lavenderose

I thought that I might dream today...

Thursday, February 26, 2004

It's a nice feeling when you've been staring at a screen for three hours.

I just checked my email and in it was a letter from Fusion Literary Magazine offering a $100 prize for best short fiction. The due date is in 2 weeks. I have been feeling like a complete idiot for several reasons:

1) I want to be a writer and I don't have time to write.
2) This is a stupid reason to complain
3) I complain anyways.
4) My writing is unpracticed, undisciplined, uncreative.
5) I really can't force myself to do my homework.
6) The only thing that will make me feel better is if I run away to a tropical island all by myself with lots of food and art supplies.


I have been reduced to a sniveling 23 year old crybaby living in the lap of luxury with food in my belly and a roof over my head and money in my pocket and all the "possibilities" of the world at my doorstep. But here I am facing the disgusting diseases of a first-world country--melancholy, ennui, dissatisfaction, distaste, dreams.

I always thought the writer leads a romantic life. She retires into the mountains in a Sandburgesque house with a goat farm and a writing desk at a sunny window. Writing is given the respect it deserves--days to muse over an idea, hours in the morning, hours after lunch. Whenever the fancy strikes, she is free to rush to her desk and record the genius. She has time to empty her mind and wander through the woods gaining inspiration from spiders and ants and eagles. The writer is not disrespected by other responsibilities. Her sole frustration is lack of inspiration, upon which she packs up her bags and moves to Paris, Prague, Peru.

Writing is easy for the writer.

She doesn't ever write crap. Everything is publishable.

--------------

Okay, so I know THAT is not how it happens. But I don't even know where to begin anymore.

I don't have the energy to create.

I think this weekend I will be getting to know the beach again.

When is the last time I went on a walk? Probably just before this semester started. There was a scene that inspired me--little dewdrops hanging on a fence. I wanted to write a poem. I still remember what it looked like:


On a Fence

these little ornaments
bells
are crystal-dew
they can shake
and music make
f
a
l
l ing to

the ground
ou
a regrettable s nd
like glass breaking







Wednesday, February 25, 2004

Viva la revolucion!

The following is my weak attempt at philosophy and tends to ramble at times. May be found boring. Sorry.


"She has her own little stories running around in her head and forgets about reality," I said to my Dad, talking about a woman I know who has been getting on my nerves.
"Sounds like a Liberal." Dad laughed heartily at his own creativity with a joke. We weren't talking politics before, but now we were.
"Oh yeah? Well then a Conservative is someone who blindly believes whatever "reality" the authorities tell them to believe, without questioning anyone or anything." I am a liberal, and I have to defend myself.

It's a valid point my Dad has. Sometimes I wonder about myself--stuck in my own little realities, forcing the world to commit to my one little vision of peace and love for all of the earth. Of countries doing the right thing, of talking about morality and justice and then actually walking the walk. Of my country being a shining beacon of peace and love and liberty, of unity and strength and compassion and honesty, of hardwork and industry and intelligence--an example of how the similarities of human beings always outweigh the differences. Remember, the six most important words of our country's foundation were United we Stand, Divided we Fall . But look at what we've been reduced to: Gays should/should not be married. Abortion should/should not be legal. Liberals are the most intelligent/most duped. Republicans will save our country/ruin our country.

It's hard being a liberal. As such, we are always facing criticism of "that's unrealistic." Because a larger faction of liberals than Conservatives are atheist or agnostic or don't believe in hell, we face the opposition of the Bible-spouting religious and every person they frighten into adherence. Even when we make good, solid points. Even when it is realistic. Even when we are religious too.

I am a Christian. I cannot deny the story of my own making--it is absolutely beautiful. There is power in my Christian beliefs, and even though I have been attacked for being a heretic, for being a liberal, a Unitarian-Universalist, and for believing in a "loose" interpretation of the Bible I still believe that I am "holier than thou." I believe that humans miss a good deal of the religious point, and just because some men wrote it down in a book does not make it the "WORD" of God-- the way things are most certainly, without doubt. It makes it a reflection of a society struggling to explain its existence and become more civilized.

The first gigantic religious revolution within the christian era was when the protestants separated from the catholics because they didn't want some stupid pope or confessor telling them what to believe and claiming the right to talk to God for them, ultimately telling them what to do.

Most right-wing religious are now protestants.

We may be on the cusp of the second religious revolution--when religious factions decide that we don't want some stupid book written 2000 years ago telling us what to do or telling us what God thinks. God is in each of us. We can talk to God ourselves. In each of us is a conscience that is God's voice. Judgement will come from the decisions we make. Maybe the Bible will be revised to reflect this society as it struggles to become more civilized.

