gotta be dead stupid to sleep on this

It’s almost February.  A twelfth of my year has gone by, and that makes me a little bit sad.  Does it make you sad?

I decided not to write what I started writing, because I know, I know I know that poetry saves me more than once.  So again, I turn to this metaphor.  I turn to this word or phrase to save my mind.

Here’s some Rumi for your Saturday morning.

Leaves About to Let Go

This world of two gardens, both so beautiful.
This world, a street where a funeral is passing.

Let us rise together and leave this world,
as water goes bowing down itself to sea.

From gardens to the gardener,
from grieving to a wedding feast.

We tremble like leaves about to let go.
There is no avoiding pain,
or feeling exiled, or the taste of dust.

But also we have a green-winged longing
for the sweetness of the friend.

These forms are evidence of what cannot be shown.
Here is how it is to go into that:
Rain that has been leaking into the house
decides to use the downspout.

The bent bowstring straining at our throats
releases and becomes the arrow.

Mice quivering in fear of the housecat
suddenly change to half-grown lion cubs,
afraid of nothing.

So let us begin the journey home,
with love and compassion for guides,
and grace protecting.

Let your soul turn into an empty mirror
that passionately wants to reflect Joseph.
Hand him your present.

Now let silence speak.
As that begins, we will start out.

You know, for a person that is not very sure of themselves, I am very sure of things like this.  Their ability to change your train of thought and predisposition of mind.  You are no longer biased towards awkwardness and desolation and giving up.  You are reborn with every word.  Your thoughts take shape all around you when you read this.  Like some sort of high-tech new fangled 3D contraption of poetry.  I saw this digital design project from some student that attempted to chart poems in 5 dimensions or so.  It was the magnum opus of some graduating student, and it was pretty cool but it didn’t have nearly enough depth that it should have.

I guess what I have to say for today, January 30, 2010 is that I need to backtrack a little to pick some things up.  I have forgotten pieces of myself all over this world and it shows, to him it shows, and I know it shows to my family.  If anyone is to love others, they must love themselves.  And I am wracked by self-doubt every minute. It’s like, awesome, but really not.

I guess I just don’t know what I’m capable of.

But yeah, poetry is good.

So, so good.

Ciao. Arina.

Something you may not know

I like sex.  Just to, you know, throw it out there.  What’s interesting about sex though, is that I find a lot of people that are way too shy to talk of anything regarding it.  Of course I’m excluding my bar’s patrons, since well, that’s about all they talk about.  Maybe I’m biased because I don’t really talk to guys my age about it as much as I used to (I talk to girls that, when I mention sexual activity, blanch and look absolutely horrified that I mentioned something to do with nether regions – “WHAT? What’s a vagina? I don’t have a vagina.  Stop saying vagina.”), but I think it applies still.

A lot of young people are scared to talk about it, and I think it’s kind of funny.  A lot of people think it’s gross even, and that is just…. so misconstrued.  Sex is great!  It’s intimate and passionate and oh, so so yummy.

I don’t see what there is to be scared of?  Maybe if you’re a relation-phobe in general, where intimacy or trust with a person seems completely unfathomable, sure, but even that can be taken care of.  Penises aren’t scary – really? Have you seen one when they’re cold?  It’s pretty funny, and totally makes you feel that kind of universal switch in partnership roles from mouse to cat. And think of inverted nipples. But you know.

However, the thing I find about it is that without talking, it doesn’t work.  At least if you’re in a long term relationship, since I personally haven’t had any one-night stands to brag about (or regret! Win win).  You have to talk, because if you don’t you end up with sex that you don’t enjoy.  It might sound funny saying, “Hey, you know that thing you did, with the (body part) in the (an orifice)… yeah, can we try that a little different next time? As in, without it, perhaps?” But it’s CRUCIAL. For example, The Boyfriend and I were both pretty new to the sex thing when we gave it a romp together and went through the whole “Is it in yet?” scenario (which, now, gave me a wonderful story to tell), we had really absolutely no idea what was going on apart from what was supposed to go where.  Putting on the condom took like, 10 minutes, which isn’t really a problem the first time (but becomes so during recurring events).

