...like this goldfish bowl is the whole sea, see?

Think back to the time when you were in elementary school and someone was so mad at you that you almost wanted to just quit. And you begged your parentals to let you stay home, or just homeschool you or something. If you can even remember a vivid time when this happened (because it's probably a very foggy memory in which the details are not so much around, but the feeling is there)... your parents probably sent you to school anyway and told you something about how "this too shall pass" and how you can't "run away from every problem". Things like that. It never stops or changes though. It will happen again through highschool, your first job, your second, and pretty much all of them... and the more your tendency to be a people pleaser, the higher the tendency to run into such things. Everytime one of these situations of dramatics arises, that usually isn't easily shaken, because a job or something ever so important weighs in the balance, your parents or grandparents or friends or confidants will echo the same sentiments as the first times around... except often with my guy friends these days, the language is a bit stronger. They're usually quick to dismiss the actions of the other person in question and dumb it down to the fact that they are maybe not quite human, and they shouldn't be given a second or third or 4th thought. ALL of this has always been a real esteem booster, when it happens, but i dont ever know what to do with it. It sounds nice. It sounds easy. But, I'm not a boy. I'm a very sensitive girl who HATES when people are remotely upset with her.

I am also, apparently a very slow learner.

I was nearing the point of tears from a current situation, and wanted nothing more than to just clock out and peace out on the whole night. A guy I work with stopped me and said that wasn't the best of ideas, and not to let one person ruin my time. That I was better than all that. I listened. He gave me a man hug, later... and another made me some food. It's all I needed for that few minutes, anyway. Since then, my holiday has had this weird backdrop of pure anxiety about going back to work. Last night, a friend of mine, a darling dashing baron... echoed the above sentiments with the more colourful of language choices and then said, "rise above it."

I immediately thought, eh. They're all saying the same things. but, really?! Easier said than done.

And then I wondered why it was so hard after all?

Because really, when 5 years pass, ok. 5 months pass, I'll have forgotten the details of this situation. All I'll remember are the people I wanted to be with after my shift was over.

The question really is...

WHY AM I LIVING LIKE THIS GOLDFISH BOWL IS THE WHOLE SEA?!

because it's not.

Now, I'm a firm believer of being diligent in the small things. Of remembering where you've come from and all of that. But I am very good at making ant hills feel like a mount everest in my mind. And life is hard enough without my brain's fanciful exaggerations.

You give it all you've got. If it turns out well, then... spectacular.

If it doesn't, well... on to the next one.

This is temporal.

Everything cannot be perfect.

I cannot make everyone happy.

I wish I could explain how tired I am.

I feel like I have the flu minus all the symptoms but lethargy and fatigue.

I could sleep all day without any problem. That's how hard I'm running right now.

It will be ok though.

so repeat the mantra.

This is a goldfish bowl.

This is not the whole sea.

a loan.

beats and rattles draped in thin layers of ice.
call back for returns.
call ahead if you like.
screened calls like answering telephones in the 50s.
because we crave to be found alone.
we were silly that night. foolish clumsy children.
and i should have known better, running in the cold as though immune.
but, forgot on purpose.
you, building your arsenal of ammunition.
it's whatever you make of it.
you invited me to sit here.
i declined.
and in the middle of the night it got cloudy.
and i don't remember anything i'm sure, i'm not sure why.
no one watched the pot.
just the water exploding into a boil.
the pinnacle of resistance stated calmly in your eyes.
i remember the change. the slow merge to something else. from fondness to strength.
but a mean strength. a brute strength. no longer wooing just possessing.
and in that moment where i should've been set alight, i went out.
i checked out.
the pulse shifted… the vacant sign illuminated.
you never knew the difference.
i'd forgotten him.
i'd forgotten you.
i was alone.
i left you there with my body and conversations and hovered above the shame of your tears falling all around that place.
left you to cover up what wouldn't be undone.
on my heel turned and breathed a sigh of relief.
and sang a knowing song that you'd hear when all alone.
you've lost.
i'm gone.
i'm gone.
i'm gone.

ground control to major tom.

featuring tom. someone who will probably always be dear to my heart.

so proud.

no sense in crying when you chose it.

you know those things you see coming a million miles away, but you think you'll try it once more to see if it turns out differently?

like getting cocky after a couple of wins.