Maybe I should write a liberal Bible. I'm sure I'd get asassinated. Heresy is a mighty powerful word.

Dad says the ultimate problem he has with same-sex marriages is that it is just "morally" wrong. I asked why why it is morally wrong--his answer pointed to the Bible. I asked him about who wrote the Bible and if he believed that the Bible is free from human interference, to which he replied he "has to believe in the Bible because we need something to believe in."

My Dad's ultimate problem with same-sex marriages is that it leads to people believing they can have whatever they want, going against old tradition, lacking restraint, fulfilling themselves with whatever wherever, lacking discipline, becoming too decadent. In short, the decay of the fabric that he believes has held civilization together for so long--the power of people being told what to do and listening to what they are told.

I say, how does making a few wrong things right change the entire moral fabric? If anything, it makes us MORE moral and just. And it does not follow that the whole entire structure of civilization as we know it will fall apart because a few things are changed.

People will always do as other people do. People will always follow the rules. It's okay to make new rules. It happens.


If new rules hadn't been made, blacks would still be slaves. Millions of people in our country would be starving and living in slums. Women would have no rights. Trial would be held without jury.

Of course, I'm not really one to speak about this. I have trouble with morality issues all the time. Should I have sex with this person? Is it a sin? Do I judge others too much? Am I too lazy? Sometimes I think I DO need someone to tell me what to do. God is really pissing me off lately. Why does God have to make it so difficult for humans to know what we are really like? So much good, so much evil. Or maybe we're just giant ornamental eating-breeding tubes.

And just in case I am wrong and for absolution and for all the brainwashing I have faced over the years that may not have been brainwashing at all: Please God don't smite me down for what I have wrote.






Tuesday, February 24, 2004

Only in dreams...

I had a dream last night that I was getting married and I was actually excited and happy about it. The person I was getting married to in my dream was someone I know, and I will not divulge his name at this time. We were in a gigantic Catholic church (I'm not even Catholic) and I was in a huge rose colored dress and I just remember feeling so happy and serene and beautiful. And when he took my hands and looked into my eyes my heart started singing because I knew that he was the man I would love forever. When he kissed me I had an orgasm.

How am I supposed to not be interested in this friend of mine now? How can you fight a feeling like that? Man, if life could only be so simple.

Monday, February 23, 2004

Feminists hate men...Right?


WRONG. Feminists do not hate men. To be a feminist means to believe in the intelligence, dignity, capability, power, and worth of women. Nothing less, nothing more. I am mystified by the numbers of men and women I meet who think that feminism is a dirty word, a dirty thing. "Don't call me a feminist--I don't want men to hate me." It's true. Proudly proclaim yourself a feminist in a room full of people and watch men shirk away from you or roll their eyes or try to talk you out of it and watch women shift their hands and feet uncomfortably. They are thinking "What is wrong with that girl? She can vote, own property, run for president. Why is she complaining?" I am complaining. I am complaining and challenging. I am challenging people to believe in themselves. I am challenging people to believe in their sisters and their daughters and their mothers and their husbands and their sons and their brothers and the idea that each can honor the other in a beautiful way. When I call myself a Feminist, I am challenging you to believe that our similarities outweigh our differences. When I call myself a Feminist, I am challenging you to believe that a woman actually CAN be president because female presidents are (gasp) smart and capable like male presidents. When I call myself a Feminist, I am challenging you to agree that women are beautiful and serious and smart and capable, just as much as men. "Duh," people say. "We know that already...we see it everyday. Women are great. I love women. So what are you complaining about?" If you love women so much, why are you comfortable living in a world that constantly enforces the idea their is a "proper" role for a woman when there is no "proper" role for a man? If you love women, how can you be okay with the fact that this country has yet to elect a female president? That at the present rate, it will take 955 years for the congress to hold and equal amount of women as men? That the ERA did not pass? That women constantly risk rape and death by those who feel that women are crossing the boundaries? That too often women are not taken seriously? That men laugh at rape victims? That everyday hundreds of women are raped? That nine million women were burned at the stake? That women are sexually harassed? That almost every derisive word in the English language refers to a female? That women are afraid to call themselves feminists? That women are afraid to proclaim their worth and their right to hold positions of power and respect and authority and importance? That the rebuke for women is ten times as harsh as the rebuke for men?

Some women (I used to be one of them) don't believe me when I say that we live in a sexist world. "I'm treated alright," they say. Well, have more qualifications to be president than the twenty males and then run for president and see how you are treated. People will actually question your "femininity" as a potential weakness. It has happened to every female who has ran for president. "Women put up a serious campaign for president if they wanted to." Are you sure? Are you sure that women would even stand a chance? Why can't you name five women who have run for president? YOu can't name them because nobody takes them seriously. Because they disappear before they've even begun. Because sexism is too strong. Because people don't think that women are "qualified."

