A Letter About the Weather and Whether or Not

Dear Person Locked Away,

To you, I would like to write a letter every day, as I know all too well what it is like to be locked away, and held captive of only what your thoughts will allow, and of the people locked away with you, and to wait apprehensively for who might visit you during visiting hours. You were once a visitor of mine, as I was trapped inside my mind, and I only wish to repay the kind favor.

One always begins a letter writing about the weather, as the weather is an easy conversation to have. One always cares about the weather, as it affects us greatly. It gives shape to the clothes that hang in our closet that we select from each day of the year, to wear. It gives worry to moving day, should rain be in the forecast. It gives great joy to planned outdoor activities, should it be a compliment to what you have in store. It can greatly enhance an evening out under the stars, should it be a pleasant temperature, little wind, and clear skies. When people are talking about their days off; should the forecast call for inclement weather, they make statements about “It would be crappy weather on my days off,” and they celebrate; should it be fantastic weather. I tend to never care to look up the weather, and I remember many times at being surprised by it, but never the less it always is drifting in and out of my mind, as there is always some reaction as I step out into the elements. It can cause happiness and joy and a good time done better! It can create anger, as well as destruction to a day, to a life, to a home, to a city. Oh, the weather and it great effect!

The weather is warm here today, yet there is a heavy, cold dampness that clings to me as I walk through the parking garage. It could be entirely pleasant, given the warm weather, but instead, it reminds me of the winter that, although it barely came, has just given way to spring. And can we call it spring, given the quickly rising temperatures? The trees are still bare, and the grass is still smashed, brown in color, and dirty and littered.  My indoor plant has finally died, given the lack of outdoor sunshine time. Oh, what kind of summer are we in for? The radio shows wonder this out loud, as to just how hot will it get. Will we have several dozen days scattered through the summer of 100 degree plus days? I now question greatly our choice in moving into an apartment at the start of April that lacks an air conditioner. This is Minnesota after all; hot, humid summers, and I don’t own a boat, so my summers aren’t entirely spent to the maximum capacity of enjoying the moist air, and plethora of lakes. In addition, my choice of purchasing a car five years ago that has leather seats, and no tinted windows, only adds to great pains in the summertime. (This is also not helpful in the winter months). Why the hell do they sell cars with leather in such a state as this?

Well enough about the weather; shall we talk about whether?

I most often worry about the “whether or not” of all things. Currently I am stuck trying to make this decision as to whether or not I continue on with this blog, or decide to pack some more boxes, or to go to bed for the day. Earlier I had to decide whether or not I picked up breakfast from a fast place of options, or come home and eat the only food I have, oatmeal bread with peanut butter spread on top. I chose the peanut butter bread, and now wish I had stopped and gotten myself some pancakes, instead. A whether or not done wrong. I could continue on about the whether or not, but I find it to be not nearly as exciting as talking about the weather.

Does anybody who reads my blog wonder if I only do my very best to use as many words as possible in as twisted of way as possible to create the longest sentences, to create the most amount of confusion. Well I confess this is a small amount of my ulterior motive, but mostly my thoughts occur in my head just as I write them, and it makes every moment of my day an interesting contemplation.

Today, as I was passing by on Hennepin (pause) prior to the 8am hour (pause) on this fine Sunday morning in the downtown area, (pause)  I came to witness a model doing a photo shoot (pause) right there on Hennepin in the bike lane. It was a funny thing to witness (pause) as she was in a long flowing gown (pause) unique with its patterned yellow and black circles and swirls against white (pause) strutting up and down a dirty street (pause) which had yet to be tidied up from the marvelous St. Patrick’s Day celebration of yesterday. The sky was overcast (pause) and the scene of the photo shoot looked quite desolate (pause) as very little traffic roamed about at that early hour of the morning. She was giving her best walk (pause) and her sexiest daring looks to the little wind blown man that hid behind the camera. It was amusing never the less. Wow!, someone invent the comma already!

