There is a reason that I do not own any Manolo Blahnik pumps.
All right, there are two reasons that I don't own any Manolo Blahnik pumps. For the sake of this post, however, we will only address the issue of more noteable import: Long Term Relationships. Like most human-types, I have a healthy respect for (read: fear of) the LTR.
These little beasts creep right up on us, and frequently stay "under the radar" for months until, one lethargic night, you wake up in a cold sweat at 3 AM, tangled in your astronaut pajamas, and you see the remainder of your natural life stretching endlessly forward. Launching yourself at the nearest reflective service, you pull desperately at the bags under your eyes and gaze, agape, watching your visage change with a fear unmatched even by Dorian Gray himself.
(Exception: This experience is, of course, exponentially diminished if you are waking up next to the lithe-limbed, ultra-loving hottie of your dreams. You're also probably not wearing astronaut pajamas, in this instance, and therefore this post does NOT apply to you.)
"How," you ask your decrepit reflection, "did this happen?" You have always been the picture of contentedness! As the great treadmill of time has spooled beneath your feet, you have sighed as many times from joy as frustration. What is it, then, that has rocketed you into this late-night, teeth-clenching turmoil? Maybe it's just the veggie crunch-wrap you had before bed, but I respectfully suggest that the culprit is otherwise.
Let's put it this way: Once you wear the Blahnik pumps to the club, they become a different demon altogether. Chances are, your best friend has spattered them with a healthy layer of martini, you've wrenched the heel out of at least 2 sidewalk chasms, and, come to find out, after six hours of dance-stagger-trotting through the city, they hurt like a son of a bitch.
You wanted them, though, and you GOT them, baby. All *cough* hundred dollars of them are now yours, and, should you choose NOT to wear them, they will tsk judgmentally from the back of your closet, until, driven mad with guilt, you bring them out for another torturous evening. This time, you will suffer in silence.
This is, dear reader, "le pire des cas," and therefore should be read with the full knowledge that there is a good chance your over-priced foot-covers will feel great! However, this tiny crack in the great glass tower of FAITH is the source of my aforementioned, all-powerful terror of The LTR.
I am, this Monday morning, a Receptionist plagued with a raging case of nerves. My acceptance to graduate school has hammered down my where-abouts/activities for the next two and a half years of my life-space. I am thrilled... and panicked.
Truly,
A Reticent Receptionist
Monday, March 23, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Wednesday
I toe the line, I toe the line!
I walk as if in metered time.
Abiding hours of antique rhymes
and towing lines - what, then, is mine?
I walk as if in metered time.
Abiding hours of antique rhymes
and towing lines - what, then, is mine?
Friday, February 13, 2009
94110
Oh, my beautiful one!
This morning, you woke me up as you always do. I've never understood your capacity to start the day with such rapidity, but for six months now you have shed somnolence with just one specific swish of the second hand. At first, I found this frustrating, wanting to linger in sleep or slowly climb out of my foggy dreams. But now, this playful banter has become your chief charm, a bullet-point on my love-lists.
Everywhere, there are little signs of you: all about my car, inside my purse, hiding in my coat pockets. Since the moment we fell for each other, you have left tiny love-letters in my life. Most of these are inadvertently placed, but I can't help the way my limbs come alive with joy when I find them. (The blossoms on my bike, darling, were a lovely surprise.) You are filled with an altruism so genuine... It's as if you sense my quietest needs and then, with the dexterity of a symphony conductor, coax my desires from their hiding places and embody them before me.
Can you count the number of magnificent adventures we have shared? Surely, I cannot. As the sun goes down, you place your sturdy arm about my waist and I know something fantastic is about to unfold... The food, the drinks, the dancing... twisted all through with paintings and poems and street-singing love. I cannot help but sigh my joy to you every night, as we smile too hard and careen towards my porch.
Darling, I know you do not take my love for granted. You have never failed to reciprocate, in some fashion, the affection that I feel. You manifest in fog-free, starry rooftop nights to match my 24th Street music. You fill your arms with opportunities to match my twin thirsts for knowledge and sharing. You give me honesty, you give me chance, and, honey, you even let me wear black and brown together without a word.
I cannot imagine life without you now, though at first I tread towards you with reluctance. You've so many lovers... You've graced the pages of great literary works, you have been sung for decades, internationally. But after our first night together, when you were kind, and gentle, and modest... When you listened, rapt, to my own saga as if it were equal to your own... When you shared every ounce of yourself, willingly, and made visible your flaws...It was then that I knew we, my love, are meant to be.