you let your guard down.

the sky isn't quite dark enough, reflecting all those lights.

all those lights drawing us from our beds into the night.

convincing us we need something til we're blinded to stars and comets and constellations.

i dont even remember the last time i looked up beyond the trees.

hope lifts your head up to connect the dots.

or disconnect.

and i saw that it could mean all that much more and absolutely nothing.

that either we are dust and flaming stars or creations.

i have faltered and am careful and care less.

it's like anyplace this asylum of thoughts.... like anyplace new. anyplace off the beaten path, that looks a bit more or less interesting. seems a bit more dangerous. comes off a bit more insane. you know? one of those.

but it's all the same.

and i'm bored with the same outcome.

it doesn't even hurt anymore. calloused hands grab hold. and yeah, i'm tired. who wouldn't be. but it won't kill me, will it. maybe like cigarettes it kills slow. point is, it's just boring. the same thickheaded self-centered characters entering and exiting. they're good for nothing but background noise and movement. not even worth a mention as the assistant to the grip-boy in the closing credits. and i have become like them. in a headlock. defacing their value in order not to feel too sad.

it is sad.

but you get used to it.

and i'd much rather watch a comedy.

short end of the stick. courtesy of me. [decision making. or not.]

it seems i keep selling myself short. over and over and over and over.

what happens is i dont believe that ____ or ____ will ever happen to me. that this person or that person will ever notice i am alive. and sure. sometimes these things happen. the point is, that to rid myself of all chances of disappointment, i convince myself that everything is possible for everyone but me. on most things. this is dumb. but true.

it's also what happens when life deals out the stupidest deck of cards everrrr.

at least it feels that way.

maybe it's the best deck ever.

maybe i'll win bigstyle one day.

maybe i never will.

ok but this isn't about go fish or black jack or anything.

this is the sort of blog entry i'll write... read tomorrow... consider deletion... and go back and read again and again, as though someone else wrote it. and maybe someday i'll listen.

i am an incredible girl.

i didn't say perfect.

just incredible.

i didn't say any of the ridiculous fleeting attributes we hang on to it, like christmas tree ornamentation.

i spend far too much time trying to convince people of what they already know or what they already should know.

rather than convincing myself.

and so, if you are a man in my world, know this...

i dont care what's in your bank account. i don't care what your comfy cushy plan is. you have a passion? excellent. you want someone to do this life adventure with? awesome. want that to be me? come get it.

but this is no lotto jackpot. i am not some awesome deal... a happy hour special or even on sale. not damaged goods. more like a luxury model. i am a priceless jewel or a one-of-a-kind-classic-painter's-world-renowned-MASTERPIECE. the kind men would sail the seven seas and slit throats and risk their lives for... the kind of thing the best of the best of the bad guys get involved in some grand heist over. it's an overpriced item. i'm worth it. (thanks loreal.) i am no damsel in distress. i am no princess-brat laying on 20 mattresses being bruised by a pea. i am a world of wonderful things. incredibly strong. incredibly fragile. the wonder of being a woman and the beauty of a woman, is not in and of simply being a female who is alluring or whatever. it's remaining tender in a world that is bent on hardening you. it's remaining strong in a world that praises superficial strength. it's remaining beautiful with a beauty that explodes from within, in a world that adores a fleeting photoshopped perfection. a girl at rest in the eye of a hurricane, inviting others to hide beneath her wings, and yet who is able to take refuge under other wings of safety herself. a partner in crime. a lover. a nurturer. fiercely loyal. childlike...

but grace. full of grace.

a grace and a love not her own.

and seeking to be filled to overflowing with it.

that, and laughter.

i know what i want.

i know what i need.

i know who i am.

in part. all in part.

and the one who recognizes all these things and then some, even better than i...

the one who finds me, whom his soul will love and he will not let me go...

the one who sets me as a seal upon his heart

that's the one i'll choose.

winter romances.

imagine.

and i'll ponder all these little things in my heart.

open letter to my friends.

dear ___________,

i need you.

i don't know how else to say it.

i don't know how else to properly word it.

i don't even know what that looks like... except could we sometimes just get out of the house and be together for a bit? even for coffee or hot chocolates or tea or window shopping or a movie or food or dancing or walking through a park or...

i'm not ok. i've expressed it. you can't fix it. i just need company.

love,

nitasha

why, oh, why do you keep me away?

