That’s not to say the city doesn’t have its own magic. I’ve fallen in love with the old cemeteries with their ancient Irish crosses, the pierogi joints everywhere, the fashionably dressed scenesters strutting their stuff in Rittenhouse Square, the ability to have a drink or food at any time of the day or night, my favourite radio station ever, the growling busses that take me wherever I need to go, my little windowsill garden, and the promise of going to the best farmer’s market on the Eastern Seaboard. I love the chance of discovery, how near everything is, how many people there are to watch, and public transportation. I hate commutes, lack of time, and how I am not creating art every day. I am capable of so much more. Poems are unfurling around my wrists and arms like tattoo vines. I scribble a few notes and remind myself to return, all while longing for the artistic freedom I once had.

So I burn my Caribbean Therapy candle and wrap myself in the scent of bay leaf, lime, vetiver, and amyris, and remind myself that I am doing the right thing. My bills are being paid, I am making a future, and more importantly, I’ve broken free of whatever cage and bonds that once held me. I go to sleep every night and awaken every morning knowing that I have no regrets. Not a one. Even as I sleep deeply and desperately, I am not filled with dream-turmoil about the paths I could have taken. I did everything the way I should have.

Talullah Jewel

P.S. As a way to test myself, every day for the next month, I am going to post something, whether big or small, just to see what it’s like. There’s so much I want to say, like the hilarious, amazing trip to DC and all I’ve been learning, and of course, the ladies that come into Aveda and teach me as I lay my hands on them and heal, soothe, and listen to their fears and hopes. I am damn grateful for the chance to do it all. Tomorrow, I am making a batch of vegan muffins and regular-type brownies to bring into the store as a way of thanking the ladies who come in for being mothers and for having them. The power of creation is the strength upon which the world was built.

I am spoilt and ugly, I have discovered.

From time to time, Shaun takes me to a local tavern with ridiculously wonderful music. O, I know you're all tired of me proclaiming it's genius when a college DJ plays Neil Young with anything remotely modern, but that's how it is. Neil Young is hella amazing. I am all over it when I hear him on a station, followed by something sublime like, say, Snow Patrol. Imagine hearing the somnambulent, belly-stroking guitar of Neil's "Cortez the Killer" and a phrase like "Hate was just a legend and war was never known." Then, take yourself across the river to "Shut your eyes and think of somewhere, somewhere cold and caked in snow. / By the fire we break the quiet, and learn to wear each other well" with Snow Patrol's "Shut Your Eyes," and you'll see what I mean, maybe. I like marrying songs to each other, making it an experience. When someone else does it for me, for instance a great DJ, I fall into one of the big, girlish crushes I am prone to having on everything and everyone.

If you've ever seen Neil Young play live with his band, Crazy Horse, you'll know why I love him so. Neil Young and the other guys in Crazy Horse huddle in a spiritual circle, playing to each other and to the sky, a stance I've seen at many a powwow. Neil has the soul of an Amerindian, the tongue of a drunk Dylan Thomas, and the heart of a buffalo. Think these things and put him on the record player, and tell me I'm wrong. Plus, he knows about history. He and I both share a hatred for Pocahontas and Cortez. "Cortez the Killer," when it came out, was controversial. Most American history books still called the murderers and rapists of the so-called "New World" explorers who "discovered" the Americas. I've said it before, but I could walk to the corner market, which clearly has been there for like, a million years, and say I discovered it because it's the first time I ever saw it, but it doesn't mean I discovered jack.

Anyway, I digress. My stories are riding shotgun with other stories today, getting ready to do some drive-bys on some stale poems. My stories are having picnics on the grass with each other, building lives in the country, and thinking about buying season tickets to Knicks games with Spike Lee. My stories, my stories, they've got lives and legs of their own. My stories're popping pimples, drinking acid-lemonade, and pasting pictures of boy-bands on the walls, while thumbing through a nudie mag with animal faces drawn all over the models' bodies. I'm not skerred of my stories. It's just that they run my life sometimes. Look at them now, making a date with disaster and thinking I should be taking cooking classes and getting a faux-hawk, all in one swoop.

Back to the tavern. It reminds me of the places my dad took me to when we lived in Alaska, but without the seal-skin hanging in the windows and on our feet and the jars of pickled seagull eggs on the counter. The brick walls have been struck with hammers in some places to show the older, more beautiful detailed plaster beneath it. The ceilings are high and hung with punched tin designs, just like the Victorians had. I adore it.

A college age guy works there. I know he's got to own more than this one striped rugby shirt, but after all the times we've been there, at all hours of the day and night, that's all I've seen him in. I don't even know what his voice sounds like, because he mutters at us. But it's a very nice mutter, and he always makes sure our drinks are filled and our plates are full or pulled, so we like him. You want to bring me the best horseradish Bloody Mary I've ever had with an extra long stalk of celery in it and mumble to me? It's okay, brother; I mean, hey, I do weird things, too, like making up little songs to sing while doing the dishes and watching America's Next Top Model when I'm doing my crunches. Mami, I will be eliminated tonight! At least I don't look like I got hit with a bag of motherfuckers.