My heart belongs to you, always -
The Most Amourous Receptionist
This morning, you woke me up as you always do. I've never understood your capacity to start the day with such rapidity, but for six months now you have shed somnolence with just one specific swish of the second hand. At first, I found this frustrating, wanting to linger in sleep or slowly climb out of my foggy dreams. But now, this playful banter has become your chief charm, a bullet-point on my love-lists.
Everywhere, there are little signs of you: all about my car, inside my purse, hiding in my coat pockets. Since the moment we fell for each other, you have left tiny love-letters in my life. Most of these are inadvertently placed, but I can't help the way my limbs come alive with joy when I find them. (The blossoms on my bike, darling, were a lovely surprise.) You are filled with an altruism so genuine... It's as if you sense my quietest needs and then, with the dexterity of a symphony conductor, coax my desires from their hiding places and embody them before me.
Can you count the number of magnificent adventures we have shared? Surely, I cannot. As the sun goes down, you place your sturdy arm about my waist and I know something fantastic is about to unfold... The food, the drinks, the dancing... twisted all through with paintings and poems and street-singing love. I cannot help but sigh my joy to you every night, as we smile too hard and careen towards my porch.
Darling, I know you do not take my love for granted. You have never failed to reciprocate, in some fashion, the affection that I feel. You manifest in fog-free, starry rooftop nights to match my 24th Street music. You fill your arms with opportunities to match my twin thirsts for knowledge and sharing. You give me honesty, you give me chance, and, honey, you even let me wear black and brown together without a word.
I cannot imagine life without you now, though at first I tread towards you with reluctance. You've so many lovers... You've graced the pages of great literary works, you have been sung for decades, internationally. But after our first night together, when you were kind, and gentle, and modest... When you listened, rapt, to my own saga as if it were equal to your own... When you shared every ounce of yourself, willingly, and made visible your flaws...It was then that I knew we, my love, are meant to be.
My heart belongs to you, always -
The Most Amourous Receptionist
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Two [Oh! Oh!] Eight (in Formalist Poetry)
While I find lists deliciously erotic (oh sweet, reductionist powers!), I have decided that 2008 will be recapped in poem-chunks. Largely, these were rediscovered in bookbags/purses/wallets that found themselves in my favor over the last twelve months. I love giving people triolets, so there are several :)
A Triolet for James
Despite the fact that figs were out of season,
He lifted one and put it in my hand.
"A gift," he grinned, providing me no reason.
He could tell I knew that figs were out of season.
I tried to pay, but in the end he won
And watched me as he went back to the stand.
Despite the fact that figs were out of season,
I laughed to find one lying in my hand.
10 May
Curtain pull swings like a noose. I start
talking beauty and see the Death's Head. Sweet
taste of your flesh too much, I turn to
the walls and breathe deep. I never.
(One of) Jarek's Triolet(s)
Remember pouring wine with me, offshore?
The sailors passing by became our friends.
Impostor in the fancy clothes I wore,
I remember drinking wine with you, offshore.
The docks grew dark; with only seconds more
until our days in Szczecin aimed to end,
you poured more wine. ("Remember!") Just offshore,
the sailors passed us by, our distant friends.
On Expensive Outbursts
In pieces just an hour before the show,
my violin unwinds itself across
the backstage floor. It’s bridge beneath my boot
becomes like dust – a faint, or mocking, sign
of angry whim. Perhaps, I hiss, my lips
in string-tight lines, you ought to consider
this high-light the end of the band.
Silence.
Convinced that nothing here is still intact,
I collect my wrath and now-empty bags.
They’ll have to find themselves another girl.
Los Angeles Limmerick
A bird has decomposed beneath the bridge,
An event the cars above have surely missed.
Its beak and wings and bone
Have formed a garden of their own.
By now I'm laughing: Only bums and I know this.
White Elephant Triolet (Regifted to Maxine)
I write these little fugues for when you’re dead.
Who else would ever think of such a gift?
In lieu of when you sang to me in bed,
I write these little fugues for when you’re dead.
The notes, I hope, will dissipate some dread.
In just the way you made my nightmares lift,
I write these little fugues. For, when you’re dead,
Who else will ever think of such a gift?
Goodbye, '08, goodbye! What a year you have been... I realized today, though, that my bloodstream feels like SPRING is just around the corner. The onset of that season always leaves me feeling electrified, and my current excitement over the beauty of things as they are, and the things to come, is the same. Oh, I am happy in this place! Shocked and different and wiser and happy.
