The Color Purple

There was a little Jew-boy, and he touched millions of people around the world.

I'm not talking about Jesus ... He was one of Us, remember that my Jewish brothers and sisters? You don't have to, you just know. Everything Jesus did was Jewish. He was a Jew down to his bones and marrow, and He didn't come to overthrow the Law (the Torah), not one jot nor tiddle. He didn't.

Jesus was Jew, and you don't need to remember that. You know that. But who were raised not to be Jews, we have to remember that, every day. Jesus came from the Chosen People. You.

Hi, Eli. I miss you. How are you? (I think if she weren't in Israel right now, on the fucking front, she'd be raping my bones ... right in front of her mother, too, and that's saying something).

But, no, I'm talking about another Jew: Steven Spielberg.

Okay, it's wrong how that guy gets it so right all the time, from Jurassic Park to Schindler's List to The Color Purple. But he does.

So, there it is. Proof that God exists: the Color Purple. God invented the color purple to show us that there's something good, and pure and beautiful in the the world, and if we just stopped, just for one second, and looked, we'd see it. We'd see God and His creation, and we'd see God in His creation, and we'd see it as He sees it: good ... and beautiful.

But we don't, do we. We never, ever do anything ... except rush to get to the next thing, and while we're stuck in that next thing, we fidget until we get to that next, next thing.

But ... purple. So beautiful. You could fall in love with it, couldn't you? It is God's color, after all, so what's not to love.

Nothing. Go for it.

But, as for me, I disagree. Purple is nice and beautiful and elegant and pretty ...

... but I like ... beige, and tan, and pale, creamy white, and mocha, and dark chocolate ...

that is ... I like, flesh tones, uncovered from purple cloth.

Just me, and her, and no purple between us.

...

So, whacha think, huh? That was me, raggin' on purrpleluver19 and her, okay, her obsession with purple. So, snaps for me, amirite?

But this is what she wrote back:

Aww but wait she wears that purple for me only and guess whats under that first layer of purple is purple sexy purple underwear that she lets only me take off so sorry I guess all your girls should probbly hate purple or ill find them. LOL

Oh, man! `phfina went for the shot, thinking she was all that, and she got stuffed by purrpleluver19.

Um, so, I guess: go team purple! sigh

...

Oh, and this was purrpleluver19's blessing to quote her in this post:

That was AWESOME I LOVED it. Plus i didnt mind it at all it blew me away.
P.s. it always takes about hw long you can write out the alphabet with your tongue to get to the center......LOL

Uh, um ... `phfina reels and everything dims. THUD! (`phfina faints or has a heart attack, I don't know which)

On Beauty: Sita Sings the Blues

What is beauty.

That's not a question. That's a statement.

Because, okay, check this:



Isn't she alluring? Don't you, like me, just want to savage her, because you can't control the lust that she calls forth from you? From what? Her 'allure' to be sure, but that's because she's beautiful, isn't she?

I mean, anyone would be a fool to turn down such offered promises of bliss, right? Who could resist that? Only an idiot or a cad, right?

Obviously.



Like I said: obviously.

But, okay, the guy was ... hm, how do I say this politely, without appearing chauvinistic?

Hm, words fail me.

So, okay, the guy was being a guy. But what did the girl, she of the alluring black lace thong take away from this?



What is she saying to herself right now?

What do you say to yourself right now?

What do I say to myself right now?

'God, I'm so ugly/fat/stupid/dumb/useless ...' ... and on, and on, and on.

And why? Why do we say this to ourselves? Because some guy or girl in class gave us a condescending look?

No.

No. That's not it. That's not it at all.

Look at the first picture again. Isn't she the most beautiful thing in the world? Bar nothing? Doesn't she maybe even know it? Damn, she is hot! And she might be saying that to herself at that moment, too. She is fine! and sexy and sweet and smart and beautiful and with it and together and ...

... and everything.

But that's a very, very fragile layer.

We. Us. Me. We are very, very fragile creatures, because underlying that moment of exultation is this.

The voice. That little voice, that is telling us, all the time: you're trash. You're a faker, and you know it. You're nothing. You're shit. You're ugly. You're — oh, God — a disappointment to your parents. They don't love you. You don't deserve love.

It's not other people telling us this: is us. It's me, doing it to myself.

And all I need is this. I just, in my crowing and preening, one person with one glance to confirm what I'm telling myself as I try to use my bravado to bluster my way through this report, or presentation, or triste, or introduction.

I just need that one thing to make my foot moving forward to miss its step for me to fall onto my face. And then I'm that girl who fell down some steps or who flubbed her presentation or who turned in a shit paper or who farted when he was hooking his fingers into my panties or who threw up in the back of your car or tried to look sexy and oh, so failed.

It wasn't you telling me this.

It was me telling me this, and I just happened to use you to prove to me what I know that I actually am.

But, wait a sec. Really.

Look at the girl in the third picture, and look at the girl in the first picture. What is the difference in the two pictures?

No, duh, `phfina, like, huge!

Yes, like: huge!

But is she in the same body? The same skin? The same black lace thong?