Then, I wonder. About looking like I got hit with a bag of motherfuckers, that is. I've come to terms with the fact that I don't look like anyone else I've met. Unusual doesn't necessarily translate into pretty. Pretty can be boring or too easily defined. I'm well aware that I have a long ski-slope of a nose, super-broad shoulders, huge feet, a lotta ass, overly muscular back and arms, fat lips, big bug eyes, and the messiest hair ever made. I yam what I yam, to quote a famous sea-salt by the name of Popeye. I know that there's things that make me lovely, and I accentuate those, while (most of the time) pretending not to notice those traits that'll mean I'll never be considered traditionally beautiful or even attractive by some people. There's no middle ground with me. People either think I am confusingly and incredibly attractive or deem me ugly (like the women in Mali, who said I was too skinny to ever be a good wife and so, made fun of me daily).

However, I got my feelings hurt a little the other day in a really stupid way. I cannot even believe I'm admitting it. On this (let's say it again) stupid Facebook application, people can compare their friends to each other. One comparison comes up for whether you are pretty or not. Apparently, none of my friends think that I am pretty. They all have voted me the best singer, which is just plain bewildering. I mean, aside of those of you who knew me when I lived in a Chicago ghetto and would sing for my supper, have any of you heard me sing? Maybe my friends got me confused with the other Jewel. You know, the really famous one who also lived in Alaska, has blonde hair, and is musical?

The thing that bothered me, stupidly again, is that none of my friends thought I was pretty. In fact, everyone seemed to vote me for things like best smelling, most famous, and best singer, which again, is totally confounding. I do smell nice, but most people aren't up in my business to know that. Famous? What?! Because I bang my little drum noisily and do a lot of weird things? I guess I do look like I got hit with a bag of motherfuckers, more than I'd told myself in all the nasty pep-talks before.

This brings us back to the tavern. (Stories riding with stories on a banana-seat bicycle and carrying other stories in a little plastic basket with daisies on it.) Shaun and I walked into our tavern on Easter Sunday, sick of pastel eggs and people yelling "He is risen" (it's Philadelphia, people scream about Jesus here). As we were settling in at our usual table, a blonde lady at the bar swiveled around and screeched. I cringed, thinking she was going to tell me about Jesus at a loud decibel (nothing against Jesus, I just hate loud noises). "You look just like that really famous actress! You know!" The entire bar peered at me for a look. "That really beautiful one!"

I stood there, feeling self-conscious and not knowing what to say. Over the years, I've had a lot of comparisons to actresses. The three names that inevitably get tossed into the ring for consideration are Daryl Hannah, Uma Thurman (Kill Bill era), and Marilyn Monroe. What any of these ladies have in common beyond being blonde and emotional, I've yet to figure out. Every once in a while, someone will say Lauren Bacall (ed note: I just saw that we share the same birthday, September 16. Well, all right, Lauren Bacall, all right!). Again, I am not sure why.

"Scarlett Johanssen," someone to my side muttered. I thought it was the rugby-for-life waiter, but it was Shaun. He understood that I was feeling overwhelmed, over-scrutinised, and just plain over-worked. He bought me French onion soup, two splendid drinks, and an Italian parmigiana something or other that soothed my wounded pride. Like I said, I am spoilt.

What I wanted to say to the lady, if I hadn't been so self-conscious about my appearance, was "I LOOK LIKE ME." Of course I didn't. Having an entire room of people suddenly examining me made me nervous. So I sat down, had myself a damn drink, and listened to the music that always takes me to the places I need to be. At night, as I was removing my make-up and seeing my pores in high-definition in my fluorescent mirror, I wondered why I tear myself down. I have no wishes to change the way I was born. I am just desperate to accept it for what it is, hurt feelings, awkward moments, and all. Damnit, isn't that what we all want?

talullah belle

Today, on lazy Bloody Mary Sunday, I'm howling like La Llorona, and you won't be rescued from me. My thoughts have grown hummingbird wings, ruby-throated for love and war. I was not born innocent or guiltless. In grade school, I discovered that the other children were born much worse. I might have stolen chapstick from the grocery store and kicked boys in the shins with my hard church shoes. However, I didn't play the headgames of other little girls. Little girls play these jacked up games, like I'm gonna mess with you harder than you can mess with me, just because I can do it. Seed pearl teeth, tanned skin, and laughter like a pack of dogs. You're sitting there with your knees against your chest, pretending not to cry at naptime, thinking, "This can't be happening."

O, but bitch, it is.

Maybe that's why I surround myself with men and boys. I know how to run with these wolves; I like their honest and clean scent. Even when a man is lying to you, he smells like he's not. There is no lingering smell of fresh blood with men and boys. If they wound you, they're up-front about it. They have no corners of their minds crammed with baggage and bones. They've learned to subsist on the remnants and to scavenge. It's pretty efficient, and I like little complications. I prefer my complexities to come from within, not outside of me.