I love you already, 2009!
-The Silliest Receptionist
A Triolet for James
Despite the fact that figs were out of season,
He lifted one and put it in my hand.
"A gift," he grinned, providing me no reason.
He could tell I knew that figs were out of season.
I tried to pay, but in the end he won
And watched me as he went back to the stand.
Despite the fact that figs were out of season,
I laughed to find one lying in my hand.
10 May
Curtain pull swings like a noose. I start
talking beauty and see the Death's Head. Sweet
taste of your flesh too much, I turn to
the walls and breathe deep. I never.
(One of) Jarek's Triolet(s)
Remember pouring wine with me, offshore?
The sailors passing by became our friends.
Impostor in the fancy clothes I wore,
I remember drinking wine with you, offshore.
The docks grew dark; with only seconds more
until our days in Szczecin aimed to end,
you poured more wine. ("Remember!") Just offshore,
the sailors passed us by, our distant friends.
On Expensive Outbursts
In pieces just an hour before the show,
my violin unwinds itself across
the backstage floor. It’s bridge beneath my boot
becomes like dust – a faint, or mocking, sign
of angry whim. Perhaps, I hiss, my lips
in string-tight lines, you ought to consider
this high-light the end of the band.
Silence.
Convinced that nothing here is still intact,
I collect my wrath and now-empty bags.
They’ll have to find themselves another girl.
Los Angeles Limmerick
A bird has decomposed beneath the bridge,
An event the cars above have surely missed.
Its beak and wings and bone
Have formed a garden of their own.
By now I'm laughing: Only bums and I know this.
White Elephant Triolet (Regifted to Maxine)
I write these little fugues for when you’re dead.
Who else would ever think of such a gift?
In lieu of when you sang to me in bed,
I write these little fugues for when you’re dead.
The notes, I hope, will dissipate some dread.
In just the way you made my nightmares lift,
I write these little fugues. For, when you’re dead,
Who else will ever think of such a gift?
Goodbye, '08, goodbye! What a year you have been... I realized today, though, that my bloodstream feels like SPRING is just around the corner. The onset of that season always leaves me feeling electrified, and my current excitement over the beauty of things as they are, and the things to come, is the same. Oh, I am happy in this place! Shocked and different and wiser and happy.
I love you already, 2009!
-The Silliest Receptionist
Friday, December 5, 2008
A Sonnet for My Security Badge (Upon Drowning Slowly in a Toilet)
Amidst the paint-chipped walls, I heard you drop,
And, woeful, watched your face submerge ‘neath scum.
I tried to catch you, tried to cry out “Stop!”
But slow I was, and now I’m e’er so glum.
Oh loyal Badge, I miss you at my side,
Dangling lightly, nymph-like in your sway.
I’ll mourn the way you lightly slapped my thigh,
And how you rode to work with me each day.
Without you, can I ever be complete?
Or lonely Admin will I always be?
Have you gone on to sleep a blessed sleep?
Or will you still give ghostly gifts to me?
Do not feel afraid, my long lost friend…
For you shall be reborn when I push “Print.”
R.I.P 12/5/08
And, woeful, watched your face submerge ‘neath scum.
I tried to catch you, tried to cry out “Stop!”
But slow I was, and now I’m e’er so glum.
Oh loyal Badge, I miss you at my side,
Dangling lightly, nymph-like in your sway.
I’ll mourn the way you lightly slapped my thigh,
And how you rode to work with me each day.
Without you, can I ever be complete?
Or lonely Admin will I always be?
Have you gone on to sleep a blessed sleep?
Or will you still give ghostly gifts to me?
Do not feel afraid, my long lost friend…
For you shall be reborn when I push “Print.”
R.I.P 12/5/08
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
A City Girl's Guide to Moving Out and Moving On
1) IDENTIFY UPHEAVAL NECESSITY FACTOR
Has your current residence begun to feel like a passive aggressive minefield, an agro terrain that you must breathlessly tread across to use the toaster oven? Does your roommate party until 4 AM on school-nights, aware that your vile alarm will arouse you a mere two hours later? Has a sense of Janus-style two facery become The Norm chez toi? Is your personal space riddled with strife, distrust, and a newly discovered ritual of starting the day off with a steaming cup of discord?
If you answered "yes" to these questions, then girl, it's time to move out and move on.
Living in a big city with uber-competitive housing, you will be tempted to stay, a subconscious last-ditch effort to avoid more difficulty in these tumultuous times. After all, it's going to cost you a LOT of money. (First month's rent, last month's rent, security deposit....) And, after all, you have moved four times in the last 15 months...
