Hats

A friend once told me, "Every time I look at you...you look different. I don't know what it is. It's like your face is always changing." I thought about this for a long time afterwards and still ponder it now. I think that was a really honest thing to say. It did make me ever more critical when I looked in the mirror, and made me wonder if how I appeared was based on the degree of stress I was feeling, or maybe how much I smoked that day. But I let it go and started to focus on looking better. This was when I was seventeen.

Once I got a little older and wasn't as much of a cardio junkie, I started to think that I was changing frequently again, and attempted to cover these changes with things like...hats. In the 90's I was all about little clips in my golden locks and tight shirts that were sure to expose my sculpted arms. Baggy pants with backpacks and pumas peeking prettily out their flared bottoms. There was no room for things like meds or anxiety and if there was, well, I danced it off and that was the end of it. Popped a pill, smoked a variety of shit and let it go.

Then the hats began. It's kind of how I started to sort things out by which of my many hats was capping my cranium. It's easier to talk about the past in material terms. So I remember certain things in terms of hats. At about twenty three I saw a wrinkle in my forehead that was of course a result of smiling, laughing, frowning, pondering...simply living. I was brought back to a time when shit wasn't all peachy and pink.

My grandfather was dying and my mother was driving to Jersey twice a day to take care of him. She worked her ass off and the result? He looks at her one day--critically--down his nose, and says, "Is that a furrow in your brow?" I mean you would think, "How fucking dare you say that when I'm here feeding you, cleaning you, being your parent and doormat and tolerating the vile insulting shit you spew at me" would be a plausible response. But ever accommodating to people who treated her like shit, the reply was a teary-eyed "Well all I do is worry about you and about this family; so yes I'm sure there's a furrow in my brow." Utter resignation. Later on I recall she admitted a desire to add "you friggin bastard" to that reply, but it was never said. He died a short while after.

I should mention that my mother was a beautiful woman, who went to modeling school, worked on Wall Street, was very fashion conscious and always looking in mirrors. The most mirrored quality however was her insecurity. Vanity was like a religion for her because she had no faith in the rest of herself.

Thinking back to the time when this all went on, I was around fifteen. I remember beginnings of addictions and angry words scrawled in thousands of marble composition books with blue Bic's that I thought of as weapons. I remember skateboards and spray-paint, and nobody our age had died just yet. I had a blue wool Stussy cap that I wore pulled down over my eyes as much as I could. When I wanted to get attention, I would simply don silver hoops, flip the cap around, and unzip my constant hoodie. There was even a time when I was confident...almost happy with myself.

My mother was always saying things like "Oh that's just the way it was" and "If it's meant to be, it will be" and in the meantime digging a deeper hole of debt and lies on a daily basis. At the time I just wanted to get far away from her. I hated all that she reminded me of and I hated that she was there and my father was not. I hated that she was a possibility of what my future would look like and FUCK NO that was NOT FOR ME. Ignorance and a pretty face? I'll pass. The inability to communicate--no thanks. I would always say what I felt and say it as loud as I could, because silence was a lack of ink in my blue Bic pens. Silence was the last page of a marble composition book without a backup waiting to be filled. Silence would have been the end of me.

"This is Keri she's mad cool. A little quiet but it's all good." This is how I was introduced by someone who obviously did not know me well whatsoever. I was wearing a black Powell Peralta Bones Brigade skull cap, blue Etnies and a navy hoodie. I would normally object to being intro'd as the quiet girl but my new friend followed with "Hey quiet girl spark this blunt." It was then indeed...all good. We climbed to the top of the monastery that night and sat in a bell tower looking at the stars high as we were. We could not be fucked with, and it was memorable as hell. I was sixteen and living out loud.

My first day of college I went to class with a black and yellow A-1 Meats cap, black and white shell-tops and a grey hoodie that made me feel warm when I needed protection from new things. There was so much that I would learn, but also a lot that I already knew. The part that I already knew was about loss, sadness, and numbing everything. I knew how to flip a switch and turn off all my anger and emotions that felt shitty. I knew exactly which combinations of bottles would do what I needed at the moment, who to call, where the head-shops were, and which bars wouldn't care if I had i.d. After class, I would go get comforted.

