Cat Ears & Coffee: Writing

Contentment

Today during my lunch break, I cried in my best friend's car. I also cried Friday night to my friends on the way home from a great show in Detroit. I cry a lot. Ninety-Nine percent of the time it is due to anxiety, but it also one of my many flaws.

I am an idealist, I have these great, big ideas and theories that I am so very convinced will work out perfectly if I just put a lot of energy and enthusiasm into them, and I do. However, when things don't work out the way that I pictured them in my head, I am so easily crushed. I then convince myself that I didn't try hard enough, or that there is another way that I haven't tried yet, or I just wasn't in the right mindset. So I try again, and again, and again. Sometimes it works out, but other times it is another story. An idealistic, hopeless romantic with enough energy to give the energizer bunny a run for his money? Sure sounds great, but what happens when I finally exhaust every option there is (often ignoring blatant warnings from loved ones)? I get crushed. I go completely numb, because I can no longer tell what is reality, and what isn't.

The biggest issue here is that no matter how bad the situation is, there is always a little bit of good. The good always outshines the bad in my eyes, and that has lead me into so much heartache. Even to the point of being friends with toxic people that I can no longer help, because the good memories with them always outweigh the bad.

Earlier this week I decided to focus on one of the good memories, because those are things I can keep. The situations, the people, I need to let go of.

Contentment

Warm, toasted socks on chilled feet

Hot, strong coffee in the grey haze

Are the kisses on my forehead that break away the clouded noise, and leave fresh cotton sheets of white pages in my mind.

An outdoor house cat in a lap, curled up and facing inwards. My heart isn’t pulled, it’s held through the skunk-smoke, the flicker of light from the TV, and the persistent chill of the cave. Silently purring.

Inhaling all of the familiar scents that I just can’t placate, and I am home. A favorite blanket around my arms and waist, softly brushing the wisps of hair that grow on my temples.

Giggles, hearty laughs, and content sighs are the rings around my planet. Another world, where time seems irrelevant, though it always seems to move faster when everything else has paused.

Enthusiasm is never quite quelled. Whether the lids to my very being are open or closed, it’s always pools of dark brown reflecting blue.

Inhaling comfort, exhaling contentment. I am invulnerable.

(Posting from quite possibly the messiest desk in Ferndale) happy Wednesday!

6:18 PM
4 Comments

November Impression

Life

10:24 AM
10 Comments

Warm Morning In July

Life

I wrote this little blurb out and posted it on Facebook back in July, and although I never bothered to edit it, I thought I would share it on the blog. I never gave it a title, and I don't really have any further plans for it, but since this blog is a scrap-book of sorts, I feel that it is okay to add this little writing exercise in. I wrote this on a humid Saturday morning at work when I was supposed to be catching up, but for some reason could not stop narrating everything that I was doing that day. I was training myself to be more appreciative of the present, and this was the result.

Warm Morning In July

It’s barely 7 am and the warm air in the warehouse has seeped through into the office. Still, I sip from my steaming mug of coffee, a small but much needed comfort as I continue the mindless task of entering driver logs so early on a Saturday when I would normally be sleeping in. The soft denim of my overalls are a warm hug on my legs, and despite the heat, I am grateful for these small comforts. Hot coffee, soft jeans, and enormous pink headphones to drown out the sound of the hi-lows and fill my mind with music videos that were never made.

On days like this I tend to be more selective with my music choices, and The Relationship is soothing. Brian Bell tells me that he sees beauty in the things I do wrong, and I wonder if he has ever covered Elvis Costello. “Radio Sweetheart”.

Popping the headphones off, I take a quick walk to the garage to pick up more logs. The large, old fan dangling from the ceiling blows warm air around, and causes the fine strands of hair on my head to tingle along my scalp. On my way back to the office, I see my comrades for the morning going about their business. Paul is enamored in a text message, clicking away almost-frantically, the hi-lo beside him on idle. Mark is rubbing the sleep from his eyes and headed towards the lunchroom with an empty coffee mug, neither of them taking notice of me. My converse are quiet against the warehouse floor as I walk away, and I wonder if this is what a super power feels like. I am in this moment, invisible.

Back at my desk, the air in the office is getting warmer. I top off my coffee, and the stack of logs is daunting, but I don’t mind. For the very first time in weeks, I don’t think of what I have to do later today. Faces of loved ones flicker across my mind, and for once I don’t wonder when I’ll see them next. This is a practice of living in the present, a difficult feat for an anxiety-ridden female who dwells on the mistakes of her past, and the uncertainty of her future. I am slowly acknowledging that living in the present is too like a super power, as I become hyper-aware of my surroundings. The clapping noise as a pallet hits the warehouse floor, the growls escaping the coffee pot beside the printer, the soft hum of my mini desk fan, and the scent of sweet pea of the lotion on my hands whisking up my nose as I push the bridge of my glasses back into place with my index finger.