To be a Feminist means to believe that femininity is a strength, not a weakness.
Men should be able to agree with this. If you don't, you are a sexist pig. Come on, men in my life, let me hear you chant, "I am a feminist! I am a feminist!" Would you believe that even the men in my life, who love me very much, want to talk me out of being a feminist? I can't figure out why they think it is such a bad thing to be. If I am a masculinist why can't they be a feminist? It's not too difficult.

The chinese ideogram for "woman" is similar to "slave." It is a picture of a woman on her knees in a submissive position. I honor the nurturing abilities that women have, and being a mother myself I see the accuracy in this description. I am proud to serve those who I love, to be a "big mother" and meet the needs of those around me, to give with love, to sometimes put myself last. But to put men at one level, and women at another, is wrong. It creates disharmony. It is inaccurate. Language reflects belief. Men serve their families, their countries, their obligations just as women do-- so why isn't the ideogram for man "slave" as well? Because this world has a long history of wanting to place women in a position where everyone believes that women deserve abuse. The ultimate question is why don't we live in a world where the ideogram for woman is "hero?"

Thursday, February 19, 2004

Three reasons to celebrate...

First, I got my cat Lucky back from Mike's house. Lucky is the adorable amazingly long orange tabby cat that Mike rescued from the Dames Point Bridge in Jacksonville four years ago. He was just a little kitten then, small, wet, and covered in oil when Mike brought him to me in a cardboard box. "You need a friend," Mike said. I nursed him back to health. He grew. We became friends. When I broke up with Mike, he pleaded with me to let him keep the cat. "No! No! You can't take Lucky! He is my best friend! I need him! I won't let you!" I think he even cried. But he's my cat, I thought. I entertained ideas of a drive-by cat-napping. I knew, though, that Mike would probably just return the favor. I was pregnant. I was only mildly pissed off--I had more important things to think about than Cat War I. Besides, I was hoping that Lucky would help Mike to chill out. But now I have Lucky back. Mike is moving and cannot bring the cat. Lucky is home again. It's been fun waching Issac's maniacal grin as he chases the cat up and down the hallway. It's been lovely having a warm purring cat sitting in my lap. (We won't discuss the problems of cat hair on this joyful occassion.)

Second, I got a valentine's letter in the mail yesterday from my cousin Catherine. It had a picture of her family. She has lived in Arizona, Texas, and Minnesota, so I have only met her a few times. She is 31, a lawyer, and mother to two boys. When I was little I thought she was sooooo cool and grown up and beautiful. She is still very beautiful, and we have the same nose.

Third, I met with a pro-teach english education advisor yesterday, and discovered that the pro-teach graduate program at UF only admits entry every fall. Since I will not graduate until the end of fall 2004, this means that I will be forced to take 8 months off and wait until the fall of 2005 to begin work on my master's degree. This conveniently solves my "should I go straight to work and start earning some real money after getting my BA or should I continue straight into grad school?" question rather nicely, incorporating the best of both worlds. I will take a nice 8 month break. Now my question has transformed into "should I work nights as a waitress and miss putting Issac to bed or should I substitute-teach during the days but be able to maintain his bedtime schedule?"


I'm thinking I will waitress at nights...

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

The muses aren't calling and I am desperately falling into the abyssmal dark...

Okay, what do you write about when your life is filled with so many banal everyday necessities that you, a person who has never had any problem with spelling, look at words on paper which was once your entire love affair with life and all you can do is think "I am becoming dyslexic." ???

Words used to simply flow to me when I called upon them. I was a priestess with sourceful abilities. My fingertips were magic mediums. My soul was a magnet for commanding language.

Now I am an empty vessel, with no stories to tell except how I fell asleep last night on the couch, with my jacket and clothes still on, freezing cold because the heater is recently broken, with a small throw wrapped tightly around my feet, and my head wresting on the pages of a great green lump of a shakespeare anthology. How I told myself I would close my eyes just for a second, and woke up at 3:30 am to Issac's cries from the bedroom and stumbled in to change his diaper and pajamas which had pee on them, and then fell asleep next to him but only after I had turned on the bathroom faucet to prevent the pipes from freezing because I had no idea how cold it might be outside. And how the faucet made weird noises all night that kept me in a restless state of sleep, dream-worrying about grammar and shakespeare and past participles and gerunds and indirect objects and heating bills and gigantic god-ordered floods designed to destroy those who are not pure. Lucky, my old cat-friend, curled up next to my feet and purred in rythm with my distressed sleep. I'm glad to have him back.