When I found out the money was gone and I couldn't stay living at my upscale college that was keeping me among smart people who would actually encourage my artistic ranting, I was wearing black and white Pumas, a grey Stussy hat, and a consistently shredding hoodie. I was wrenched from the village back to the borough with the boat and out of my element yet again. Back to the skateboards and spray paint and working shit jobs just to afford sneakers and weed.

For several years after this I kept getting hats that didn't really fit right. I was a waitress, a ticket seller, candy slinger, guest list filler, bar tender, supermarket checker, club promoter, inventory taker, kid tutor, scarf painter, resume writer, an expert blunt roller, and queen of the boardwalk. I danced in every club I could, traveled the whole East coast for raves in amusement parks, campgrounds, stadiums, warehouses, roller rinks and parties on beaches that lasted days at a time. I looked cute (damn right) in whatever hat I might be wearing, but there were so many in such a short period that I can only remember that they all had brims that I would bend around a coffee can to get just the right crimp style.

Throughout all my various uncertain occupations, I wore visors, baseball caps, painter's caps, vibrant knit pom-pommed jammies with snowflakes on em. There were some with logos and sirens, ear flaps, chin straps, some even with flashing lights. Yet all those hats just took me on a nine-year tour of all the things I would never have for very long. I bumped chests with heartbreak who later stabbed me in the Achilles and told me to fuck off. I moshed in pits with random lips I kissed and punched--had giggle fits and tons of trips, candy flipped and dove off cliffs. I may not remember all the hats I wore, but I do know my head always remained attached and I felt like I was always covered.

When I was twenty one I decided to finish school. I plunged back into my wordsmithing in a pair of black and white Vans, with a checkered Thrasher cap, baggy jeans and the constant black hoodie. I had a passion for getting done with the bullshit and out into the real world. I was driven by anger and pain and heartbreak and random but forceful components of the military that kept appearing in my surrounding life. Threatened by things like being stuck or getting married, a fire was lit under my ass that I have yet to see something comparable to. My headphones got bigger and I learned to refine my techniques. I read more and judged less, but never let the blue Bic's run out or the marble notebooks get neglected. I still bent my brims in the old familiar way.

Now I know that when I was twenty three and decided to stay and get a Master's I had just graduated wearing a purple cap and gown, and immediately traded that in for a brown wool Transworld hat, navy pumas, an ever present pint glass of Guinness, and an even deeper compulsion for trance. And I remember that the next few years varied between Adidas and Pumas and several navy caps and much vinyl spun faster than the time that slipped speedily by.

When I turned thirty and had already finished my thesis, I thought about how different my life had become. I was an editor, a thoroughly intense individual, with even bigger headphones, more to say, and stacks of marble notebooks lining my apartment. I did however, notice one thing that always makes me smile. Amongst the notebooks and amidst all my accomplishments, are all these hats. The hats I've worn have been full of indecision and insecurity. They've been stained with blood and tears and death's lingering scent. They smell like his cologne or her strawberry shampoo. The hats are both crisp with dew from mornings I woke up confused in someplace different, and rain-soaked from all the nights I stormed out on things that I loved. They are sweat spiced and sex crushed, sitting in heaps with old shoelaces that I snipped from each memorable pair whose soles were danced to pieces. And I smile at the notion of all the places my hats have been--all the times they kept me safe and had my back.

Yeah there was a lot of sadness, and I lost people that I loved. But no matter where I was, I could always adjust the brim for a better view of whatever held my fixated gaze. As log as there was a way to tweak the scene, my hats kept my head on straight, my eyes open wide, and I wouldn't have worn em any other way.

Down to Earth

Flashing visions of red and gold,
Fleeting sounds of drums and vocals,
New shoes,
Freshly dyed and waxed.
We start the car and the evening.
Put in the disc that sings to my soul,
Roll down the window and light up a smoke.
Skyscrapers fly by and the breeze exhilarates my painted skin.
New opportunities and old friends,
Meeting and greeting those who help it all come
TOGETHER
We enter...no lines
Are you listed...no charge.
Seeing these lights and hearing those speakers call my name
I know I am home.