I am a prompt packer, and I have packed away the humidifier, without all it parts intact, and packed away the cd case, without paying attention to the cd’s still laying out and about. I should not tape things up so quickly. When I moved last time, I left the house with what I thought were all of my belongings, and with my great attention to cooking, didn’t realize until 2 weeks later, that I had left all my pots and pans in the drawer under the stove. And I didn’t even realize it, except for the new tenants of my old place called to ask if I was giving them my pots. I only wonder how long it would have actually taken me to realize I was without these all important kitchen necessities. Well necessities to other people. And why pots and pans? Which are the pots and which are the pans? Neither word seems to sum them up all that nicely. I think really; I know what a pot is, but is a skillet a pan? A cook such as myself ought to know. “Hand me that pan,” makes me want to giggle.

Well, I find the day to be entirely too short, the weather to be warm, cloudy, and great for sleeping. I have therefore decided that whether or not, the day would be a waste, should I not get something done, before I return to my bed for another day of dreams.

May your day be well read, without the greatest grammar, but with a fantastic amount of inquisitive thought. Until next time…

Of Wherabouts and Roundabouts

Wow. It’s been a while. Whereabouts have I been since I last wrote a blog. Well the people of which I spoke of in my last blog have departed the company of our company, and now are in the company of other companies and company. And mostly I feel this is a good thing because meeting new people always gives you good stories to tell, but mostly if only these new people come with an assortment of people who don’t have boundaries. I am a person without boundaries, and mostly I feel people say in their head, of those who hear me speak, think “Wow, did she really just share that?!?” but then they follow it up with that “in your head” smile you only smile when someone has shared something embarrassing, and then someone on a radio show will think, let’s ask the audience who has a great story to tell about someone who doesn’t have boundaries. And mostly people will call in and say they had a co-worker tell them about their hemorrhoids and how much they bleed and hurt, and there really won’t be any good stories. But come on people, turn on your TV’s. If I’m not doing it (not having boundaries), some actors are acting it out. Then again their getting paid and I’m not.

So one time I had this older guy named art who admired me. He would come into my fast place of work, and pretend to read a newspaper, all the while peeking over the top of his newspaper at me. Well, me, being a person who is of a great deal of interest, doesn’t generally notice when someone is noticing me. Co-workers would point out art admiring my details. Well I wasn’t very flattered, as this art, was kind of bland and lacked fine lines. Well one day art came up to the counter and dared to get my attention, and slid a folded up letter across the way to me. Well being full of secrets myself, I waited until the end of my shift to read this “letter.” I don’t remember too much of it, really only one thing in general; he was indicating he was in love with me, that he had a fireplace, and he would like me to be present sometime to sit in front of the fireplace with him on any given cold winter day, preferably with the snow falling gently down; (yet in a little bit of a hurry) to fill up the ground and overflow, and cause me to be snowed in with him. Picture perfect art. Well I was a young adult at this time, not quite right with the ways of the world and I once sat and talked to art after work, and he came to know of the vehicle I drove and he saw me drive by him one day (an unknown error on my part) and art followed me to my residence, and knocked on my door. Imagine my horror when a knock on the door was met with awful art being just on the other side. So I moved to another state. And now I only have art on my walls, but actually sitting on my floor, as I am too lazy to hang it up.

And just yesterday, the alignment of the planets must have been slightly off, because as I was leaving work, I came across someone backing up, a fair ways, on a one way street. But to continue, as I was driving down the highway, someone, who had to have been distracted, took a nice nosedive off of the exit ramp and was facing backwards into traffic at the bottom of the hill. And then just a little ways up, a patrol car was slowing creeping along behind a guy who was stumbling along the highway. His whereabouts seemed questionable and he was nowhere near any roundabouts of the sort that might indicate his confused state of mind. Needless to say I made it home without incident although I thought for certain all these were signs that my car and I were doomed for some terrible adventure of remodeling of some sort.