Laundry

no hot water in this house
we'll take what we can get
rub away the rust
and try to make it fit
wash it without soap
at least now it feels clean
"turn the pants wrongside out
so you can see the seams"
in the Shady Woods it took
all day for clothes to dry
when I was five years old and
the line was six feet high
today I have a dryer
makes a lot of noise
it keeps me warm in the winter, though--
God bless me and my boys.

Monday, February 16, 2004

French Fries

Long and oily
so promising
tiny crystals of pleasure
only disappear
Golden skins
contain dull white meat
After, an ill feeling of defeat
resides
only the red-stained cardboard
presides
like a monument.


I love french fries.

Here is an excerpt from my digital journal about two weeks before I discovered that I was pregnant. Issac was probably conceived around this time period of my life. Scary. Read on:

"Friday night turned out ok.. it could have been better. We heard Elena driving by Mike’s parents’ house and went out to meet her, she couldn’t find it at first because we rode our bikes over instead of driving, so she didn’t see my car like I told her she would. At any rate, we drove over to Leo’s and made a pizza (which made my hands stink like onions) and drank a couple of pitchers of beer. It was cool to see everyone again, and chat for a while, but I was annoyed because Erin was preaching the whole time to Elena about how to be a strong woman, which is fine, but Erin is not really a strong woman, she’s just a bitch, because their really is a difference. If anyone disagrees with Erin, she deems them inferior and stupid and unworthy of existence. She is SO controlling of Chris, and I can tell that he is going to start to resent her if he hasn’t already. It seems like if I were a guy, I would not be able to take Erin seriously at all, because I don’t even take her seriously now. Everything is her way or the highway, she even says that. So, instead of letting us all chill together like I wanted to, like we WERE doing, she grabs Elena up and announces “Elena and I are going to go talk about girl stuff in L-7. Nobody else is allowed.” And I said, “you mean I’m not allowed to come talk in L-7?” And she said, “Well, you’re allowed, silly. But just only if you want to man-bash. Cause that’s what we’re doing.” And I was like, “no thanks” and every once in a while I’d go check on them and see if they were talking about anything interesting, but Elena was just telling the same old boring stories about what Kazra did to her, he did this, and that, and took back his microwave and asked her on a date with another girl, and Erin is half listening and smoking a cigarette getting off on saying what a loser he is. The funny thing was that they were on two totally different wavelengths. Elena doesn’t think Kazra is a loser, she thinks that he is great but just treats her bad because there is some innate quality about her that screams “Men! Treat me badly!” Because there IS. And Erin thinks that Elena thinks that he is a loser and doesn’t talk to him anymore, but really, Elena does talk to him still all the time, holding on to him like an injured fly. But Elena doesn’t mention this to Erin, and they both sit their and bash Kazra--they don’t bash Elena’s mock injured-fly imitation-- and then Elena gets brainwashed with all these crazy ideas in her head that Kazra is the biggest idiot loser jerk in the whole world (when she really doesn’t think that) and calls him up at three in the morning later that night and cusses him out for being an asshole and completely confuses the poor guy who probably is an asshole but just because he is so confused from the mixed messages that she sends out. So anyways, it’s a hopeless situation. I was just pissed that I was excluded from their conversation unless I was man-bashing, and that Mike was not “allowed” to come sit at their table, and that Erin managed to split up a completely comfortable everybody chill and happy atmosphere by insisting on seperation.

Well, the real trouble began when I learned that a Reggae band was playing at Eddie C’s. Everyone was going, and I really wanted to go too. Mike “had to work in the morning,” and didn’t feel like going. (Mike doesn’t have to even go to work until 3 in the afternoon). He told me that I could go by myself when I insisted that we go and reminded him of what time he really had to work, but I felt like he was just saying that and that he would really be pissed if I actually went and fight with me when I got home. So I think he got mad at me for insisting so much (he felt like I wasn’t listening to him) so he got up and left. And I ran after him begging him to quit being rash, and to try to get along with me and then I got frustrated and told him I was going by myself and now he wasn’t allowed to come because he was being such a jackass."


Man, what a life I led. Here is some more of my thoughts about my life during this time:

"I really like this font. I wish I wasn’t at work. Right now, if I could, I would be somewhere outside strumming on a guitar, trying to get good at it. I was a little depressed today, but I’d rather not talk about it. It does not go with my new philosophy, which is Be happy, not un-happy. It works. So, if I could I would be dreaming away the day. It was weird, yesterday I came home from work and played the guitar for a while (the first time I took it out of its case for a long time) and then Mike came home and we went to bed. And I was thinking, where did that day go? Don’t let the days gooooo byyyyyyyy. That day just totally blew by and I didn’t touch anybody or do anything super and that’s what I want: to do super things and then you have to ask, what is a super thing? What does it feel like and taste like and do you know it is a super thing when you are doing it or does it just kind of sneak up on you? Or can you add up a bunch of little things and have them become a super thing and how do some people do so much and what is fame and why do I need it? Do I need to validate myself as a person by being this famous person who does good deeds? What drives people to want to do good deeds? is it God? Or is it themselves who need to feel important and whats wrong with feeling important? And why do I want to play the guitar so damn bad and be good at it and why do I want to be a jazz singer and why do I want to climb mountains and run triathalons and win at things? When was the last time I won something? Where did my competitive nature go and when did I stop caring? Have I stopped caring? When did I turn 21 and what did it mean?"