I remember sittin' up in my room, very much like the Brandy song. I must've been 15 or so. I had Travis's "The Man Who" on a tape quite literally imported from a friend in London. There was also this Lighthouse Family record that made me want to vomit on cue. I've never understood why the English had this affinity with that group. And, I'm sure they're the loveliest bunch of humans, but really their tunes make my skin crawl. It would be a great torture method for me. That and Natalie Merchant. But, I don't work for NME and this isn't about my ripping defenseless artists a new one.

I went to a private Christian school. Always things to do. Something to study for. Music to practice, some place to be. But, in between, I could be found laying on my bed exploring these new caverns of my mind while Radiohead's "The Bends" played over and over and over and over. That and OK Computer. I used to get lost in all of these albums and the worlds they'd help create in my head. I'd steal away there as often as I could... and make my own words into rhymes. I'd pretend to be someone else. Some glamourous person in love and with friends. In just a moment, this will break and this will start happening. I used to think that over and over to myself all of the time. At school, I was never asked on a date. Ever. I invited an underclassman to our 'extravaganza'-cum-prom, and went solo my senior year. I always had a lot of friends, as I found myself blending along the edges of all sorts of different social circles and scenes. But, I was never part of one thing. Except my friends in England. I was part of their world somehow. In some distant and yet wonderfully close way, I was this exciting novelty that never seemed to wear off. They were mine. I was theirs. Whatever I wanted to be in my head, I was something close to that in actuality to them.

It's nice to say that nothing has changed.

Or is it?

If I need someone... and that person to respond quickly... if I need to be encouraged... if I am in any kind of need at all, I pick up my phone, get on skype... any means of conversing... and one of them from across the sea will jump to my rescue. Almost every. single. time.

I feel lonely in a city full to overflowing with so many friends.

I feel like a stranger in my house.

I miss the proximity of family.

And I ache for home.

A home I cannot get to.

Damn immigration.

And so...

This is just to say that I miss you, friends in England.

This is just to say I love you.

This is just to say that I'm sorry I take you for granted, if it ever seems that I do.

Because ever since I can remember, all I've ever really wanted is a place that I know that I belong. Why am i kept away?

The Bends is playing as I write this.

And it warms me and makes me sad to know everything and nothing has changed.

There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.

he dreams of saving me

and everyone is thinking that he might

but know your enemy,

cos i will be on both sides of the fight

he says, "Darling, trust in me. I'll be what they were not."

i said, "i know.

My body will become your house,

and one day you'll forget to come back home."

I'm always mapping out the exits

and the fastest ways to go

Regardless of the way I play,

the same old ghost is running this old show.

I begged him just to let me be.

He just reminded me that life's not fair.

He waited til I loosed my grip,

Then sent me sailing down all of these stairs.

youngfellas. [and other random thoughts]

I kind of always forget where I am when I'm working there... it's the complete polar opposite of the southern style place where I wait tables.I read something once in one of those ridiculous books that supposedly can tell all about a person by their birth date. One bit of it rang true, and that was something to do with the fact that I'm creative... always getting lost in these imaginings in my head. It can be a good thing, sometimes this irrepressible talent for daydreaming.

Anyway, I feel like I'm in a big city... maybe New York. That would make a lot of sense. It's cold out, and everytime the doors open, I welcome curious faces, confident faces, familiar faces, regular faces... and a blustery burst of cold air they bring with them. It's impossible to smile at one and not the other. So out of route I think I start smiling at the cold. It doesn't feel so festive, though it's lit up like a Christmas cave. It's got that arms length comfort of a big city. And yet, the smiles and the tender tones of speaking give away that we're south of the mason dixon, and you find yourself a bit more at ease. It's a busy little place filled with conversation... Until the kitchen gets it's fires going... The boys start yelling. Those Italian boys. And I keep stealing glances...