Small side note: I am a cautious optimistic, very cautious similar to the way one is cautious about lighting a candle in a place that smells like rotten eggs, and that has a gas burning stove, (on).

And I remember with great detail how I so loved the idea of the ecosystem when I was first introduced to it in Science class. The Science teacher told me that because of the ecosystem, all things; microorganisms, bugs of all sorts, rodents, lions, mountain goats, and the birds high in the sky all belonged together and completed one another. What a fantastic story! The story was complete with this wonderful illustration in the book that showed a beautiful forest picture with this roundabout circle coming out of the earth and around all the way up to the sky and back down to the ground, and decorated with pretty pictures of different creatures. The eagle at the top really did it for me. I try to tell myself this story each time I come across a spider in my place of residence. But most recently, in the last decade, I came across these horrible awful bugs called House centipedes. And much to my great dissatisfaction, when I tried to Google what this bug could possibly be, after my first encounter, (of it being in a glass in which I tried to drink water), I was most discouraged at this creatures general whereabouts, as they were calling it a HOUSE centipede. What part of the damn ecosystem does this creature have to do with? Ok so it eats bugs, but I can think of a few other more pleasant bugs which eat bugs. And now my house is part of the ecosystem?!? That wasn’t part of the illustration! To continue, I can think of about a 1,000 more creatures that the ecosystem would do just fine without.

Well to my faithful followers, (you know who you are; me not so much as no one leave comments) this is actually a blog which I find to be short on creative ideas; and…I find myself departing. I feel most certain there is still more positive to occur today. I am after all going to return once again to my bed for the 3^rd time this week, given that I consider the start of the week to be Saturday, and my bed is a wonderful place to find sleep at.

another letter to a person of interest

Dear Person of Interest,

You know I’m not particularly fond of pedestrians. They are these funny, in a bad way, kind of people who walk about on streets and sidewalks, and they go when they shouldn’t and they drive real slow in the narrow passages of the skyway, where you can’t pass them because of oncoming “other” pedestrians. And are you a pedestrian only when you are outside, and crossing a street, or can you be a pedestrian in a crowded hallway, or in the bike only path? I mean don’t you only become a pedestrian when you get in the way of someone who is a hurry to get to their destination, whether they are on foot, or bike, or are in their car, and you are the cause of what they consider an unnecessary yielding to your way?

And I find it a bit maddening, that if today, I decided to put “find some money” on my “to do” list, that I could look under my chair cushion, on the floorboards of my car, on the sidewalk, and in the lawn, and even at the bottom of the pen holder, and I would find a penny or two, or three. However, I will not find the money I desire to find (and that would be most helpful) such as a fat wad of bundled together 20’s. Damn those conveniently located pennies for taking over the “Here I am! Money!,” world. I feel if they got out of the way, that perhaps dollar bills could fill the void. Although there was one time that I had parked in the parking garage for overnight parking which was going to cost my $5 dollars, and at the time of leaving work to head to my car, I realized I had forgotten my wallet at home and therefore, had nothing to pay for the parking of my car. I then happened to look to my left at a shelf un-thought of at work, and there was, five $1 dollar bills on the shelf. Well I figured that if I were to ask around as to who it belonged too, and went to hand it back, but then asked “Do you by any chance have $5 dollars I can borrow to pay for my parking?” they couldn’t lie to me and say no, cuz then I would hide the money between my fingers and make it look like I did a magic trick and made their money disappear, so I lent myself the money.

And one time, I found $500 dollars in a room I had to clean at my place of work at that time. And no, it was not left as a tip. It was left in an envelope where just the teeny tiny bit of the corner of the envelope was sticking out from a tray the coffee maker sat upon. When the money finally was turned over to me after the rightful owner never came forward, well; that was about the time that I started adding the additional caramel drizzle to my Starbucks morning chai tea, for an additional 60 cents. Disposable income is amazing.