Lately, I've been going to a pub that used to be a bank. I go on Wednesday evenings, and it's me and my silver Frida earrings dangling like milagros from my earlobes, a table full of man-boys, and pitchers of golden liquid that I never drink. The waitress has a Monroe piercing and sometimes buys us shots that taste sweet enough to numb thought processes and turn drunkenness into brilliance. We play a trivia game for money and almost always near-win. The host is an Irishman who uses us as the standard by which he can determine whether the questions he's asking are too hard or not. Our team name last week was The Fighting Amish. I wanted it to be The Amish Street Gang, Motherfuckers, but no one was buying that trash. Turning thirty means I am rowdy beyond what's good. I expect that being seventy will mean more of the same, only worse.

What is strange, my friends, is that I get hit on by twenty-year-old guys and am still carded everywhere I go, unless the bartender is like eighty and those broads know things. When those ladies pour my drink, I just know that they realise I've slept with a number that's less than one hundred but rhymes with shifty, and it gives me the heebie jeebies. Don't get me wrong, though. I don't mind being carded. How this all plays out is baffling to me is all. I'm in looking underage's thing all the time lately. My mom says it's because I never smoked and I don't do drugs anymore; Shaun claims it's the organic and mostly raw foods I eat; my dad says it's not drinking much. I think it's drinking my ass off on the times that I do it and cooling it the rest of the time, getting enough sleep, excercising when I can, and knowing when to gnaw on a candy bar and when to walk away from the artery clogging potential projectile.

Speaking of hot messes, on Friday, I went bowling with another large group of boys. They played hip-hop at the bowling alley. The shoes were cute enough that I wanted to swipe them, but like for real. I didn't, though. I guess part of being thirty is I don't want to get arrested for ganking shoes from a trendy bowling alley. If I'm going to get apprehended these days, I want it to be a goodie, and not after I've paid twenty dollars to be there. Our team was fierce at bowling, and we had the requisite immature bowling names you choose at the bowling alley. Mine was Assgrabbin. Seeing that light up on the screen whenever I did something amused the hell out of me. I am easily amused, I guess.

At one point, we'd had a few gin and tonics, and decided it'd be love-rock to see who could roll the fastest ball. See, that's the kind of high-tech joint we were at: the bowling alley measured the MPH of our rolls. Soon, I was thinking it would be a good idea to see how far down the alley I could get before they threw me out or something beeped loudly at me. What I didn't expect was the alley was really slick with wax. I mean, I knew it'd be waxed, but this was crazy and kind of cool. I slid into an almost-splits. Then, I thought that since I was on the floor in an uncomfortable position, I might as well lie down. A lot of folks clapped. There were a few "She so crazy" looks, but I guess you just had to be there.

Afterwards, we went to a dive bar with a live band that featured a mean organ player. The place promised drunken spelling bees for porn or cans of meat, so I was all over that. We ended up having our own little spelling bee at the table, me and the boys, and I found that spelling words is a lot harder when you're grown-up and drunk than it is when you're a ferocious little spelling bandit of a kid. Let me put it this way; I forgot how to spell Stolichnaya. I used to win spelling bees all the time.

Yes, I can be real and admit that I was messy enough not to remember a vodka. The end of the night found us in a gay club and somehow, I'd gained an admirer from Barcelona who thought I was Russian. At one point, a cocoa-skinned dancer tried to twirl me on the dancefloor, but I wasn't having it. By the time we got home, I wrapped myself up cozy-cozy in Shaun's bathrobe and fell promptly to sleep. The next morning brought the first hangover in ages, and one of the boys from the night before saying, "She is a she-devil."

I've been called worse and been in worse company. That's how it goes, I guess.

Jewel Home-slice Fatherfucker

P.S. I start Aveda tomorrow, Anthropologie on Sunday, and I am so excited! I got to buy new work-clothes yesterday and it made it more real to me. Also, I had a lovely Saturday evening out with Shaun, involving finding him a suit for his arguments section in law school, getting macaroni and cheese homestyle, and curling up for nuzzling and lazy dreaming.

(at work)
The toilet flushes when I haven’t touched it; frothy, smelly stuff (known as self-dispensing soap) misses my hands at the sink. I cannot even pull a paper towel down for myself. A sensor watches me. When I’m close enough, more paper than I’d ever use comes out. I am scared. “Convenience” wastes energy and turns us all babies in a world that still allows women to be imprisoned for being raped, stoning, and men to kill their wives in “self-defense.” This world is eating us raw, and we can’t flush the goddamn toilet. Soon, technology will give us a new way to wipe our asses, so we won’t remember the fragrant shit of being apes.

***

(at protecting)
Shaun and I go for a run at dusk. We run and pause, hold hands, and almost get passed by a little old lady with the face of a leprechaun. Cemetery gates are still open, so we wander through the plots, respectful and intent not to bring anything home with us. Stories play hide-and-seek, waiting for someone to find the tongues to tell them. One of the graves is from 1767; another commemorates a woman seized by British troops. This stands in an obelisk that has been rounded at the top by the elements, yet the words are etched sharply. I make a promise to myself to return and do some grave-rubbings to keep the names alive and to find out more of this place.