She is wearing my favorite color,
He is singing along with the DJ.
They smile and shake to the rhythms of the Mixmaster.
No need to know their names,
No question we are all family.
Sisters in symphony,
Brothers in bass,
Cousins in creativity,
Spouses of house.

Pick up this pace.
Rivulets of emotion trickle down my upturned face.
Reaching for the lights--can a person touch heaven?
Our hearts beat with this track,
Home in our veins.
Every hair,
Every inch or skin feels music of living.
Waters so deep that two inches of rain feels like The Red Sea,
My laces and soles float up,
UP, UP, UP
Can a person touch heaven without even trying?
Or will it all descend and touch the soul of all the rhythm's children?
Wherever it be,
Wherever we
go,
We will take this along...

TOGETHER

UP, UP, UP until we reach that sky.
Oblivious to outsiders,
In here we are all one soul.
Obliterated by the immense love,
Never wanting to come back
DOWN

Aquamarine

Aquamarine i thought
she should be called.
full of color and life and
rays
energy, fluid
concentrated zing.
Blue streaks shot out of the corners of her eyes.
and spilled sneakily from behind that smile
She blinks a wink
to the girl across the stage - yes
and laughs out loud at the lollipop
life she shares with them.
sneakers tied tight
braids tied up
sparkles on
eyes closed
waiting for that...
bass drop...
Happy skipping fluid arms and feet connect
with that ambient place that lets us all dance on the table
on the roof
of the car
in the streets
LOUD.
Aquamarine sets off the blend of yellow, red, purple, white, lavendar, teal, maroon, orange auras.
The bass sets a metronomic pulse
pulse alive and constant
speeding then flying
tingling in your soul.
And she winks and grins
jumps
spins
her pulse is my pulse
and our veins pump bass.
beats rain down on us all
those lights within the mind
a crossroads
convergence
meeting place of myelin.
strips us free
Retell
And begin again
No grey.

NightBrain

I get really creative at night.
I get really angry at night.
Anger spurs inspiration spurs creativity.
When the world is winding down I feel myself getting up, up, and up.
It's finally quiet and the world shuts up and I can bet the majority of them are asleep.
Well...some.

I think about all the messy wreckage and how it's been growing and festering and stopped up in a bottle like wine resealed.
You can never really keep the full bodied goodness if you pop cork and re-plug.
It loses something.
It loses its voice.
No longer is there a free flowing fountain of fragrance that erupted when you took the top off.
There is no more deliciousness that tastes tantalizing on the tip of your tongue.

People are the same way.
The very same.
You think you have a friend and you end up fucking.
You end up fighting and calling each other liars.
You think you have something that you will savor for a lifetime and then it becomes less fresh.
One day it turns to vinegar just like the wine.
People call you cynical and damaged and you feel...
Broken. And. Lost.
Then something happens one day--if you're lucky or if you have someone who doesn't leave you completely.
Eternal gratefulness ensues.

***

Then you read the book he wrote about your pain.
You are introduced to his wife--or her husband.
It all starts to seem like a movie and life slows down for a minute.
You think about all the nights spent tearfully drowning in pints of anger and clouds of dusty smoke and you see that not much has evolved.
Sure, things have changed but you see something that won't go away no matter who you try to be.
It matters not where you move or who you try to erase the hurt with.
No matter how many friends you fuck and enemies you forgive and wine you watch turn to vinegar it just doesn't stop.

***

You wake up with:
Sweaty uncomfortable silence all around you,
Someone you thought was an answer snoring softly in your bed,
A house fervently cleaned and clothes you wear to the job that made you feel smart but not whole,
Bills and responsibility and your name on shit you share,
Maybe even kids who you look at and wonder...Where the fuck did I go?
Whatever it is that you see when you shriek awake from a dead deep sleep you know,
Nothing will ever be like it was.
Not. One. Thing.

Snow Days: Double Down

Two days snowed in, off work, and getting to a point where its enough to start seeing pavement appear. Sure its fun to stay inside...sort of. I've been about as productive workwise as i'm gonna be. Done some grading, some writing, painted the bathroom, hung some new cabinets, slayed the laundry monster and cooked a bunch of healthy meals. I do appreciate days off but (and there's always a but) I see now why I always have a schedule that's jam packed. I bring it on myself , way too much at a time, and then I live the shit out of it. That's all I can do. It's what I need.