And normally I am not the traffic controller.

Well let discuss what is enough. He says “I just want to hear you say to me “You are enough for me.” To which in my head I reply, enough, is similar to the word “snuff,” which implies, putting out and smashing violently to quit a process. So I say, well what is enough? Why is enough a comforting lullaby to his ears? If you are pouring me a glass of milk or dishing me up a plate of garlic mashed potatoes and you say “tell me when it’s enough,” I feel very comfortable saying, “Ok, that’s enough,” and I am quite satisfied at the result of the just the right amount of potatoes and milk to eat and drink. But in a relationship, being just the right amount of stuff is not good enough. I want you to be my everything, (but not my car, or my mom, or my job, or my walk about the park.) I want you to exceed my expectations, to disappoint from time to time, to hug me tight on a perfectly good day, to sext me when I’m feeling down, and to surprise me with a witty comment or goofy face to make me laugh every single day! But never will you get me to say with perfect harmony in my voice “You are enough.” And this I am glad about.

And finally, I wish today to say that I am terribly sad at the exiting of three very fine co-workers of mine, who wish to move to far away places across many state borders. This is my Congratulations to each of them. “Congratulations! And I say that with this odd feeling of sadness in my heart, similar to the way one might feel if they had just got a flat tire while they are on a desolate road, 50 miles from a town, where the wind is blowing the snow around, and the land is lost in a blizzard, and the temp is -33, and ironically you were the last car to pass through on the road, as the sheriff came by and shut down the road right after you crossed the border 30 miles back.”

 

And to all, Happy Holidays. May you get yourself something nice, because we all know so well, we give ourselves the greatest gifts around the holiday season!

 

Michelle

Some poems I wrote long ago.

Version One – Is this the reality of Love?

Can it be that you polish the stars just for her?

Is that you who dances on the moon every Saturday night?

And every day, is it such that you carry the sun

Across the sky upon your back just for her?

Oh blue eyes of heaven, how you adore her;

And is it such that you spin this world round just for her

Oh how your feelings run deep in the salty ocean depths

Your spirits softly treading high among the feathery clouds

Your soul ever seeking through the forest depths

Searching for her love

Searching for her soul

You know that she’s out there.

She knows that you exist as she sits quietly upon a grassy hill

To watch you paint the sunrise just for her.

And all that she wants is for you to sit beside her,

Wrap your arms around her,

And let the stars go dull.

Version 2 – But is this not the reality too?

Can it be that you polish the stars just for her?

Is that you who dances on the moon every Saturday night?

And every day, is it such that you carry the sun

Across the sky upon your back just for her?

Oh, blue eyes of heaven, how you do look into her eyes with fascination,

And is it such that you spin this world round just for her?

And now she, she had just taken you very beating, throbbing heart,

Into her delicate hands,

Dropped it,

Stomped all over it,

With a little glee,

And walked away with your heart on the bottom of her feet.

And tomorrow you’ll be up early to paint the sky with vivid colors

Of the sunrise, so that the green eyed girl with your heart on the soles of her feet,

Can see the beauty of it all

Could it be love?

And just for fun, a poem I wrote about one of my biggest fears, what it feels like to live alone and fear an intruder in the middle of the night.

I think there is a dead guy somewhere in my home,

He’s hiding in my closet, wearing my good clothes,

He sitting on my bed and writing out his grocery list,

He’s in the spare bedroom staring out the window, watching it snow,

He’s behind me in the kitchen as I’m cooking my dinner,

He’s in the bathroom combing his hair as I’m brushing my teeth,

But I live by myself,

And as each night I do the dead bolt to keep the strangers out, 

I feel his hand upon my shoulder,

As I shudder with a fright.

As I crawl into bed, he stands at my door….

I think there is a dead guy somewhere in my home.

This I fear, 

Good night.

Who Do You Find Captive in Your Thoughts?