I search my mind to placate what I am actually feeling in this moment, and it is an unexpected blanket of contentment. Hot coffee, warm jeans, and yet I feel almost intangible. Super powers. Simple things, boring things, are what my life is made up of in these quiet moments of self-awareness, and they are much appreciated for once.

I place my headphones back on, they cushion my ears as the Decemberists truly convince me to not carry it all.

3:56 PM
7 Comments

Chocolate In The Morning

Threads

If I wasn't already curvy, this outfit makes me even more so. I am not complaining, but I do feel really outside of my element here. I did not wear the heels to work, I wore flats :) But more importantly, how awesome is this case/box thing? Mariah bought two at a store for really cheap a long time ago, then realized she didn't want this and gave it to me. It is so cool! I figured since I was lacking color in this look that I had to somehow incorporate this black & white box. I really wanted to take some pics by the train tracks, but we are always on a time crunch and we had to still walk Louie.

At least my bruises are fading. Now it just looks like a don't bath instead of looking like an abuse victim. Poor Kyle kept getting dirty looks from everyone. Of course I took these right after I ate a giant dinner, so I had food-baby going on as well, but I think they came out okay. The highlight of the evening is that I rediscovered my Cyndy Lauper record that Kyle bought for me last time we were at the salvation army. He came home and said "Who the hell is this? It sounds like f*cking Cyndy Lauper!" At which point I started cracking up at his bewilderment.

The last two are a little deer in the headlights, but Kyle liked them so I suppose they can stay....Anywho, hows about a poem guys? It's been awhile :)

Chocolate in the morning

By Sara Astley

Grey haze of awareness-so early it's a secret.

I hush down the hallway into

an ebony-inspired domain-too black

for a reflection.

Long lines and sighs clothe my mind and my awakened

eyes are thrilled

by the fuzzy-conscious shadows shaped around my feet.

Interrupted by my own movements, when

Hazelnut is calling.

Hard-fake wood

never felt so good, bracing my back so early.

A glimpse of star-spangled mish-

mash upon my

Moon-caked lids, are reflections of small-times

of uninterrupted purity.

I think this is the only one that I really like :P

Details:

Pajama romper (worn as a top),necklace, headband, belt & skirt-F21

Shoes-Payless

10:58 AM
30 Comments

Thermodynamic

Threads

12:07 PM
28 Comments

Solitude

Threads

12:00 PM
18 Comments

Hand Me MyLeather

Threads

The mission and the mishap

It was really a tradition
Committed by comrades
But then the others new
And so the game spread

Usually on a half-day
With sugar on the brain
Or late at night
In a borrowed car

Completely illegal
Innocent fun
Festive decoration
Completely true

We piled it all in
Little stacks in the trunk
Tonya sat on top
Jamie turned the flash off

Cones on top of the roof
And barrels up the drive
Tapes along the fence
(But dressed accordingly)

The passers cringed, and laughed
The mail woman thought us sweet
Well the house was orange
A birthday cake beacon

Then we drove down
And turned off the lights
Stifled the giggles
The pound in the throat

When suddenly he came
And it was about time
It was almost black
But the house stayed bright

And then the shock
And then the stare
And then the mutter
The hyenas let loose

“Mr. Steadman, you live here?”
The color the same
The occupancy on the lawn
The little doggie gate

How could we be wrong?
He let the dog in, “clink”
Then glanced down the street
At our work, our defeat

We ran out of the car
Our feet like lead or bricks
And we apologized profusely
His neighbors would hate him

The poem today is another experiment. I took a story from high school, an extremely amusing one and tried to create a poem from it. When I was on the cross-country team, we had this "tradition" of late-night 'coneing'. Which was to steal all the construction cones from nearby sites and then decorate each others house with them. One night, two girls from the team and I, coned everyone's house but the coach. So a few days later, some classmates and I attempted to get his house. We had it decked, it was the holy-grail of coned houses, and then we realized, when he got home, that it was the wrong house. I submitted it last week so I should be getting some feedback today.

Update on the car situation: I might be going to Chicago with Kyle and the fam to pick up the van for my mom. My dad is still working out a few kinks with "pinky", but my mom is putting tabs on her today (I owe them lots).

The outfit post today is based upon this awesome vintage leather jacket my mom gave me. It needs a button sewn on and I need to patch a few tears in the sleeves, but other than that it simply rocks. I used to steal it in high school all of the time, I was the only one with an older then hell red leather coat, it stood out a bit, but I loved it :)

Details:

leather coat-Mom's

dress & belt-F21

shirt & tights-Target

boots-sears

To-do list:

Finish Homework

Clean apartment

~~Mail postcards~~

~~Finish Poem~~

Buy Groceries

11:55 AM
12 Comments

Holes

Threads

8:48 AM
14 Comments

Me, And My Mind In A Minute

Writing

Today's poem is very random, but that is what I like about it. I don't feel the need to explain all the poems that I write, however this one I feel i should give a little backround on how this poem came to be. It is a very simple poem, it is about me, basically. If you have ever been in the situation, where somone askes you to tell them about yourselves, and especially in this day and age where we have Facebook and Blogs and whatever else that let's us tell the entire world wide web about ourselves, what exactly do you say? I mean, where do you start and stop? what is enough information, what is too much? I can agree most people have enough common sense to know this already, however, do you ever find yourself rambling on about insignificant details? Maybe when meeting someone new, or at a job interview? Or perhaps when you are filling out information on said facebook or myspace? Is is just me? lol. I also tend to jump around a lot, from subject to subject, as if my mouth and my mind don't match up. Anywho, that is how this poem was created. I think that was the biggest explanation for the most obvious poem I have ever written. :P

Me, and my mind in a minute.