On the way home, we stop for a treat. A man with dreadlocks and latte skin plays smiles with me, and gives me what I want. I carry a brown paper bag with blueberry and banana-chocolate chip coffeecakes and hum because I am always happy when I have a bag of treats. Large dogs bound past us, and we move cautiously. Shaun thinks they are someone’s dogs, but I sense danger. I know these dogs might be someone’s, but they are in aggressive pack-formation. Up ahead, we see a young woman with her smaller dog. The dogs do, too, and run up to it.

Shaun decides they want to play, but my muscles go stiff. I sense something else is going to happen. Suddenly, these huge dogs (150 pounds, maybe?) are attacking the other dog. Yelps and snarls fill the night. I jump into the mess and separate attacking dogs with my bare hands. My brain isn’t thinking anything but that I need to save this other dog. Miraculously, I do not drop my treat-bag. The woman’s dog is confused when I pull it away on the leash and enter a gate in someone else’s yard to keep the big dogs away. They lope off, teeth white in the moonlight.

Shaun and I walk the woman halfway home, meeting two people on the street. “Youse guys didn’t know her?” the man asks, when we get the dog-woman to her block. “No,” I say, ducking my head. My heart is racing with adrenaline and fear. I could have gotten seriously injured, but I knew that I would not be. I just knew it, like I knew the big dogs were going to go violent. The situation shows me something important about myself and about Shaun; I raced towards the danger, and he observed, hoping for the best.

I’ve yet to be attacked by an animal, even those that snarl.

***

(at mind)
Days crouch over the nights with skirts hiked up. Midnight yanks my hair back, exposing my throat. These are the times of concrete and monster machine-growls, of wild city-lilies pushing through the cracks, of piss and steel. My old-lady brain and prophetess-eyes are too wise for this Philadelphia. I pass strangers and divine the skeletons in their cupboards with a too-long, too-intimate glance like the press of a hand on the inside of a stranger’s thigh or how you can fuck with pedophiles at the grocery store by staring at them when they gaze longingly at their younger cousins. Everyone else pretends not to notice, but I sharpen my stare on their naughty-bones and repulsiveness and communicate that I know exactly what their dirty, secret heart’s wishes are. I am a survivor of such wishes, so I have the second-sight to know who is a predator and who is not. This sight is my curse, and never a gift, because I wouldn’t give it to anyone. I stare because I want them to know that I know.

These are the ancient hours, the ones where I feel like I hold the planet’s history in my hands, and my hands are crone-long and (imaginary) wrinkled with wars and attempts at peace. I’ve never seen an ugly tree before this city. The sight of these trees, butchered for power lines and better views of musty waterways angers and saddens me, and adds twenty years to my shoulders. I am old and young and alive and dead.

Then, after a day of watching money funneled through business people’s fingers, racing around and being told one thing and then, demanded to do another, I fold into myself, bent in two, where chest presses to knees and knees to the ladder of the ankles, and I feel a child. My heart has never really known greed or filth or how to use others, and it rents my soul. I don’t know how to deal with it, and so, I sob into hiccups, hiccup into gasps, and gasp into unconsciousness, finding rest an uneasy lover. I sleep with a stuffed dog for the first time in twenty years and say baby-prayers on the wings of my dragon fly Tiffany lamp. I wish for dogs and ponies, faery-friends and for the first time in my life, unicorns. When I was a kid, unicorns bothered me, mostly because of classmates who wore them on pastel sweatshirts or carried them on those strangely sexual Lisa Frank notebooks and stickers. Now, I understand how important believing in unicorns is. Clap if you believe in them! I beat my hands bloody clapping for unicorns. I am weak with wishes.

I am two women in battle and in lust, in innocence and in light, rock-salt tears and fists clenched, crab apple-hard. My father is also a product of extremes, the pilot who can solve complex mathematical equations in his head, yet insists on surrounding himself with interesting things and traveling to the literal ends of the earth to see new sights. He tells a story of how he once had to make an emergency landing during flight school in a field of horses. Horses danced, dappled gold and brown in the fading light. Most people would have waited for assistance. My father decided he wanted to ride the horses—bareback. He dared his instructor to ride one; the instructor broke both of his arms and gained a source of teasing and legends. Dad climbed onto one of the young horses and rode just as it started to rain, a man of land and air, in motion, in sound.

Anyone who’s met him knows how I came to be and why I am two precious extremes. The world around me notices the dichotomy, also. I’ve never felt so divided, like one could cleave me in two and find completely different beings on either side of the cut. Babas in colourful wraps at the grocery store, true judges of character, pat me and call me “baby-girl.” Strangers often say, “You are such a good girl!” At the bus-stop, a Jamaican gangster talks to me about Obama and Hillary, while his homies snicker. “Safe, not safe,” the pendulum swings. He thinks me safe, so we talk about presidents and bitches and hope. Yet, most of my friends insist that I am the one they’d want on their side if a fray ever broke out. Those who meet me often comment on my ass-kickingness and the wildness lurking just below the surface, even when I am quiet and turning my knees inward and combing the tangles in my hair out.