I am a thinker. I put way to much thought into things I should not. I find myself caught up in the details of things that the average ordinary person does not think of. Do you ever look outside your driver’s side window, and think wow; I am just that close to kissing the front end of someone’s car. There is just the door there, which is RIGHT next to me, between me and a car that crosses paths with me. 

Think you have thought of every possible “worst case” scenario for any given situation. Come to me, I will help you come up quite a list of “worst case” scenario’s that will keep you up late at night. I do have some other good qualities, some of which I might mention on another day. 

So, as I always take a while to get my initial point and sometimes never quite get to the point, but find another entirely worthwhile point to discuss in the process.

No one ever talks about the people who come into their thoughts, and hold their thoughts captive for a while. We think we should only really hold captive in our thoughts our significant other, our children, and those family and friends we are closest too. We don’t talk about the people, who you secretly adore, or who you wish you could get to know better, but know for reasons outside ourselves; we will never seek that closer knowledge of that person. I have many people who come into my mind, much more then they should. I find these people are not who you think they might be, those being successful people, happy people, or people who seem to have life pretty well figured out. One can not really define the people who captivate their thoughts; however, if we were to try to explain what it is about that person, we couldn’t quite share that with anyone either. It’s a guilty pleasure we all have and never share, the way we have “secret crushes” on those we cross paths with. Certainly there are people who I only briefly crossed paths with, where their mannerisms, or short conversation we had, still comes into my mind, and I dwell on it, and savor, and enjoy the moment, again, of that person captivating my thoughts. 

And so where did this come from, perhaps only I am wondering that, and it really came from thinking about my blog, yet trying not to think of it. It came from the thought of my blog not really being about my day to day life, but about my random thoughts. It comes from a few people sharing they really enjoy my blog, which to me might indicate that sometimes I come into your head, and stay for a while, that perhaps I am an interesting enough person, to occasionally be held captive in someone’s thoughts. 

This week I am going to make the attempt to share a facebook message with the people who I secretly admire, who I secretly ponder about, and whose way they go about this life amazes me. I challenge the few who will read this to do the same, to reach out to just one person, and let them know what you admire about them, let them know how they captivate your thoughts from time to time, and have taught you a lesson about ________ (fill in the blank), or how they have impacted your life. Sure you can do it to the people you are close too, if you just don’t share these things with them often enough, but I challenge you to surprise someone who might think you never think about them! If you don’t hear from me, well, I am a procrastinator….

I Thought I Heard You Laughing

Here is a essay I wrote in my freshman year of college (which was in 1999, and yes I graduated from college in 2009!) I don't remember the assignment, only that the teacher and other people I have read this too have greatly enjoyed this essay. It is about sadly, what I would consider a story of what was a good friend to me as a child. (Confusing sentence, I know). Mind you, this essay has many errors, yet I feel like rewriting it as I wrote it then and not trying to improve it.


As a child, I hated how the cold winter months creeped by. I would stand in my bedroom, staring out the window, my forehead pressed against the cold glass, hating the cold white world outside my window. I'd gaze down the long stretch of pasture, which was our backyard, searching for my tree, which was hiding among the rows of trees down at the bottom of the pasture. I longed to be down there, sitting in my tree, to get away from my brother's loud tantrums; to get away from my mother who was always yelling at us for something; to get away from the monotony of the four walls that surrounded me. I hated the suffocation of the cold days that kept me captive inside the anger-filled house. However,, the spring and summer months always came, like the key that unlocks a cage, and I would be outside flying across the pasture like a cheetah running across an open field, ducking through the trees, dodging the tall grass, finally reaching my tree. It was the perfect climbing tree because it had a low V, which served as an excellent stepping stool up into it's heights, which held so many possibilities. 

