The Chicka Sisterhood











They aren’t usual, nor terribly original for that matter. Most girls I meet have a route in life they’ve planned out. Whether it’s marriage, children, career, everyone seems to have a plan. That’s not my sort of plan. These are the things I want to do for the rest of my life:

Be aware of wonder. I want to walk into forests and revel in the beauty of thousands of years staring down at me from branches. I want the magnificent power of this earth to continue to take my breath away every chance it gets.

I want to read everyday of my life. It was my first love and I’d be content with it as my last.

I want to stay open to emotion. I like the fact that Polar Bears dying and countries being bombed still make me cry. It is important to me not to become jaded in the ways of the world. I am not alright with them, and I never want to be.

I want to remember that the way you treat others directly effects them. Not only just today, but potentially for the rest of their life. Be patient with children, teach them well and give them the tools they need to learn and suceed everyday.

I want my family to be in my heart always. I want to continue my most valued relationships and let them  blossom into adulthood.

I want photographs and writing to be an essential part of my being. They will tell my story when I no longer can.

I want to swim in the ocean at 3 am whenever I get the compulsion.

I want to see beauty in everyday occurences, and never let life slip through my hands.

I want to appreciate love, and not take the truth of it for granted.

I want to smile in the sunshine.

Just the short short of a long list… But it’s a list I’ve decided to keep. To remind myself that there is more to this life than today, and the decisions I make now are what will allow me to be happy then.



{March 29, 2008}   What comes of dreams

Dreams can be my worst enemy.

An inmeasurable happiness in the strangest of circumstances, falling yet landing so peacefully…

An impatient waking, every inch of my concious self pleading to drift back. It’s never the same though, each moment after that my dream is marred with nervous fingers, silent prayers to just let me stay.

Waking, finally, after the threads of sleep have unraveled, when my mind and body are brought back to actual time. I am short of breath somehow, always when I wake… as if I’ve been chasing my dream as darkness moves in.

I lie in bed with a cigarette hanging over an empty Coke can, headache beginning between my eyelids. And I can’t stand the thought of sentimental happiness and the way my heart goes all a flutter even in the most dire circumstances.

I dream of him. And though he may be in the peripheral of even my dreaming vision, and though I may be hiding behind each brick and alley way, just watching, when I wake I am sobered. The waning connection pounds through my blood, and I realize-

my dreams with him are happier than any real life I have ever owned.

I  regret leaving him. And I’ll never forget stepping on the plane, tears streaming down my flushed face, and the stewardess asking “are you sure you want to go, miss?” Half mocking, half concerned. I looked up, eyes steady though cold, and said “I’ve never been more sure of anything”. I fell to the ground then, contents spilling from every bag, and I crawled every inch to that airplane leaving coins and reciepts and my final note from him behind

“gone to the store, buying you wine. let’s get schnaukered and watch kung fu”



{March 7, 2008}   cutting keys

Perhaps I jumped into it.

I gave him a key, and whether I convince myself it was for convienence or not,  it was because I’d never done it before. It made me feel grown up. Like a real adult in a real adult relationship. Little did I know it would turn out to be one of the more childish periods in my life.

I didn’t ask for it back. Something in me revels at the thought of him carrying it on his keychain, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger late at night. I know one day soon he’ll slip it through the metal ring, stash it in a drawer or maybe just toss it in the garbage bin. Either way it will be much harder for him to let go of than it ever should.

 Now I hear he’s dropped off the face of the planet ever since I said goodbye.

 It’s a terrible habit of mine- dating sentimental men with reckless abandon. Perhaps next time I will only hand over the keys to the lawnmower, how attached can that make a man?



{February 18, 2008}   in the middle of the night…

1:32 am. Phone rings, my mind hears the bell’s melody, and a church appears in my dreams, telling me the hour of God is here.

7:30 am. Waking, face still attached to my pillow, eyes slowly focusing, hand reaching for the phone that apparently fell asleep next to me. It was him. The church bells in my dream, signaling a savior I haven’t had faith in for years, it was him.

 Missed Call: Honey Love 1:32 am.

And everyday since, I wonder what it was his drunken mind needed during the Witching hours… Reason tells me it’s just the same as always, another crossword puzzle he can’t solve on his own. The need for a word, to recall a scene from a movie, the lyrics to a song. This was my use to him. His endless source of problem solving. Arranging his bills. Turning the oven off.  Switching lights off as he walks from room to room.  Reminding him of birthdays, or appointments, or reasons to be happy. Slapping him when he talked nonsense. Wrapping myself around him when the withdrawals hurt so bad he’d cry.

I wonder now, if she knew you called. If you were giggling together, trying to remember where the last Doors concert was held. Did she mind it that you called me to remind you? Did she sit, silently, with her breath held, tightness growing in her chest with every unanswered ring? Was it relief or pity that made her smirk when it cut to my voice on the machine?

This is my beauty: I will answer when you call (and when you become more than church bells in my head). I will sit and wonder what it is you wanted, asking myself- never you. And if, next time, your ring is not lost in sleep, I will answer- voice cracking in midnight words, and I will tell you…

The Doors final concert was in New Orleans. Jim Morrison smashed his mic on stage, and it was over.

A five letter word for a Greek market? Agora. Which means “open space”, thus the phobia.

The man who played double agent for Don Corleone? Luca Brasi, of course. He sleeps with the fishes now.

 Water bill is due the 17th.

Miss you too, Sass. Nite.



{January 22, 2008}   Telling the truth

When I was little, oh about 4 or so, I dropped a spare window pane that sat on our back fence into the neighbors yard. I was testing my capacity at levitation. Alas, I was no Houdini, and the neighbors now had plenty of shards scattered throughout the yard.

I ran as fast as my size seven sandals could carry me, and tried to push the event out of my mind for the rest of the afternoon.

The next morning, sleep still clouding my eyes, dressed only in my daddy’s big white tee shirt (my bedtime garb up until the age of 8), I walked into the kitchen. I was questioned about the missing glass, and it’s mysterious removal and reappearance in my neighbors yard.

I cried with guilt, every inch of me showing. But I continued to deny my presence in the glass-over-fence incident, praying that it would just become untrue if I didn’t believe it hard enough.

I never admitted my guilt. But accepted a hug from my father, soothing words that it didn’t matter anyway, he just wanted to make sure the glass hadn’t grown legs and tried to end its own life. Needless to say, I never played with the neighbor girls again. Whether it was guilt or pride, I couldn’t bring myself into the presence of people who thought of me as a liar.

In sixth grade I found a tube of chapstick. Once the owner noticed it went missing and accused me of taking it, I denied it with my life. I didn’t speak with her for years. (It was really really nice chapstick… and I ended up throwing it away and then screaming “effing search me, bitch!”)

I’ve always been a liar. To strangers. To friends. To family. Usually it is to avoid conflict. My Libra brain and church-going upbringing somehow warped my adult mind into believing that it is actually better to make people happy than it is to be honest.

The fact is, I’m more honest with those I have a casual relationship than I am with those I am close to.

Will I ever stop lying? No. It just feels too good sometimes.



et cetera