My be-happy philosophy is a good one. It really does work.

And some more:

"Why must I use big words and why are there ten words that mean the same thing? Why am I getting paid to work in this fucking office when there is no work to be done and I feel like I’m cheating the system and why does that make me feel bad? It’s like an animal that is injured and cannot reproduce. It’s like a cookie that knows it is completely fattening and sugary and excessive and there is really no need for it to be around. That’s how I feel: completely excessive. It really is exhausting being excessive.
And why do I feel this way and what is it that I should be doing in order to not feel this way and how do I go about doing that? I want to be lean, unexcessive, efficient, strong and proud and tall and right and right and right and strong and proud and tall and effiecient and unexcessive and lean."


Well, getting pregnant didn't make me feel too lean but being a mom has made me feel essential and efficient and strong and proud and tall and right. And keeping up with Issac might one day make me lean.

I like the way I wrote then. It was perhaps...more lively?
Here is some more. Wow. Almost two years ago exactly:

"(2/22/02) My Aunt Lynn called me today and thanked me for the Valentine that I sent out. She said that everybody loved it and it made them feel very special and then she asked if I wanted to babysit and I told her no. No I do not feel like babysitting all your bratty kids. I am so exhausted after this week of work, and I wonder why I wonder why I even try sometimes. It’s really a stupid thing to wonder: why I even try. I even try because that’s all you can do, but sometimes it feels like I just don’t try hard enough, because if I tried harder, maybe things would work out better and I’d be happier, and things would be more perfect, and what does perfect even mean? Perfect means being smart and having friends and being loved and doing things that you love to do and perfect is things being easy and not being a pessimist like my Dad. My Dad hardly ever complains but you can see it on his face, how unsatisfied he is, and he doesn’t complain until you start trying to confide in him how frustrated you are with your life because things aren’t easy and are difficult and you are lonely and then he really lets you know that the world is a miserable awful place and all you can do is trudge through it knowing that the next day will probably be just as shitty as the last one. It really would drive one to drinking with that sort of attitude… It just makes me want to cry. It’s like, where did my dad go? I don’t even want to get into it except to say this: It could be worse right? Your Dad could be dead. Your Dad could never have been in your life but then I think, would it really be any different? Would I really be searching so much harder for love from my Dad if he weren’t ever in my life? Because I’m already searching now, looking for it, needing it, wanting it and it’s funny because when I really think about it, I don’t even like my Dad. He’s boring, mean, grumpy, and gloomy. And if he had never been in my life, would it be so bad? At least I could dream about how much my Daddy would have loved me if he had been around and how much fun we would have had together if he had been, instead of the opposite, wondering what it was that was missing and awful and boring about me that made him not want to spend time with me. "

In the last two years, my relationship with my Dad has improved dramatically. Then, we were both in shitty places in our lives--he, suffering from an impending divorce, and me with an abusive ass. But now our relationship is much better, probably because he has found a nice beautiful girlfriend , but mostly because I have made a commitment to make sure that my Dad knows me better.

Thursday, February 12, 2004

I've been at school making a crappy website for the last 4 hours. My eyes are blurry and my shoulders hurt. The address of said crappy website is http://plaza.ufl.edu/melferg/webpage1.html if you are curious.

In an effort to try to post something creative on a regular basis, and in an effort to expand my writing abilities, I WILL blog even on days like this. It might be scary, it might be ugly, but it will be here for your reading pleasure. On crappy days like this it will be in the form of a poem, which does not require me to think.

Birdbrain

Oh shit I thought when I saw
the green stripe on your car
I am so totally screwed
I entertained thoughts of
a high-speed chase and
there was a good chance
I could slip down a dirt lane
while you were turning around
never-to-see-you-again
but I am a chicken
and while I was fidgeting my fingers
and pecking at myself
you caught me
and handed me a nasty yellow slip
of paper. Bagock! bak bak bak bagok!


That's right. I got a speeding ticket yesterday morning. $137. 74 in a 55. On the way to the babysitter's. But the good part is that my driver's license is suspended and he didn't notice. So I guess I should be happy.