Me, and my mind in a minute

Old clothes, but clean clothes

And cheap new ones

And shower caps-twice a week

Or it will die, but it is dye

(my artificial intelligence)

But real eyes like my fathers

And a real voice like my mothers

Not my mothers

My brothers

Gramps calls “Hullo Mark!”

“It’s Sara…the oldest….and the girl.”

Oh and no heels, just flats

Or else I’ll go down on my ass

And peanut butter or cheese dip

(I’m hypoglycemic)

And too much pizza, size 4 is a phantom

And horrible with a glue gun

So my purse is nailed shut

…trail off a lot…space cadet…

No smoking please, I’m not done yet

My favorite is purple

But I’ll wear mostly blue (real eyes, my fathers)

And no nails, I eat them for breakfast

Not really, but

Coffee

And pop tarts (strawberry)

And I’ll marry Jimmy Stewart, in 1939

In the fall, because that’s best

Or is it autumn?

No more tears

Because they got rusty-except when my car dies

Like my hair

And a kidney stone

Damn coffee.

To-do list:

Keep the apartment clean

Read short-stories from Alex

~~finish new poem~~

Pick out poem for close reading

Deposit check

Finish this week's homework

Trim bangs

Write Jessica

~~Buy food~~

5:07 PM
3 Comments

Firsty

Writing

So, here is my first blog post, woot! Let it be known that I love to write. Here is something very recent I wrote (only a second draft) about my car. I have a 1994 Mercury Topaz, it is Awesome. Words cannot describe it, but I tried anyway. Enjoy!

“Ode to the Tospaz”
By: Sara Astley

Scooting along with the heavy Rochester traffic, I take a break from my ~~horrific~~ personal Steve Perry impression to glance around at the surrounding vehicles and their passengers. The slow pause in my car-karaoke comes to a screeching halt. “Belieeeeevinggggg” dies in my throat as my face flushes fuchsia, a result of the shocked-and-appalled looks I receive from the other drivers. The multiples of turned-up noses, wrinkled foreheads, and cold stares has my hand looking for the electronic button to your 15-year-old window when I suddenly take-in that it’s 88 degrees outside. 88 degrees and no one else’s windows are down. That is because their infant cars are born equipped with air-conditioning. My embarrassed flush turns into an offended glare as I pat your corroded steering wheel and coo to you as if you were my pet.

So maybe you do not have working A/C, Maybe you always have to let me know that I need to service my engine soon, That I should gas up at half-tank, that I have no clue what your miles really are because your odometer stopped working three years ago. Your left turn signal operates at random, the hairline crack in your windshield has spawned children, there was until recently cardboard covering holes in your floorboards. You hate your battery. You tell me this by trying to eat it, you think locks are for BMW’s, and you prefer to be held together with hangers and soup cans.

I know this because you tell me. You tell me not to spend my precious money to fix you, because when I do repair even the most minor thing, you respond to me by breaking something else. Because who needs working brakes when the slightest push on the pedal produces the loudest, screechiest dying-animal sound imaginable and any nearby driver floors it out of your way! Even when your engine makes a noise not unlike a death-rattle, and even when you leave little “presents” on my friend's and family's driveways by piddling transmission fluid and oil in neat little droplets.

Who needs an IPOD or a CD player when a cassette player is antique! Or a sparkly new paint job when your hood has that classic “faded” look? Or a car-alarm to search for you in a crowded lot when your Eeyore antenna and bumper stickers is a beacon, standing out from the others like the Holy Grail!

We pitter-patter along until we get to our destination. I park, gather up my belongings, and turn off your engine. Your headlights dim slowly, like a child fighting off sleep. I exit through the door, half-choking on your seat belt that slaps my face, and close the door safely behind me. I watch the other drivers turn behind them to click their hand remotes, locking up their cars behind them with barely a glance. I turn, to give you a grateful half-smile for the safe journey. Your seat belt-tongue is hanging out the door at the bottom, like you're sticking it out at the other cars as you snooze. I roll my eyes and head to class.

10:30 PM
0 Comments

Outfits

Contentment

November Impression

Warm Morning In July

Chocolate In The Morning

Thermodynamic

Solitude

Hand Me MyLeather

Holes

Me, And My Mind In A Minute

Firsty

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