Reconciling these two creatures is a part of growing up. Grow up is so painful, almost like the time you go to school and a kid in your class spoils Santa Claus by telling you it’s not real. You still believe a little while longer, but something cries when you think of presents under the tree and how much you believe in this jolly old guy who just wants children to smile. Getting this new job has taught me more in the way of that than I ever expected. What I’ve seen is that you should do what is your passion or you will soon be unfulfilled and unhappy, no matter what amount of money you are making. What this also means is that I can no longer function in this job; I took it to gain money and experiences, without ever thinking what it would do to my soul.

For this reason, I am soon going to be working with two companies that I’ve long admired and whose products I support. I’ll be managing a store for one and serving as a key holder for the other: Aveda and Anthropologie. I get a salary, awesome benefits, and a crazy discount (74% off on products and 50% off on the services at their salons) with Aveda, as well as neat things like they’ll pay for fifty counseling sessions a year; provide for any type of education I want to get, whether it furthers me in the company or not; and offer me great opportunities for training and bettering the world around me. This is a company that uses wind power, develops programs to help indigenous peoples, cleans up waterways, uses post consumer waste almost exclusively in its packaging, and believes in its people. They’ve let me know how much they want me there, and are supporting projects I’ve got brewing, like going to battered women's shelters and giving the women make-overs (not because they need to be changed, but because being beaten, you feel so ugly and sometimes, having someone care for you, cut your hair, and make your skin look better does a lot in the way of healing) and teaching those who need it job skills; organising a neighbourhood clean-up; and taking spoken word to ghetto youth. I already shop the hell out of Aveda and respect its focus on sustainability and organics. Why not manage one of their joints?

At Anthropologie, I also get a sick discount (also, at Free People and Urban Outfitters, which it also owns), work in a creative environment, and have awesome co-workers. My pals already think I am a walking advertisement for them, so why not? Why the hell not? Some of the most amazing experiences I’ve had have come from asking why the hell not? Perhaps this direction isn’t what others would have seen for me or what some people would approve of, but I’ll be making a great living wage, will be emotionally and creatively rewarded, and will be working for companies I believe in. I spent so much of my earlier life and this recent job search doing what I thought would make others proud of me. I need to believe in me, too. You are what you do. I want to do great things.

As if all of this isn’t enough, I’m also freelancing with a British publication, writing profiles for German companies that will be printed in a guide. The research is intense, but interesting. I find the more profiles I do, the easier they become. I’m grateful for this, and all of the other opportunities that have come to me. Even when I despair, I recognise that I am a very blessed woman and that many people think I lead a charmed life. I don’t lead a charmed life, but I do live. I live rebelliously and gently: a hundred girls with a hundred histories in this one, tall body.

I am how I live, which is fierce and true. I know things’ll work out if I remember that.

Jewel-mouth, still taking risks because it’s not worth doing if you don’t do it with all of your soul

I think I bawled more last night and today than I did when the people who helped me pack the moving truck mistakenly packed my coat with the moving truck keys in it. At least then, I had a good sob in the back of the moving truck, cautiously climbing over the boxes, and finally locating my coat and the keys to my freedom. With this, there was no relief. I got a really sincere and regretful letter from the Firm last night. It seems all the partners wanted to hire me--the letter said I was "the one we all wanted"--but the Founder was insistent about hiring someone with a strict business background and matching business education. The letter was gentle; I could tell the partners felt awful about having to send it. I felt a little better, but not much. I really, really wanted this job with all of my heart and knew I was going to change my whole life having it.

Some would say that there are other jobs, and that is true, but the job market is tough. Friends I know who are searching for employment are suffering. Extremely capable acquaintances are making an equally rough go of it. I mean, it used to be employers snatched me up on the spot. Now, I'm contending against hundreds of applicants who don't have something like Arcosanti on their resumes. Yesterday, I went to the Doctor's office, and it was a nightmare. At first, I wondered if some jokey television show was taping me. It was that bad, and I can take most bad. I'm desperate at this point, and I'll do almost anything to keep my tummy fed.

The "office manager" had a sweatshirt with dollar signs on it, girl gangsta tattoos, and pencilled-in eyebrows and lips. I am not about judging people for how they choose to ornament themselves, but in an office setting, a person should be professional. I felt like a sore thumb with my hopeful, pressed slacks; camel coat; and bright face. The office gangsta yelled at the Doctor when he asked her to show me the system and wouldn't say hello to me or address me directly. I sat with her for a few hours, learning what I could; it was hard because she addressed the other person at the desk, not me. No one had me fill out any paperwork or showed me my employee packet. Then, they put me in the back with their graphic artist, a four foot tall guy who immediately told me about his fractured homelife and started showing me pictures of squirrels that he collected. My desk was a filing cabinet and my computer was a broken laptop.