This is the part where things get fuzzy. It only helps to embellish my wandering thoughts when the owners walk past. They own the role and speak in New York tongues. I am teleported instantly. And somehow, I feel closer to home. The thrill of excitement that if I step out of these doors, I'll be dwarfed by skyscrapers and swallowed by lights. Cars turn to hasty taxis. And the quiet retreats into swells of conversations all rolling over each other like waves and undercurrents. Inside, I'm adjusting to and getting acquainted with the girls with loud laughs, deep husky voices and starry young eyes... but I'm never sure whether I'll meet the inside of their sarcastic jokes or their cold shoulders. Probably why I tend to retreat to this torrent of thought. The other men are warm. Just warm smiles. Even in the midst of a rush of tables and a check list of a thousand things and steps of service, they will emerge from their tunnel vision, if only for a second... like a submarine surfacing, just to smile at you. A smile that changes the whole demeanor of the room. I like these boys. Most of the girls are hard... lacking a certain softness. And I wonder if it's because this supposed city of hospitality has made them that way... or if they're all transplants from other cities that have bred other girls as such... I wonder at their protective armour as they walk from place to place as though they own the room. Thing is, not many of them are at ease. But, I think it's something only a girl could notice. I wonder if boys notice. I should ask them.

Nevermind, I'm too nervous to ask much of anything... I'm like a child distracted by the first visit to the circus or a carnival. Wide-eyed wonder at the simplest of things... because you aren't exactly looking at just a carousel or carnival lights, but you're immersing yourself into a story... a magical one in which it makes sense. The normal everyday outside of a mall parking lot dissipates, and a world of wonder unfolds. Too much, I think... perhaps I've made a mountain of a molehill here. Nevertheless, I am nervous, and a I am a little starstruck.

I'm the new girl in school trying very hard to make the grade... wanting very much for the other girls to like me. But mostly, stealing little glances over my shoulder at these riotous boys in the class. Er, kitchen.

Imagine a family where the men in the family tree go something like this. Frank Sinatra

is the father of two sons that look like Al Pacino and Andy Garcia...

And these brothers have a few sons... that all work together. Bantering cousins/brothers. Got it? Well, these are the boys in question that have caught my eye... in fact, they keep catching it. My behaviour is elementary. I'm absolutely delighted by them and smiling a bit too much when one of them pays me a bit more attention. By that, I mean, when one speaks to me. I laugh heartily at their jokes and their antics and their ridiculous songs and voices. I am a smitten little kitten. And I probably won't do a thing about it... and neither will they. But I like the look of those boys... and I wish they'd notice I was alive. sigh and cue some broadway musical song.

I do like the way the older gentleman has taken me under his wing. He's like a protective grandpa. I like his stories. I like his accent. I like it when he's working, because even if wires get crossed, I'm his baby girl, as he says. He's quite convincing. He wears suits. He's always so smart looking. (Smart here, being the english term... dapper, perhaps? ok.) He reminds me of someone that would be in a cartoon. His face is expressive. He's equal parts professional and warmth. And I can deal with all of that. I like being protected and looked after, even when I'm perfectly capable of handling something. I've craved that sense of security my whole life... which is maybe why all this oscillation and unsteadiness and all of these inconstant variables are wearing me out. especially relational ones. because when relational consistency is there, the other constant changes feel more like adventure. but when everything is unstable and hope is the thing with feathers evading your grasp, and you wake up with an elephant on your chest every morning, it leaves this unshakable fragile feeling.

I still daydream of being found the loveliest girl in the room... of being won over by one of the handsome ones. Of some fantastic love story unraveling and weaving itself into reality, until it's part of my fabric. It's these little moments of respite that get me through the mundane bits of being a working girl... and then I remember I work with a stunning redhead, and a model that's been on one of those america's next top model spinoff shows, and a gaggle of other sweet young things. HAH!

And on that note, I'll laugh it off as folly and foolishness to amuse you with and say goodnight.

sylvia plath.

"I had imagined a kind, ugly intuitive man looking up and saying "Ah!" in an encouraging way, as if he could see something I couldn't, and then I would find words to tell him how I was so scared, as if I were being stuffed farther and farther into a black, airless sack with no way out. Then he would lean back in his chair and match the tips of his fingers together in a little steeple and tell me why I couldn't sleep and why I couldn't read and why I couldn't eat and why everything people did seemed so silly, because they only died in the end.

And then, I thought, he would help me, step by step, to be myself again."

- Sylvia Plath from 'The Bell Jar'

I feel like she wrote me in a matter of sentences.

It explains absolutely everything.

i gotta bring you back to life. you and your heart. your heavy heart.

so proud of these boys.

been dancing around my room all morning to this.

again.