Over the past week I've caught up on stuff that was falling behind, and managed to even get some rest. However, I think it's not so good for me to have downtime as much as I have had this week..unless people live near me more...which they don't...yet. And every time I write that--or something like it, I see what it is that's missing. And what's missing sucks. There's always been accessibility in my life. Not so much anymore. Feels like the damn sidewalk rolls up at night and I can't just stay still.

Living here has taken the part of me that I don't like to look at and put it on display, like a photo that's been blown up so big I can see pores and roots. There has been so much isolation and so much solitude in the last three point five years of Keriness it's like i'm in the octagon with my antithesis. I know it's good to get away from things that are sad, and things that hurt. Even too much good stuff can cause damage. But if anyone ever asked me what not to do; this is it. Don't leave everything you know really well at the same time. Don't even gradually get rid of everything you know well.

Maybe that's selfish, or maybe its not something people will get until they do something fundamentally wrong or at least painful. The other day I was reminded of a book I read that was aptly titled Wherever You Go, There You Are. It was all about meditating and staying in the moment. So therefore depression is in the past, anxiety is in the future (loosely) and there should not be any trauma in this moment. Sounds simple. Many simple people I know totally get it. They can practice it. Yet when your brain glides zoomily like a luge from the minute you sit up in panic out of deep dead sleep...it's not simple to practice the concept.

Last night I woke up at 4am holding my breath, wide awake and wired and feeling like I was in mid-marathon mode. Flight response kicked in. I had to get out of the room, and almost out of the house but I paused at the computer wrote some shit and got sucked in. I recently had dental work and realized that the crown that felt too tall and I was going to get readjusted is now ground flat like the rest of my teeth. I felt a shooting pain behind my eyes as I typed fervently and tried to purge this negativity. Then I began to wonder if it was really negative at all.

For months I couldn't write a word. I was swamped with editing revising grading commenting helping serving compromising and settling for less and less and less. If you think that's a mean thing to say it's not. I've often said I lost myself but really I just expanded to avoid the insides of a brain that works too hard. The go go go went to: I better not, which morphed into: get it over with, so fast that I didn't even see it happening till I was almost gone. Almost is the word that matters. It doesn't matter anymore if you get past the almost. Nothing would.

Ok morbidity aside, I think this is all good. When things start to inspire me I can't stop writing. I take pictures and run miles and will likely visit you in the near future. Personal reflection leads to revelation, and eventually, to the person you always were and may have lost a part of. But whatever we do we can always get back there. Now that I'm back to work tomorrow and have less time it will be a challenge but I think I have a lot of ideas on what's in the future. Especially since there is finally a chance that the future will not be here in solidarity.

Enough already see you on the dancefloor.

Pre Core

As I elliptically exercised my frustrations for an hour today, I was so in the zone that I not only was tapping my fingers but also lip synching words to a Tyas track. Sweat poured down my back and my hair stood up more askew than its namesake DJ. My heart was pounding and I could hear it in my ears behind the deafening beats that tore through my drums and thrashed my lobes. I blinked drops away and wiped my sleeve across my brow. My feet were rapidly circling and the muscles in my arms felt like they would just pop out of existence.

Of course I sometimes forget that people can see me, and this must have been quite amusing to the few that were pounding along right beside me. I get into it. I get really into the shit I do that makes me sweat. Yeah that sounds about right. Every time I have a good workout I get whatever is bothering me to step off for a minute or sixty. Everything is just bass, drums, bass, record after record, melodic vocals appear woven throughout in an intricate linking of notes and bangs. Thumps and thuds rail my brain like a driving drill. Touching the tips of my fingers to the bottom of the bowl filled with numbness that replaced my wicked pint glass ten months ago.

Don't get me wrong I love the insane amount of time I spend ellipticalsizing. I equally enjoy a flow that follows spinning that can only be likened to ... well the flow that follows the other kind of spinning. But today I noticed something different. I noticed the black and gray trimmed icon that sits just under my pumping legs. Outlined in silver there is a glimpse of something bright. Ironic but appropriate I see what was always there and I just haven't seen and SEEN before. A label, a name, like a record circling as I try to read its label and twist my eyes and neck along.