Just when I thought it couldn't get weirder, the office manager had to chase someone who tried to get away with not paying for a pain shot. A brawl in the parking lot ensued. No one told me about break-times or even offered me lunch. I didn't even know I would be coming in until the Doctor called twenty minutes before he wanted me there. Finally, the Doctor called me to the conference room. He had decided to change the details of our arrangement, not because of anything I had done, but because he decided he didn't want to pay insurance or benefits for another person in the office; part-time employees don't get benefits. Not only that, but he decided he'd like me to redesign his brochures, write scripts for his medical movies, write content for his website, organise a monthly magazine he puts out for patients, work with the squirrel enthusiast on a new web portal, visit area hospitals to do marketing and research, and work as an intermediary with patients--all for less than what an average secretary or drugstore worker would make. We hadn't agreed on no benefits and low pay. It made me feel like he gauged me, thinking I was a nice person and that I needed the work badly, so he thought he'd make an extra buck, effectively treating me like slave labour.

I left that behind at my last place.

Suffice it to say, I came home, soggy from the rain, teed off at life and jobs, and more than a little scared of my financial situation. I cried until my eyelashes became little star-points, and even wrote Oprah, saviour of the Free World, a letter. I slept the sleep of death, and woke up to look for more jobs. I do this probably ten to twelve hours a day or more. Something's got to give. I'm mad at myself for letting myself get attached to the job at the Firm. I'm usually more cautious about jobs than this. It's just that all of our meetings were so splendid, and I got a good read on everyone. I could tell by what they said and were doing that I was the Main Contender.

It's easy to go from Main Contender to Main Idiot, isn't it?

If that isn't enough, I was running a 103 fever from Sunday; and now today, I am exhausted, barely able to move, and at 96 degrees steady. I've a doctor's appointment tomorrow. Thank goodness that Shaun comes home with treats and kind words and still likes me, even when I am cross and red-eyed from crying and feeling lost.

Lessons, lessons.

Ms. Empty Pockets

Many Philadelphians (natch, Pennsylvanians) place electric candles in their front windows at night. When I drive through the city, the candles hold silent vigil: constellations created of reminders. The candles whisper that ghosts that still walk these streets. I asked Shaun why everyone has these candles. He said that the candle-lighters believed that people who had died would know that someone was still lighting a candle, waiting for their return. If that's true, I've a thousand candles lit. Subtle and shy, they make up the molecules of my very body. I know about ghosts and the ones left behind. We all need a little closure or just a sign that someone cares that we lived.

* * *

I walk down the avenue, passing a little old man, smiling and carrying a leash upon which smiles a little old dog. Man and dog move against the wind. I wish I had a little dog and that my little dog could be friends with the little old man's little old dog. I offer a smile, marveling at how it feels to be a stranger. In my last place, everyone knew everything of my comings and goings. I hated that I could have no secrets or that others made secrets of things they surmised, rather than those that had actually existed. Now, I can vacuum early in the morning, toss back a rum in the middle of the day, or listen to New Zealand throat-singers or the Beastie Boys very loudly late at night and no one has a thing to say about it or even cares. I never thought I'd enjoy anonymity and slipping through the cracks so much. It's refreshing, as cleansing as a sip of clear, clean water or no thoughts tangled with fear.

* * *

Speaking of tangles . . .

Rebecca informed me that there was a snag in a deal we made. While at Arco, I made my living space better in many ways, like painting it and repairing the baseboards. Another thing I did was build a closet out of materials I purchased. Most Arcosanti residences lack closets, a symptom either of frugality or stinginess (building a closet would take more materials and therefore, cost more). Seeing this, I designed a closet that covered a wall at the far end of my room. As I was leaving, Rebecca asked if she could have it. I said sure. She indicated that she'd feel guilty not compensating me in some way for the materials (over 200.00), so we made an arrangement that she'd pay 35.00 and come to remove the unit upon my departure. Most of my roommates were home for the holidays, so I was unable to communicate this with them. I did communicate it to the one person who was waiting to move into my room and wasn't officially a roommate yet.

After I left, people got upset about the deal and everyone on-site decided to weigh in on it. Some people were very outraged, saying, "Jewel can't take things out of a space arbitrarily." If I were still living at Arco and made that deal, no one would have said a thing. So instead, an inspection was made to decide whether or not I'd actually purchased the materials (because yeah, I'm going to just scavenge things from the Arco Boneyard and then sell them to my co-worker and friend for 35.00. My integrity means that much to me). When it was determined that I had paid for the materials, the issue was dropped, no apologies tendered to Rebecca or me.

However, the individual who'd moved into the room wanted to keep the closet, so she asked Rebecca for it. Rebecca, being the considerate person she is, allowed it. When she told me about this, it irked me, small as it was, because I wished for Rebecca to have the closet. Also, she shouldn't have had to be attacked for the deal. Why was it anyone's business? This little story illustrates yet another reason why I am relieved to be gone from that place.

People who care that much about what other people do need to get out of the concrete, take a walk, make friends with a dog, do something rewarding, listen to great music, or conjure up a poem. Life is so much bigger than the wars we create.