On the even upper side, I'm having Brian and my Mom and my friend Andrea over for dinner tonight, and dinner is already made, and it is so good: florentine stuffed shells. I love having people over! Come visit me! Please!

Wednesday, February 11, 2004

I stole this from Marcy...

Four CD's in your collection that you will never get tired of:
Cake- Motorcade of Generosity, Sublime- 40 ozs to freedom, Van Morrison- Greatest Hits, Bonnie Rait- Nick of Time

Four places you just have to go:
Ireland/Scotland
Prague
Alaska/Canada
France

Four things you'd like to learn:
Knitting
Speed-Reading
Sewing
Ballroom dancing.

Four beverages you like to drink:
Water
Decaf coffee
Coke
Root-beer

Four TV shows that were on when you were a kid:
Sesame Street
Reading Rainbow
Mr. Rogers
Who's the Boss?

Four TV shows you watch now:
Friends re-runs
Seinfeld re-runs
The Simpsons
PBS

Four places to go in your area:
Poe Springs
The Hippodrome
Harry's Seafood
Friday nights at the Downtown Plaza

Four things that never fail to cheer you up:
Go on a walk
Make Issac laugh
Call a friend
Sing into my karaoke machine

Four dream guys:
Ralph Fiennes
Guy who played Legolas in Lord of the Rings
Johnny Depp
Ethan Hawke

20 years ago I was: 3 years old, walking around the pastures naked and making mud pies.

10 years ago I was: 13, trying oh so desperately to be cool. I took karate lessons and was in the flag corps. I was experimenting with make-up. Wondering what a french kiss feels like.

5 years ago I was: Dreaming of the exotic life I was going to lead when I got out of highschool.

Getting a little more personal...

Name: Melissa Gayle Ferguson

Nicknames: Lissa, Lis, Lissy, Mel-Mel, Melly

Collections:None.

Pets:None.

Favorite...

Four letter word: Damn.

Actor/Actress: Johnny Depp/ Gwyneth Paltrow

Board game: Chess

Book: I'll never be able to decide.

Candy: M&Ms with peanuts.

Card game: Rummy.

Cereal:Grape-nuts. With raisins.

Color:Red

Color nail polish: light shimmery purple

Favorite day:Saturday

Least fave day:Tuesday

Flower:Rose

Jello:Watermelon

Jewelry: Silver or gold. Bracelets.

Quote:"The envious billows sidelong sweep to whelm my path; let them, but first I pass." --Ahab, Moby Dick

Are you Single? Yes.

What is your living arrangement? Dependent on mom. Live in the country surrounded by beautiful trees and I love it.

What do you think about the occult? Cool but scary.

Favorite Magazines? Magazines suck.

Favorite Smells? Sandalwood, lemongrass, rose, lavender.

Favorite sounds? Keys clickety-clacking on keyboard, Issac's laughter, cows.

What is the first thing you think when you wake up? Oh gosh, it's still dark outside.

Roller Coaster- Scary or Exciting? After I had Issac, neither.

How many rings before you answer the phone? As soon as I can find it...

Favorite foods: Pizza, cheeseburgers, asparagus, eggplant parmesan, fresh greenbeans, blueberries.

Chocolate or vanilla? Both.

Do you like to drive? Rarely.

Do you sleep with a stuffed animal?-- Does Issac count?

Storms- Cool or Scary? Soooooooo cool.

What type was your first car? 1985 Toyota Tercel

What do you drive now? 1990 Honda Accord.

If you could meet one person, dead or alive? Jimi Hendrix.

Favorite alcoholic drink? Beer, or Whiskey and Coke, or wine.

Who is your favorite poet? Plath. Yeats.

What is your favorite snapple? Gross.

Do you type with your fingers on the right keys? Sort of.

What's under your bed? A bunch of junk-- assorted shoes, softball cleats and raquets, old notebooks, a guitar case, extra coathangers, all kinds of crap that I don't have a place for.

What's the one thing about you people don't know? I once shaved my entire head.


Monday, February 09, 2004

How is everyone doing today? I am just fine, thank you. I got an A on my math test! Oh yeah! I am incredibly excited about this since this is the same class I failed my freshman year. It reminds me that I have come a long way since then.

Do you ever come across something, a letter say, that you wrote years ago but thankfully never sent, read it once again, and realized that while it was perhaps poetic it was very overdramatic? And then do you wonder if this makes you an overly dramatic person? For example, a letter I found:

Your beacon strikes out
in circles of rotation, steadily
it will without you even trying
with respect
you are very noble
I love you so much and that's why I don't understand
some things
and I have to be okay with that
thank you for touching my life
and I'm sorry for ruining yours

I cannot wash the heat from my body
and it burns my skin
everything that I touch gets too hot

last night was the closest the earth was to the sun
the closest the moon was to the earth
the solstice
and the full moon
the first time in hundreds of years
my mother told me so as I slobbered all over her dress

I had to say this outloud to you
for resolution
but certainly there is no closure in life
resolution is only in death

goodbye

ps- I know the last part sounds suicidal but it's not. Everything I said is as true as I can be. I don't want to leave but I know I must.

