melancholy

"This law firm is looking for a 'melancholy assistant.'"

"It actually says that? What?"

"'Hiring a part-time melancholy assistant. Must work Saturdays. Previous experience preferred.'"

"Well, lucky you."

"Previous experience?"

"Yeah. You've been known to be a bit mel-an-choly at times, now wouldn't you say so?"
He grinned his trademark half grin and winked his trademark wink; I imagined him getting caught in a blizzard and then subsequently attacked by a hungry (and invisible) polar bear.

"Sure. Melancholy."

"Like, remember last Halloween when you dressed up as Tinkerbell and everyone thought you were the grim reaper? Ha. You were so sullen."

"I was goth Tinkerbell."

The polar bear has been waiting in the woods for almost three months, just waiting for this storm. No, that's not true. A bear is just a bear, not a patient, psychic weatherman. Just a very hungry, murderous bear.

"Well, you were sure a bitchy goth fairy that night."

The half grin. The bear watching. The snow picks up.

"So this job," I say with what can only be described as melancholic undertones, "I think I'll apply tomorrow."

"You sure you can hold down a job, doll? I know you've got commitment issues."

And the attack. The bear is really fucking hungry.

"Hey, I got this, okay?" I reply quietly, suddenly interested in straightening a stack of yesterday's junk mail.

The polar bear starts by ripping out his heart, staining the white fur with the feast. The rib cage makes for a fine pick, loosening lodged tissue from teeth.

"Okay. My li'l melancholy assistant."

The limbs, gone.

"I think I'm going to take a walk. Want to maybe start dinner while I'm gone?" Piles of mail still in need of attention.

"Maybe we'll have some melancholy 'n' cheese tonight? Or a bowl full of melancauliflower? Hahaha!"

The snow buried the bear tracks and what little flesh remained. And the winter months stretched on and on. And papers needed to be filed, copies needed to be made, cases needed to be closed.

autumn/autompne/autumnus

What I Love About Fall

*drinking cinnamon spice tea out of a cat mug
*wearing free beanies (free? found it on a table at UVU last year!)
*catching what I like to call "cabin fever" (symptoms of cabin fever: uncontrollable urge to murder, depression, sudden interest in reality television, daydreams about dating a man with actual cat whiskers)
*curling up with a cozy read (cozy read: french existentialism!!!)
*pumpkin flavored everything (i.e. pumpkin beer, pumpkin bread, pumpkin nog, pumpkin tuna, pumpkin mcrib, pickled pumpkin fingers, vienna sausages in new and improved artificial pumpkin flavor, spam with chunks of pumpkin, pumpkin spiced pumpkin spice)
*knowing that each time a leaf falls, something really fucked up and insane is happening in the Middle East (shit! that's not what I love about fall! wrong list. but the leaves falling are pleasant)
*punctuation becomes inconsistent and eventually non-existent
*did I mention cat mugs?

hunger

"You're so thin. Skin and bones." He glanced down at the floor.

"And you're apparently fond of internal rhymes." Heehaw. I've always been awkward.

The invisible thing (or person or place?) on the floor sure held him captive. He remained silent, I remained as blank as a piece of dry white toast.

And finally an inhale that cut through the quiet like a butter knife.

"So."

"So!" I replied a little too quickly, a little too loudly.

"I think you need to see somebody."

I am fairly certain he meant a therapist, but I felt compelled to joke.

"See somebody? I see a lot of people. People need to start seeing me because--" Oh shit. Nothing clever is coming to mind. Come on, think think think-- do I go for shock value, sarcasm, or perhaps something high brow and punny?

I give up.

"Deeny, I'm serious."

Deeny, Deeny, quite so teeny, how does your appetite grow?

"Yeah, I know."

"I just think you need to treat yourself better."

Treat, trick or treat, costumes, what to wear, do I go for Sexy Skeleton or Zombie Karen Carpenter? Maybe I'll fake sick this year and skip the parties and slip on spooky flannel pajama pants and pass the time dining on sugar free mints and late night punchlines.

"...And you need to be mindful."

Somewhere out there, let's say on an island inhabited by turtles and ghosts, lies an active volcano full of everything everyone has ever tried to hide away under beds, feet, rugs, drugs, and holy behavior. And it's waiting and waiting and waiting and sometimes the earth just needs to bleed.

rilke

XXII

We are the driving ones.
Ah, but the step of time:
think of it as a dream
in what forever remains.

All that is hurrying
soon will be over with;
only what lasts can bring
us to the truth.

Young men, don't put your trust
into the trials of flight,
into the hot and quick.