* * *

So far, the newest job search of four days has reaped few rewards. The one person who responded was a cross Arabic woman who wanted to know why I'd want to be a nanny when I had so many qualifications ("Best resume I've ever seen," she raved, her voice like sharp-clawed birds). "I'm writing a book and need something to settle into the city," I told her. What I wanted to say was, "Before I find my dream-job, the little niche that was created for someone like me, someone who's worked in legislature, tended bar, run businesses, kept ledgers balanced, edited books, written articles, and made hundreds of thousands of dollars for someone else with her ceramics." I've high hopes that there's an employer out there who's willing to take a chance on someone with extensive education and a varied work-history. All I need is for someone to gamble on me and I will be a champion. So far, no one's gotten back to me, beyond the Cross Arabic Woman.

I know it takes most places a week for responses, but damnit, I'm impatient. My twenty-four dollar checking account weeps and alternately, caws at the travesty (almost five grand was spent getting me to the dot on the map that says Here). I even applied at a swanky restaurant less than a mile away from the Apartment. I was excited about earning large tips that would sit folded in my pocket until I felt free to use or invest them (one of my goals this year is to get my finances completely in order, develop a good system of savings, and start researching investment strategies). I was lured by the love I've always had for working at posh places and the friends I've made serving and bartending. When I offered my resume, I was told I would have to take a test immediately.

It's no surprise that I think I failed it.

Never, in all my years of food service have I taken a test like this. After being hired and given information, I've taken tests, but never before. The first question was to name three viticultural regions of France. "Burgundy, Rhone, and Champagne," I scrawled, palms sweating. "Booze, booze," I kept thinking, searching for the answers. Someone who's been as drunk as I have over the years should have had it down. Of course, once I left the establishment, my brain turned back on, but sitting there, staring at this evil piece of paper that had the potential to help me move towards my future and dreams or deny me entrance, scared me.

At one point, I freaked out so badly that I forgot a third type of white wine, which is silly. I know this shit cold. I wrote Chenin Blanc and Chablis as the first two and blanked. O, Alanis Morrissette, if only you'd been there to guide me, by wailing about the "black fly in your chardonnay" in "Ironic." I decided to take the honest route and wrote, "I am nervous and cannot remember this. I promise you that I have an extensive knowledge of wines. Also, I am a red wine drinker and have more of a base of knowledge of those. I am willing and able to learn anything that this job might entail." The bus crashed into the tree after that.

One of the servers gave me a very sympathetic look when I left. Fine dining is hell.

I pray some of the other employers get back to me soon or it's going to be rough. Even so, my hope is a flag I wave in the winter air. My place is cuter than a piglet, I have a gym, the 'fridge is finally full, I've opportunities to meet new people, the guy down the way still likes giving me free cake, the love of an honest and true man, and I live blocks from the coolest section in Philly.

That's not a bad start to my new chapter here. Not bad at all, Blackfeather. I tend my candles well.

Badtesttaker McGee

I'm writing with knuckles scraped, arms bruised, and hair tangled. Don't worry. I'm more than okay; moving is some scary, beautiful chaos. To think that I've moved across the country, set up house, seen my parents for the holidays, and gotten rid of a bunch of dross I've been keeping is amazing. Stepping out of Arco with head high and integrity intact was a huge relief; I cannot express how clean and free I feel inside and as though I walked away instead of running. I'm sorry that the reality of the place was more flawed than my dreams had been when I set out for the desert and a way to live my beliefs rather than just practicing them in mind. Whatever the bad parts of the place had been, the good parts (the friendships, the ability to discover myself, and all of the incredible experiences) will stay with me much longer. Leaving was the right thing to do.

Goodbyes lingered like party guests after a lawn-fight, and I didn't get to say all of them because time was limited and I had to rearrange my life in the course of a few days' time. However, I don't do goodbyes (when I started saying goodbye to Bill Campana, I got a little choked up and tried not to let him know it. I think it was because I told him he was always one of my favourites and realised how much I meant it; it's not often a person can hear such spoken word greatness so frequently). I prefer to think of it as see-you-later or a bookmark added so that the page can be returned to at another time. What really blew me away was the cheerful assortment of poets and artists (Bob, Sharon, Harmony, Aura, MCMG, Mandy, Ivan, Klute, Julie, Arrian, and Rebecca) who helped, came to help me pack, or saw me off. Damn, Arizona, you really know how to make a girl feel good. My Arizona burns in my mind, and of all the places I've lived, it is my truest home. From now on, when people ask where I am from, instead of saying that I've lived all over the world, I can say Arizona and know that I've turned native there.

For now, it's Philly with the little corner grocery store that doesn't accept graffiti and the home-style place two doors down that tucks free pieces of the moistest cake ever into your order (FREE), whether you ask for it or not. I guess this'll give me a reason to continue with my determination and focus at the gym. My pad is cute as hell, in a great Bohemian section of town, right on public transporation routes, and less than a mile from everything I could possibly need--from the gym to the organic grocery store to the Aveda salon to a pedicure place to a luxurious little assortment of bars and restaurants and other places to brunch and make new acquaintances. I don't have a job here yet, but by the end of the week, I should be in the right direction. It's easier to get a job once an employer can see you as a face and a name, rather than a piece of paper that's discarded because you live in another state. I excell at the face-game with employers so I have high hopes.