Then, after you re-read it and muse about it and post it on your blog, do you wonder if perhaps you are divulging too much of your personal treasure? Do you wonder why you are such an exhibitionist? Do you really want people to know that you ever felt that way about a person? That you were ever so silly? Would the person you wrote it about-- who you still cherish-- appreciate being so exposed in your tangle of exhibition and your cheap sensational charade for attention?

This tidbit certainly captures a moment in my life, and I'm glad I have it with me still, because looking at it again makes me at once happy and sad. I really miss that person to this day...he was a great friend and it is hard to believe I let a certain jealous freak (BABY'S DADDY) force me to choose to lose contact with him. It's hard to believe I let a certain jerk control my life for so long a period of time. NEVER AGAIN will ANYBODY tell me who my friends can and cannot be.

I was such a whimp--and my previous whimpiness has affected my entire future--or at least it will for a while. As of right now, people meet me and think I'm a cool person and then I divulge the history of my past and they start to think twice, because a prerequisite to being a cool person is that you cannot be a pathetic masochistic whimp. I promise, I'm not anymore! I am a self-actualized person who harbors no intrigue with pain or suffereing or being told what to do! I just want to be happy...and now I actually believe I deserve it. I am happy now. Deep down in my core. I love it. I allow it. And this has made all the difference.

I find myself internally pleading with people not to be afraid of my past. I have journeyed an incredible path and now I am on top of the mountain. Asshole Mike has gifted me-- I have become sure of myself out of my struggle for independence from him. I have become sure of myself in a way that is unshakeable, undoubtable, out of living through abuse and choosing to say "fuck you--I am worth more than this." I know I will never be abused again. And if Mike was able to be such an asshole that he could teach me this in three short years, instead of a long and depressing lifetime, then I am thankful for that gift he brought to my life. Because the truth about me is there was a time when I thought I wanted to be abused. And I'm glad I didn't waste my life discovering that I don't.

If it explains anything, my acupuncturist says that the gate to my heart chakra has a tendency to malfunction. In the past, it wouldn't close when it should. It would stay open far too long, enduring abuse, listening and compassioning with the pleas of the brokenhearted and pathetic. She poked needles in my feet and wrists to mitigate the effects of my defunctional gate. Though at the present moment my heart-gate is functioning well, it continues to run the risk of opening too wide or slamming shut prematurely and never opening again--though I doubt the latter will happen. Mine is the heart that remains too open.

Masochism is inherited in my family--it is the legacy that they have left us despite the many happy memories I am blessed to carry from my childhood. Despite all the goodness in my family's legacy,despite how subtle it is and how difficult to discover-- pain is the dominant emotion, the domineering theme of my family who is careful never to smile too wide or laugh too loud. You will be scorned if you are too happy, if you refuse to carry the ridiculous burden that they have each lugged and hauled on their backs for centuries. FUCK THAT. I'm leaving a different legacy for my son, for my family. One where my children will know that God most loves a happy heart. One where my children will not be able to recall a time that their mother was not singing. One where hearing the word "love" doesn't make my children cry but makes them giddy with laughter.






These Teeth

Your teeth are made of only truth
and it has been reflected
I have found no other such jaws
none like porcelain.

You ride me like a swan
if I am Leda, I too am Agamemnon
in the most dreadful of battles-
It is not even wartime
and still I cannot whistle.

My bones are straight and upright too!
Oh, the loss! I feel them grinding!
It is bitter pain, and I
can only bite harder.

I have been hungry so long
for white feathers
But birds have no real tongues,
they would only swell

And cry "Just One Drop!"
So downy and pretty
Such dreadful lies, and who could refuse?
That's why birds are toothless
with only gums.



Thursday, February 05, 2004

My morning routine involves finding a parking space at the University of Florida. There ARE no parking spaces at the University of Florida, so I am forced to fret and sweat and drive around frantically in endless loops looking for the best place to illegally park. I am tempted to try a different place each morning so that nobody will catch onto my ruse, but once you've found a good thing it's hard to let go. My latest good thing is the visitors' parking lot at Alachua General Hospital. There are seven separate lots in different locations, which provides just the right kind of variety so that the nurses and doctors and other people who think it is a moral travesty to take up visitor parking don't get suspicious. I must admit that my car is very conspicious-- it is covered with dust from limerock roads, contains a gigantic carseat and a cheap sunshade sporting a patriotic flag on the back window, is filled with toys and clothes and coffee cups and papers strewn will-nill around the floorboards and seats, and has non-tinted windows so that all are priviliged to see its slovenly innards. It is the kind of car that people can't help noticing when it is parked among newer, cleaner models. Though I have crossed paths with hospital employees, I have parked in lot 7 exactly nine times with no problems or visible raised eyebrows.