Anyway – the thing is that it was awkward at first, and I think it is for everyone, but the fear of it being awkward does not a good deterrent make.  Not for sex anyway.  Because if you’re comfortable enough with the person to let them stick their “love torpedo” (as urban dictionary lovingly calls them) into your va-jay-jay, then you’re comfortable enough to tell them something’s up (not, up, which would actually benefit you in such a situation).

As the phrasing goes, Communication is Key.

Apart from all of this sex talk, which, came from um, nowhere, life is very un-sexy lately (remember, The Boyfriend is in pain and all, from surgery) and while I’m not particularly fond of it, I’m focusing on all sorts of artistic endeavours and putting my sexual frustration into writing.  Huzzah! I am channelling lots of old non-sex-having-poets, like, perhaps, Emily Dickinson. Hopefully not all of that seclusion though.  Although the seclusion and the non-sex-having is probably linked in some non-incredible and inextricable way. Hmm….

TODAY, for sure, I will work.  I’ve made a goal of a rough draft for my Personal Context essay.  YES.  YES, ARINA, YOU WILL WRITE A ROUGH DRAFT TODAY. Okay? Okay. Here’s a cookie, me.

I’m not secluded, what are you talking about?

Sorry for the lack of interesting posts, lately, readers – I figured talking about sex was the only way to make it up to you, so really, I kind of blog-whored myself out.  It felt good, though.  I miss talking about sex.  Nobody talks about sex except dirty old men to me. And that makes me sad.

I will try to get more interesting soon! I promise! I’ll post some “What You Didn’t Know About Arina” posts soon, which were wildly popular on my Livejournal.  (Okay, “wildly” is an overstatement, unless you think 4 people is wild? Mayhaps?)

Okie dokie Smokey Peroki!

Ciao. Arina.

Oh! Hold my hand.

I haven’t quite had the time to figure out how this piece of fantastic machinery works, (ie. pages, ie. where to put my poetry and prose versus everyday ramblings), but I will soon, and mark my words, once I figure it out it will be fucking epic.

Other than my general lack of any technological know-how, life continues on ever so swiftly.  Last night I got home from work at a later hour than usual, but it was a goooooood Wednesday!  I’ve been thinking of keeping a tip vs. paycheck journal, but so far haven’t found a smart place for it.  Now I’m thinking to make an excel spreadsheet about it… do some comparisons at the end of a 3 month-ish period and see how much money I actually earn.  But, like I said, last night was fantastic.  It was reminiscent of some of the first nights I worked at King Eddies, with more than 100$ in tips coming my way at the end of it, despite me begging for mercy.  The thing is, if you’re busy – you’re happy.  No waitress is going to be happy sitting with the same customers for the entire night – you’re just going to get frustrated even if the person(s) is(are) your best friend(s).  But if you have a legit stream of newcomers that you semi-know and can entertain the fuck out of? You are your own best friend.  You are the queen of the butterflies, flitting from table to table with your gorgeous smile and anticipating beers and presenting wines from behind your back like magician’s tricks, much to the awe and congratulations of the patrons (ie. audience).  You are everywhere at once, you are working the room and you know you are damn good at it.  Everybody loves you, and the table at the back from Alberta, full of hockey players and moms, that is getting rowdy singing Rasputin at the top of their arms?  They give you hugs every time they see you with another rye and coke, or rye and diet or vodka water lime (mostly because you remember each person’s specific drinks, and partly because you’re russian and they’re hockey players).   They sing, they laugh, the ask you whether your nipples are pierced, and then they leave in a giant flurry of stumbling tall men, in cabs too small to their hotel across the street.  You are now satisfied – they are happily drunk, they are coming back for more, and they tip like madmen!

What’s better then that?  A close second would be getting more than 8 hours of sleep for me, since these guys kept me at work till about 2:15 last night, and I wake up at 7 on Thursdays.  But it was worth it – I’ll sleep on the bus and dream about dancing 20$ bills on the way to my retardedly early English class.

I hear the best writers lived in bars… except the thing is I don’t think they worked there, but .. er… drank there.. so really the best writers should be my regular customers… except they’re not.  But I will be from listening to all of their ridiculous drunk stories time and time again.  I will be.

Time to go dry my hair.  And eat something.

Ciao. Arina.

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