For right now, it's great to finally be settled in my new home. My closet is full of Anna Sui frocks, Mexican pheasant shirts, cashmere sweaters, vintage silk dresses, the kind of teetering, expensive shoes I was afraid to wear at Arco. The cabinets brim with dishes and mugs that my potter friend Larry made, but the 'fridge is empty. The walls are hung with art that either my friends or I have made or just that's inspired me for most of my life. The bathroom boasts a rug softer and deeper than any I've ever had. My red painted trunk from India is the coffee table, African statues stand guard from sunny windowsills, and milagros and nichos promise hope and blessings on the wall nearest my desk. A sweet boy sleeps in my bed at nights, warm and smelling like fresh laundry. I hope people will come and visit me as I learn this city and love it as fiercely as I've loved every other place I've lived. Making new friends is something I intend to do very soon. People walk dogs by my place every day, and I look forward to gaining canine friends along with human ones.

Here's to life and its little adventures!

Opus J

More from the handwritten journal. This, yesterday.

Shaun had a hand on the wheel; I had my feet on the dash. We’d just gotten let loose from the type of wedding where old men form conga lines and their wives take pictures and get drunk on drinks named for fruits and prostitutes. His fingertips found my thigh; I screamed Kanye West lyrics out the window. I played with his camera-phone, wanting to give him something to keep, as we’re so often separated by distance. He keeps the picture, still.

My head pounds a kettledrum, my brain shrivels; a strange, animal panic consumes my heart. This is what it is to have a headache. My Beloved, otter-king, bull’s-eye target in the middle of a bare chest is far away; we set rooms aflame when we’re in the same places. “Soon,” he tells me, “soon.” I tilt the word soon like a wish or halo over my head and wait.

A few weeks ago, I spent Thanksgiving with his lovely family. The plane ticket was courtesy of his father, who miraculously, like the rest of his kin, seems to adore me. The holiday in question, we ended up in a lake-house with parents and children he’d known since childhood, singing “Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash and being poured too many stiff Irish drinks to count. His kin are a stiff Irish drink kind of bunch. I slept in the curve of Shaun’s spine, like a real person, so whole, free, and complete. My foot curled into the arch of his foot, and my lips rewrote his shoulder blade tattoo. Usually, I get cold at night; I am never cold when we sleep next to each other.

Today, my fingers are frigid, wanting. My love rests in a nautilus shell around my throat. Each chamber contains a scene of our mythology. We create new rooms with every secret we reveal, rooms of saltwater and milagro tears. I want there to be more ocean and hope than tears. The tears are so close to the surface, and I am part human, part fish: a contradiction covered in scales and sea foam, a radiance that knows no containing, a howl in the arroyo, a woman holding her own hand because she is alone, a love letter hidden in the Judas chamber of the ribcage. And yet, I know this waiting is worth it. We are unconditional and trusting. He is a good man, a solid person.

This is real, so we are gentle with it.

* * *

I keep thinking of the Frida painting where she sits in a wheelchair, painting at her easel. Her palate is made of her heart, saying that she creates with everything she is. This is how I also create, although I wonder why I fuck around, grasping for the Brilliant Idea that will catapult me to the places I’ve always belonged.

A brilliant and courageous secret sleeps inside of me. No one knows it is there but me. No one believes in it, but me. Not my parents, who say that they love me, but think of me as a failure. I am a golden helicopter seed, waiting for someone to plant me so that I can unfurl this green secret power inside of me, this mariachi trumpet of laughter and guitar pluck of my heel as I dance.

I want to live by my writing and joy, want to travel the world penning novels of all I see. I will wear a coat woven of foreign languages, languages like scraps of silk, saffron desert sleep, animal flesh cooking by open flame, windows made of icicles, and seductive palm tree breezes, languages like a terra cotta plate hurled at the wall and waiting all night for someone to return, a glass of white tequila in my hand and a wreath of smoke woven around my lips, my face hung with unwritten poems. Languages like revenge and knives and a skeleton-dream painted like a third eye on the middle of my forehead, languages like deer hide scraped by a coyote scapula. I want to speak to everyone I see in the tongue their ears understand and know.

I have seen so much sorrow because I needed to understand everyone’s stories and possess the mouth to tell their dreams. Most would think this delusional, so I do not say it anywhere but in my private thoughts, this altar of pages that has become my sanctuary. Here, I can show my ugly monster teeth and green jealousy, my shy vulnerability and fear of inadequacy, the brown-skinned badass beneath this Scandinavian skin, the worn knuckles of my desire to live, thrive, and love.

My hair is three days unwashed, my skin patinated with sweat, and soles of feet dirty from pacing scarlet floors. I wear a wool hat knitted with cambering moose. Static electricity crackles every time I remove it. I’ve minerals beneath my nails from all the bells. Blood soaks my panties four nights coming. In my mind, I wear a dress of moon-shadows and earrings of silver flame.

* * *

The night stretches over the mountains, and I climb into the shower, shy as a newlywed. I rub sea salt and scented oils over my skin, close my eyes and let the water baptise my eyelids, let the dirt go down the drain. The water runs so long it loses heat. I don’t mind a bit. Being far from those I love is far worse than freezing water.

talullah