This morning, however, I became nervous. I varied from my usual routine and ventured into lot 2, which is farther from my destination (UF) but therefore substantially less obvious. Also, its thick trees and roughage provide more cover than the other lots. The first stage--crossing the actual parking lot to get to the sidewalk--is the most risky. It is during this time that people can most easily identify you as an impostor if you fail to continue across the street into the hospital. It wouldn't be so nerve-racking if I didn't carry a backpack.

This morning I was stalked by a security guard. I am certain of it. Shortly after phase 1 of my dangerous mission was completed and I was on the sidewalk walking AWAY from the hospital, a white SUV with blue lettering "Shands Security" slowly began to trail me. Then it did a u-turn and went the other way. After I took a right (which sort of keeps my cover by redirecting me toward a second potential hospital entrance) I saw him again. He pulled into a side entrance and waited. He was distracted by a woman asking a question. I slipped out of sight as quickly as possible by running and jumping over hedges, dodging around corners and making a succession of left turns, right turns, left turns. He never saw me again. Maybe he thinks I actually went to visit my poor old grandma in the hospital, and I'll never see him again.

Maybe it's time to buy a parking decal.

Tuesday, February 03, 2004

Yeah! Everything is up now! I KNEW it would work out just fine (sure I did). I wasn't even worried, not even for a second.

So I've been thinking about dating and men and love again. I have just one question--do you believe in soulmates? Where the hell is my soulmate? The concept of a soulmate creates my entire demise--it breeds nothing but hesitation on my part and turns me into a gigantic commitment-phobe. (Yeah, sure, I'll date you, you're nice and cute and fun...but chances are 6billion to one that you are not my soulmate so I'll be moving on soon...oh wow, I am really getting to like you BUT WHAT IF THERE IS SOMEONE BETTER OUT THERE? AHHHHH! Go away! Leave me alone! I'm waiting for my soulmate!) Unless you come with a sign on your forehead that says "Melissa Ferguson's Soulmate" I don't even want to bother.

Then there is the concept of how superficial I am. I base more of my romantic interest in the way someone looks and how big their muscles are, not who they are or what they believe. This has not gotten me far in my life and I have vowed to change it, but this vow is doing little for me. I can' t help but stare at biceps and shoulders and think yummy thoughts. However, there is hope. I thought a short chubby guy was really sexy the other day--it was something about his eyes and his general look--it was very soulful. He could look deep into my soul. (Okay, maybe he couldn't--he knew absolutely nothing about me-- but it felt that way and that is so very sexy). It helps that he was hispanic. I guess the chemistry between people can never be forced. I just know that it absolutely HAS to be there for me above all else and this makes me feel superficial. I wonder to myself, "Why don't I fall deeply madly in love with the nice guy who rides my bus and who likes to speak Chinese and who plays guitar and who reads Tennyson and loves kids and has a close relationship with his sister?" All the qualifications of the type of person I am looking for but missing that one essential element. Sigh.

Truthfully, I don't believe in soulmates. The idea that out of all the people in the world, I will find my soulmate in Gainesville Florida is highly unlikely. Therefore I must convince myself that there are multitudes of soulmates for every one person on this earth. I have loved many people in many ways. Which way is the right way? I haven't experienced it yet, I suppose. It is unfortunate that I believe that different people can be right for you at different times in your life--I don't think I fall into ranks with people who believe in one lifetime love. I think I am too faint of heart, too weak, too afraid... afraid that no-one could ever love me forever and ever. Maybe I'm afraid that I couldn't love just one person for ever and ever. I'm not entirely sure. Maybe my fear of commitment comes from the fact that I don't want to make the wrong decision (so I won't make any at all). They say nothing ventured, nothing gained. At this moment, I feel sort of desperate, like I am on pause. I hope I'm getting some sort of higher wisdom from this patient waiting experience, because its sometimes boring, often times lonely, and altogether frustrating.

Soulmate Wanted: Must be considerate, supportive, adventurous, wise, friendly, and fun. Must inspire me and make me smile. Must not let me get too bored. Bringing out my creative juices a plus. Making sure I don't lose myself in you is essential. Those without intense chemistry need not apply. Must inspire in me a promise and a will to love you forever.