When I was young, my tree was primarily a hiding spot from my angry mother. I was too afraid to venture very far up into the higher branches, for fear of falling. I was content sitting in my little perch six feet above the ground, letting the tree gently rock me, as the wind moved through it shaking hands with all the branches. I was pleased with myself for having found such a perfect hiding place, as I listened to my mother yelling for me up in the yard. I knew that she would never find me, and that I could keep neglecting my household chores. I felt like a secret safely kept by my tree; as I was unnoticed by the passing cars, or birds perched among the neighboring trees, or by the roaming barn cats down in the grass below. I was a secret observer of the world around me, sitting in my tree. 

As I got older, the tree meant more to me. I visited the tree more often for the silence it offered. I would climb into the highest branches, looking out over the tops of the neighboring trees, seeing my house looking so innocent, in the distance, atop the slight upward slope of the pasture. I'd let my eyes roam across the endless wheat fields that came tumbling over the tops of distant hills, like worn silk falling down in gentle folds around our land. I felt peace here. 

I visited the tree after long stressful days to cry out loud, without any human ears to hear me; only the silent staring owls, skiddish rabbits, and prowling barn cats heard me crying. I would go there on nights when the moon was full, to soothe my broken heart after being hurt by a friend. In the mild winter months, I tromped through the snow, to climb up into the naked branches, to cool my anger after a fight with a family member. I would sit there and watch the snow dancing in endless circles across the open pasture and fields, one swirl of snow chasing after another, then disappearing, only to reappear seconds later, which would go racing yet again after another circle of snowflakes.

Sitting there over the years, I thought about life, my family, my dreams, and my goals. I discovered who I was, my love for nature, animals, silence, and peace. A lot of my art and poetry was inspired as I sat there at different times of the passing seasons, seeing so many different things, thinking so many different thoughts. 

As an adult, I still visited my tree, even after I moved out. I'd drive the eight miles to spend a few minutes in my tree, to think about a problem, to relieve my stress, to feel the quiet of the day. However, as my life became more hectic, I found that I did not always have the time to take the trip out there. I missed the quiet solitude that my tree offered. I felt like a child lost without my comforting security blanket, but I knew that I had to move on with my life, that I would have to say goodbye to my loyal friend of so many years. 

On the day that I made my last visit, it was a cool autumn day, bright yellow and orange leaves were shimmering in the sun, clapping politely in the breeze. I drove the eight miles and parked along the road; climbed though the barbed wire fence into the pasture, ducked through the trees, and stood in front of my tree one more last time. I didn’t have to climb it; I could climb it inside my head, feeling the rough bark beneath my fingertips, hearing my shoes biting into the branches, seeing the view from the top. I reached out and touched the tree with my fingertips and realized that the tears were falling down my face. Through my tears, I heard myself softly say “Thank you.” Then I smiled to myself, suddenly feeling stupid crying over a dumb tree that had been here long before I was born, and that would be there for many more years to come. It was just doing its job day in and day out; standing there silently, offering up its branches to whoever might come to visit. However, for eleven years of my life it had felt my sadness, anger, pain, and hate. It had heard my cries, my questions, my fears; it had listened to my deepest troubling thoughts, my dreams, my goals, and now I shared with it my love, and for the first time ever my laughter. As I turned and walked away, a sudden breeze gently shook the branches of my silent friend, and I could almost hear the tree say, “I thought I heard you laughing.”

~And ironically, yes Shel Silverstein's book The Giving Tree, was a book, I hold dear to my heart ~

This Relationship

My mind is full of chatter. My heart is heavy with the anxiety that comes with a decision. The battle within continues. I know how I can make it stop, yet discussions keep occurring over the same topic, and he doesn't understand that there can be no good reason to take a stand on what he desires, and I have thousands, perhaps millions of reasons as to why I am right to take a stand on what I know to be completely unnecessary in a relationship, therefore, reasons to end this relationship.
How do I go about doing what I have tried over and over, yet fail at each time? How many people can be supporting me on my decision, yet I continue to disappoint them all?
If I don't find a way to follow through on leaving this relationship behind, I'm going to find myself left behind, and lost in what I once was.