2) STOP BEING A RETICENT CHILD AND HAVE SOME INTEGRITY!
That's right. Get on Craigs List. Immediately. Click on EVERY single opening for a roommate within a 30 mile radius. Write the best damn piece of self-promotion in the history of the Mission District. Tinge your honesty with some sparkly adjectives, dull that desperate edge, and charm you way into the hearts of some fabulously sane potential housemates. *
*This process will need to be repated on a daily basis. Responses will be sparse, as nearly everyone in your proximity is a)equally as quirky/fabulous as you certainly are and b)potentially much more cutthroat in their attempts than you are willing to be. So either start baking panfuls of pot brownies to get the Bribe Train rolling, or respond to Craigs List posts until your wee little fingers are mere BONE.
3) DO THE DAMN THING ALREADY.
Make a spur of the moment decision. Trust the kindness in the singular email response that works its way repeatedly to the top of your inbox. Have a cup of coffee with the new potential sharers-of-your-life-space, recognize that they are neither axe-murderers nor faux Artistes Elite, warm to their utter lack of pretention and their genuine requests for radical honesty, and shake hands on it.
The house doesn't matter. It just so happens that it will turn out to be fabulously romantic and filled with fun, attractive people, but even if the place were a hovel.... shake hands on it. Remember, lady, you have got to stick to your guns at all costs. Remember that you only want one thing from people: The Truth! The Whole Enchilada of Honesty! This has been wildly lacking in your former casa, so spring for the Backbone Implant and march on out Guevara style.
4) GET OFF THE FENCE AND CELEBRATE YOUR SWEET NEW PAD!
You've moved before. It's a personnel issue, every blasted time. People are going to say shit about you when you're gone. Whoever (rapidly) steps up to fill the role you were hesitantly trudging through will learn of your strange habits, your moral shortcomings, your quirky and slightly disturbing collection of Found Objects. Assumptions will be made about your choice to leave. The chips will fall, and your sweet little anachronistic photograph will fade to nothingness, after having been graffitied with self-important words like "Uncollaborative."
Let not the whisperings distress you, you well-dressed warrior of the urban jungle! You've got the tenacity to keep up your quiet brilliance. And while you do not engage in the Obnoxious Trumpeting of Achievement (via egregious Facebook Status Updates, mass emails, or sneaky behind-the-back whisper sessions), the people who know what's what will provide you with an unshakeable support group and flourish alongside you.
Has your current residence begun to feel like a passive aggressive minefield, an agro terrain that you must breathlessly tread across to use the toaster oven? Does your roommate party until 4 AM on school-nights, aware that your vile alarm will arouse you a mere two hours later? Has a sense of Janus-style two facery become The Norm chez toi? Is your personal space riddled with strife, distrust, and a newly discovered ritual of starting the day off with a steaming cup of discord?
If you answered "yes" to these questions, then girl, it's time to move out and move on.
Living in a big city with uber-competitive housing, you will be tempted to stay, a subconscious last-ditch effort to avoid more difficulty in these tumultuous times. After all, it's going to cost you a LOT of money. (First month's rent, last month's rent, security deposit....) And, after all, you have moved four times in the last 15 months...
2) STOP BEING A RETICENT CHILD AND HAVE SOME INTEGRITY!
That's right. Get on Craigs List. Immediately. Click on EVERY single opening for a roommate within a 30 mile radius. Write the best damn piece of self-promotion in the history of the Mission District. Tinge your honesty with some sparkly adjectives, dull that desperate edge, and charm you way into the hearts of some fabulously sane potential housemates. *
*This process will need to be repated on a daily basis. Responses will be sparse, as nearly everyone in your proximity is a)equally as quirky/fabulous as you certainly are and b)potentially much more cutthroat in their attempts than you are willing to be. So either start baking panfuls of pot brownies to get the Bribe Train rolling, or respond to Craigs List posts until your wee little fingers are mere BONE.
3) DO THE DAMN THING ALREADY.
Make a spur of the moment decision. Trust the kindness in the singular email response that works its way repeatedly to the top of your inbox. Have a cup of coffee with the new potential sharers-of-your-life-space, recognize that they are neither axe-murderers nor faux Artistes Elite, warm to their utter lack of pretention and their genuine requests for radical honesty, and shake hands on it.