All things already rest:
darkness and morning light,
flower and book.

from Rainer Maria Rilke's The Sonnets to Orpheus

to pay attention

This is joy. (I am done with blank stares and uneasy personas.) I like this. I feel happy. (Thanks to my dear friend Megan for taking this photo.)

busted block

God, I miss you, Blogger.

I have what might be described as an "uncontrollable urge" to write these days. THIS IS BIG NEWS. I've had one major case of writer's block for, oh, I'd say two years now. Three years? Let's say four.

So what shall I write about? Not that I have to have a subject or a plan. Plans shmlans. My GOAL is to just write. Write write write write type type type type write type knit sew. Okay, no knitting or sewing. I WISH. I really wish I could knit/sew, but it's as though Buddha gave me all thumbs when he created me.

Okay, but here is what I DO eventually want to explore through writing:

Havasupai.

Summertime romances.

New Mexico.

Color and lack of color.

And some other cool shit. COOOOOL!!! Man oh man, life as a writer is so super incredibly non-lucrative and usually ends with a head in an oven, but so be it. I wouldn't choose any other path.

Pool Enipla Forever

I was going to take my mom on a drive up the canyon today. The Alpine Loop. We will probably do it tomorrow, though. That is not what's important. What's important and fascinating is that "Alpine Loop" backwards is "Pool Enipla." Pool Enipla. Say it out loud right now. Wherever you find yourself reading this, speak the words POOL ENIPLA. It does something to you, doesn't it? It sounds like the title of an artsy film that doesn't win any awards but should. You know those films - they get lost in between the couch cushions that we, as a society, sit on and zone out and turn off and tune in and this just in - breaking news! Pool Enipla takes the cinema world by storm! A perfect storm! "Perfect Storm" backwards is "Mrots Tcefrep," which is highly imperfect. I hate it. :( I hate is SOOO hard. :( :( ;-( :~(

Mrots Tcefrep will never, ever, ever be Pool Enipla.

In the name of boogedy boo, a(wo)men.

freeeeaky flaaaag

This blog should be retitled to "Her Waaaaaa Waaaaaa and Complain About Exes." Yeah, not that catchy and also not Dylan lyrics (yet). So. I'll stick with "her fog and pearls." For now.

So. I don't waaaaaanna complain! I really don't! I don't wannnnnna be that girl! That girl that is always like, "Hey, guys (and girls and animals and creatures and gods and goddesses). It's me here. Meg. You know what that means. I'm going to say some really depressing things about a) body image, b) boys, and c) overall failure to succeed in life. Hey."

Don't wanna do it.

But I'm gonna.

Just for a sec.

Come on.

You don't have to read this.

You can go back to Facebook, I won't be offended.

Sometimes I fall into this head space that is messy, but blank, fuzzy, but cold. There is an anxiety and apprehension that buzzes below the surface. Skittish, antsy, irritable.

Oh lord, I just figured out what's wrong. Caffeine + the mall (earlier today!!! shit balls!!!) + lack of sleep. Duuuuuh.

Well, ride this one out, Meg.

It's okay if you don't "capture" every moment of nature today. Who/what wants to be captured anyway? Instead, just be. Yep. It's as simple, idealistic, and hippie-certified as that.

Neat, huh?

infinite/stuff/infinitely stuffed

Stuff.

I am overwhelmed with stuff.

Shopping, buying, consuming, acquiring, dying.

What about giving? Living? Forgiving?

I see others always rushing to the next best thing/place/person, not realizing that the chase is all there is. The destination is a delusion, the future fiction.

So I see this, I acknowledge it in others and I think I understand it on an "intellectual" level, yet I still fully participate in this chaos.

I get hung up, strung out, and I suffer. I anticipate all things good and all things bad without seeing all things around me right then, right at that (THIS) moment.

But maybe the realization that I don't realize is actually a significant realization? Maybe it's a start?