PRECOR.

All irony is not lost on this girl. I had to stop myself from giggling maniacally. I had to take a deep breath and fight not to tap the person next to me and explain that PRECOR must be the motivator. It must be what we are all fighting for after all. Really? I don't want gym friends. It's ten bucks a month and semi-desolate in the late morning, so I just need my solitude and sweat and Tyas tracks and huge water bottle. But PRECOR is not just what we sweat for, but also a warning.

If I look back to last year, even a few months ago, I can see how it was Previous to having a Core that was actually developing. There was nothing to show as a result of hard work. There was tired, angry, overwhelmed, overscheduled and exhaustion. It was Pre-Cor and I didn't give a shit about working out.

Now every time I look down and see my silver signet of seduction, my elephantine excellent elliptical all grey and black with silver trim I appreciate the sweat. I appreciate the shit I've been through and thank whoever is listening that I am no longer a piece of the messy massive millions who I will forever now think of as PRECORE.

Letting It Out

Over the past week I've realized a great, big, giant, load of shit about myself. It's not exactly all new stuff, but it's certainly stuff that I had put aside for a while--traded in for a facade that is just...not me. I've spent time this week just listening to friends, letting my brain wander as much as it wants and just letting my creativity come out. I feel like I should say come back out, but it was never fully away I don't think.

Monday I visited a friend for lunch, and another friend later on, and ended up just hanging around talking and listening, talking and listening, etc etc etc. I started to laugh at one point and thought about how long it's been since my laugh was real and not forced. How long it's been since I smiled so big and thought about the past in a way that doesn't hurt. Normally I would just rant and lament why it's like that...but something clicked. I got it. I finally got it.

On Friday night I went to a book cafe and read some of my poetry. I went because I got back in touch with a friend; a part of my heart. So I go, thinking I'm not sure I even want to get up and read but I'll watch and listen and see how I feel. As soon as I crossed the bridge and walked in the door of the soothing shelves of pages and pages I felt something I haven't felt in over 3 years...calm and comforted. Then I met a bunch of really nice, really laid back people, sat back, had some coffee, watched and listened, read some poems and was suddenly not a wreck.

So I've been a wreck more often than not for a few years I gotta admit. I know it's all in perspective and that I can tell some amazing stories on paper, and I know that there is nothing I regret. Not one thing; not a day. Of course everyone has their fucked up time just as much as they have those things that are worthy of being in the stories on paper. I just have been realizing that without the fucked up, there would be no amazing.

Today I went to a friend's theater production and again saw some awesome talent. Got to see people I haven't seen and always think about. It was a really nice day. Then after that I went to an old favorite place and ate a cheeseburger and reminisced with another piece of my heart. I was relaxed again. And I thought about how long it has been since I felt so relaxed. I didn't even think about why, but stuff started to make sense.

I always hear people talking about places they used to live and left, saying, "Oh I would never go back there because of all the bad shit that happened." Trust me I get how everywhere you look something reminds you of being sad. But I'm also starting to get that no matter where you go you take all that bullshit baggage with you. So if you relocate, try out a new side of yourself that's not real, but fools people for a while, and just be stagnant and uncreative, you end up with what I had just a short while ago. Being stuck.

When my friend's daughter was little, she says one day, "Stucks!" and when I looked at her I realized she was talking about being strapped into her highchair and was not happy about it. "Stucks" she yelled. Then it later became "I stucks" at two, and then "I stuck" at three, though I'm not sure what it has trans-morphed into at five. It makes me understand a lot when kids do that. They are totally uncorrupted and they say something simple that just blows your mind wide open and you just can't believe you thought everything was so complicated.

What's the moral of this one you ask? Well I guess it's just that I am not going to be stuck anymore. Whatever that means (and believe me I'm not sure) I refuse to just go through the motions for one more minute. If I decide I want to do something I'm doing it. If something doesn't seem right, I'm saying so. If something doesn't work out when it was supposed to, well...everything happens for a reason. How is this different than the person I always was? It isn't. That's the point. Sometimes it takes a little time, but you always end up finding yourself again. You can go years without realizing you were stuck, but once you do...run your fastest and do NOT look over your shoulder.