The house doesn't matter. It just so happens that it will turn out to be fabulously romantic and filled with fun, attractive people, but even if the place were a hovel.... shake hands on it. Remember, lady, you have got to stick to your guns at all costs. Remember that you only want one thing from people: The Truth! The Whole Enchilada of Honesty! This has been wildly lacking in your former casa, so spring for the Backbone Implant and march on out Guevara style.
4) GET OFF THE FENCE AND CELEBRATE YOUR SWEET NEW PAD!
You've moved before. It's a personnel issue, every blasted time. People are going to say shit about you when you're gone. Whoever (rapidly) steps up to fill the role you were hesitantly trudging through will learn of your strange habits, your moral shortcomings, your quirky and slightly disturbing collection of Found Objects. Assumptions will be made about your choice to leave. The chips will fall, and your sweet little anachronistic photograph will fade to nothingness, after having been graffitied with self-important words like "Uncollaborative."
Let not the whisperings distress you, you well-dressed warrior of the urban jungle! You've got the tenacity to keep up your quiet brilliance. And while you do not engage in the Obnoxious Trumpeting of Achievement (via egregious Facebook Status Updates, mass emails, or sneaky behind-the-back whisper sessions), the people who know what's what will provide you with an unshakeable support group and flourish alongside you.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Make Way, Melvillian Novembers!
Well, dear reader, the times are a-changing, and rapidly.
As I stride away from my tattered, pulpy little heart-puddle, I can only hope that your lives as of late have been filled with a lesser dose of dramatic doom.
October Karen was sure that her life could not become any greyer. This was after a greatly feared/actualized horrific moving experience, a broken car window, a sinus infection/near-fatal fever, continued weep-fests over the death of a dearly loved one, and several other small explosions of less notable import. Little did she know that November Karen would peer over her shoulder and positively YEARN to trade places.
However, I have spent a good deal of time sculpting/decoupaging December Karen into being. December Karen does the following things:
+Ceases to live in Over-Rated Art Warehouse of Passive Aggressive Tension
+Gets sweet room (still in San Francisco' s Mission District) in old Victorian House; room is sunny, cozy, filled with books and arty-girl decorations made by December and all Future Karens' efforts combined
+Begins graduate work at the University of San Francisco, earning in two years time the greatly desired piece of paper called MFA, Creative Writing
+Continues to design/actualize hand-stitched clothing/accessory line (Etsy site coming soon)
+Gallavants throughout the streets of San Francisco with veritable hordes of trustworthy, charming, and talented lads and lasses in tow
Also, I want a cat. He/she will be tiny and black and will bear proudly its badge: Triolet.
This, for now, is all of an "update" I can deliver. I continue to reel from the chicanery of the last several weeks, but now (shakily) stand re-empowered before you, a thrilling amalgam of hesitance and excitement over my newly acquired life path. While it diverts quite extremely from the one upon which I had been lumbering, it is filled with a room boasting much better interior design. And that, darlings, is never a negative.
With love, as always,
Your Adjective-Slinging Receptionist
As I stride away from my tattered, pulpy little heart-puddle, I can only hope that your lives as of late have been filled with a lesser dose of dramatic doom.
October Karen was sure that her life could not become any greyer. This was after a greatly feared/actualized horrific moving experience, a broken car window, a sinus infection/near-fatal fever, continued weep-fests over the death of a dearly loved one, and several other small explosions of less notable import. Little did she know that November Karen would peer over her shoulder and positively YEARN to trade places.
However, I have spent a good deal of time sculpting/decoupaging December Karen into being. December Karen does the following things:
+Ceases to live in Over-Rated Art Warehouse of Passive Aggressive Tension
+Gets sweet room (still in San Francisco' s Mission District) in old Victorian House; room is sunny, cozy, filled with books and arty-girl decorations made by December and all Future Karens' efforts combined
+Begins graduate work at the University of San Francisco, earning in two years time the greatly desired piece of paper called MFA, Creative Writing
+Continues to design/actualize hand-stitched clothing/accessory line (Etsy site coming soon)
+Gallavants throughout the streets of San Francisco with veritable hordes of trustworthy, charming, and talented lads and lasses in tow
Also, I want a cat. He/she will be tiny and black and will bear proudly its badge: Triolet.
This, for now, is all of an "update" I can deliver. I continue to reel from the chicanery of the last several weeks, but now (shakily) stand re-empowered before you, a thrilling amalgam of hesitance and excitement over my newly acquired life path. While it diverts quite extremely from the one upon which I had been lumbering, it is filled with a room boasting much better interior design. And that, darlings, is never a negative.
With love, as always,
Your Adjective-Slinging Receptionist
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