Then again, maybe there is no start, no finish line, just the infinite path that we slip and slide on an infinite amount of times.

brush

"The driest brush burns the fastest," he told me, sipping on scotch.
"Okay," I said, blankly.
Everything but the broken freezer motor paused in the kitchen, as if holding a massive, collective breath.
His eyes broke the silence like a gun. They shot through me and exited out the right side of my skull.
You're such a prick, I thought.
"You're so zen," I said, dumbly.
"I've been left with the crippling task of taking care of you, sugar peanut. Gotta speak your language if you're ever gonna listen."
And then his smirk disguised as concern. The goddamn zen prick.
"So we should probably fix the freezer at some goddamn point," I muttered.
"Such delicate language, sweetie."
He stood up, ruffled my hair, and the distance between us swelled.

loner

"People who live alone generally lead a simpler life. There is only one stomach to fill, they have fewer responsibilities and are free to do what they want. If they are looking for a spiritual path or if they follow one already, they are free to go wherever their quest takes them. All they need is a suitcase and they can stay where they like for as long as they need. Celibacy can be a useful option in the sense that it allows us more freedom and efficiency to devote ourselves to whatever we wish to do." -the Dalai Lama

Amen, Dalai. Amen.

boobs and hoes

In my last post, I mention how much of a "boob" I am at night... So as a Buddhist Boob, I am going to explore my mind. Right now. See why I'm so ho-hum. (Fun fact: I have said "boob" and "ho" in this post.)

On Meg's Mind: A List. Lists: Organizes Things. Things: Do We Have Too Many Things? Questions: We All Ask Them, Right? Right: Or Wrong?

*it's sad when a place you once loved changes - and it's usually the people in the place that change and that makes me think of how we've all lost touch and how I should've/could've been a better friend and how a lot of people could have been better friends to me and how a lot of people that have now taken over this place are really depressed/depressing and how we are all just struggling to be happy, day in and day out

*I feel like I can't say half of what I want to say on this blog because I don't want certain people to worry. Guess that's what journals are for... AND SECRET BLOGS wink wink.

*I pretend that I have been developing loads of self-compassion lately, but I don't think I have. I suppose I am working on it here and there, but for the most part I still fall into my old traps and habits and people and behaviors and obsessions and it makes me downright miserable.

*I miss you. And you. And you you you and you. But I don't miss you, and that makes me sad.

Anyway.

I'm gonna listen to music from 2005 and take a bad trip down Memory Lane. Maybe I'll listen to the rain instead. (I'll just end up watching late night TV while sucking on sugar free mints and feeling guilty about it.)

night fright

Why is it that my nights are oh-so-blue? My days lately have been nearly magical - I feel at peace, I am mindful, I eat wonderful food, I am full of hope and motivation for the future - and then night comes and I am suddenly a lethargic boob. What's up with nighttime being such a sucky time lately? Do you experience anxiety/sadness at night, too?

multitudes

Here is something I say publicly on my blog every four months or so (and in my head multiple times a week): I am a bad friend.

But that's not true. I am actually a fiercely loyal friend when it comes down to it. I have had the same best friend for well over a decade and I am on good terms with all of my childhood friends. Even the friend I had a ginormous falling out with a few years back is now my Facebook pal and we will on occasion message each other nice words.

So I guess I'm not as atrocious of a friend as I think I am in my head. I still feel like I could "be better," though. Isn't that just like me (and probably you and probably everyone else on the watery planet) - always striving to be better be happier be kinder be this be that be more more more.

How about something radical? How about being perfect as is?

I like that. It's not as passive as it may seem. In fact, self-acceptance is quite the opposite of "taking the easy way out." It's a constant struggle. It is facing ugly, vicious, embarrassing sides of yourself and showing those sides - which make up YOU - tenderness. Warmth. A quiet understanding that you are simply trying. And then once you have done that very-not-easy task, perhaps then you can find a friend within yourself.

Yes, I have been a terrible friend - to myself. The love I show to myself is directly linked to the love I show to others. I cannot be attentive and present for anyone at all if I haven't given myself the kind of attention and care I deserve.

My point is that I want to be a better friend to you (and there are many "yous" out there). Desperately. And I know there have been some failings on my part - missed meetings, quick cancellations, forgetful moments - but I assure you that I love each of you. I am going to be working on me for some time, okay? I need to. I need to get to a place where I respect myself again. "I am large, I contain multitudes." May I remember that. May you remember that. May we have patience with one another and with ourselves. We are loved.

indivisible

At the Museum of Natural History
by Bushra Rehman

As we both look up at the Tyrannosaurus Rex
its bones painted black, its danger extinct
I can hear the sounds of children echo
throughout the museum

And we are not afraid this way
to stand a few inches away from each other

We are not afraid because it's over
The Tyrannosaurus Rex does not scare us
We don't scare each other

It's over, the bones are beginning to fade
and bleach in our failure

But if one day someone finds our remains
and decides to lay them right next to each other
will they lay them in their proper ways
will they mix up my hip with yours
will they place the fingers of my hands
on someone else's palms

Will they ever know
this flesh answered the other
that my fingers traveled all over
the empty space around your bones