Yes. Yes. and Yes. (as I scream out during certain occasions).

So what is the difference?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Except.

Except what she tells herself. She's the exact same beautiful woman, alluring, sweet, smart, sexy, all of that, except for the one crucial difference in what she tells herself she is.

You see where I'm going with this, of course. It's obvious to us, the dispassionate observers.

That guy, that jerk, has nothing to say who she is, and she could just as easily gotten up from the bed, smiled and go out for a drive with the top down and take a dive into the ocean for a cleansing refreshing swim, and then come tell that John that he's taking up space and is no longer welcome.

She could so easily do that.

And it's so easy for us to tell her that: "You rock, gf! You don't need no man to tell you who you are!"

But, that's not the real test.

It's easy — too easy — to see the faults in others and help them with free advice. 'Free' as in it cost you nothing to give it because you have no buy in that other person's well being after you dispense your wisdom and stick your nose in other people's businesses, 'helping' them by pointing out all their failings to them.

No, the real test is where the rubber meets the road.

It's what you tell yourself when you flub that word or trip or puke or laugh at the wrong time (oh, God, the worst! and everybody's looking at you like you know the idiot you are).

That's the hardest.

And the other hardest is this.

'Psst. Psst. Psst!'

Or: "Who does she think she is, wearing that dress like a slut?" "Did you see her make eyes at the VP? Is she going for a promotion ... on her back?"

Or, when somebody says: "I'm going to start my own business in cupcake making!" or: "I got called for a talent call, should I go?"

Do you say: "Oh, you know you're not suited for that Jane, you're just a secretary. Don't reach too high!" or: "Be careful, because my cousin lost his shirt in that" or any and every cautionary way to keep her down, to your level, because if she succeeds, what does that say about you, who are too scared to even think about trying?

Can you be strong enough to encourage somebody else to do something you won't even dare, even though it's risky?

And the other-other hardest is this:

"I'm scum. I'm ugly. I'm panicking. I can't do this!"

What do you do?

"Not my problem. L8R, bitch."

Or: "You're right, you can't, let me hold you and comfort you in the safety of my arms where nothing gets essayed or done."

Or ... what?

Or do you stay with them, all night long, suicide watch, even though you have to drag your sad, tired ass up to work tomorrow morning and explain to the boss why you didn't get that report handed in on time.

Really: on balance, what's more important? Somebody's life and self-worth, or your continued employment and comfort and safety at work?

Really. I'm serious. Which one?

For most of us, it's a sad statement that we'd trade a life for our jobs.

Starting with our own. We sacrifice everything so we can continue to live under the thumb, in fear of, what somebody might think at work when we come into work with circles under our eyes. So we say, "Mom, I'm sorry, I can't take this call now, I'm preparing for a meeting."

And how long to we have our moms? How long do we have another person? Once they're gone, they are gone. But your job? Didn't you get that last summer? Or ten years ago, or whatever? Can't you get a new one? Or, fuck it, jobs are a new thing, folks. People used to just make their way into the wilderness and carve out their existence. Did you ever read Little House on the Prairie? The built their house, they traded for food from wood they cut and furs they collected, they did everything from scratch, and didn't have the bossman fucking them up the ass and paying them a subsistence salary.

There is NO difference from what they did then and what you can do now, today, except you have a lot more going for you. You can bring a gas-operated saw and a water purification system, and you know a lot more about insulation than they did. And if you don't you have google and wikipedia.

The only reason why you are going to school or are going to a job is because, NOT everybody else is doing it and your parents are telling you to, no: it's because you're telling yourself that's what you have to do.

You're telling yourself, all the time, who and what you are.

Right now, you are telling yourself what you are.

And, generally, what you are telling yourself is too sad for me to write or to contemplate, because I'm right there with you.

Now, there are Angels. There are. Really. And they are fighting for you. And they tell you you are a child of God, and you are limitless, and beautiful and they love you.

You have, oh, maybe one or two Angels in your life, ... if you're lucky.

Don't bet on luck. The odds suck.

You have to become an Angel. Perfect yourself. How? By fucking being you.

I don't hate people because they are being themselves. I hate people when they are being less than who they are.

Yes, I hate everybody. With a passion.

I hate you. You talk yourself down, and into a corner, and trap yourself into being ... nothing. You listen to the other angels, the ones that ask you who do you think you are? And you have no answer for that because you listen to yourself all to well when you talk to yourself, when right there, right in front of you, all you have to do is step out, in faith, and there are hosts people, heavenly hosts, supporting you, and loving you, and encouraging you, and all you have to do is shut the fuck up and take that very first, small baby step...

... and the world opens up to you.

And you do try that baby step.

Well, guess what happens when a toddler takes her first step.

She falls, flat on her face. And then she cries.

But the difference between her and you? She gets up, and tries again, because mommy and daddy are right there, and are so excited that she's going to try her first step, again (some of you will get that, later), and when she does, and she wobbles, they are screaming with joy and on the phone and taking pictures and picking her up and twirling her around because she took one little step.

Sweetheart.

It's the same with you. You are a baby. A child of God. And you can either sit there and do nothing and God will love you, and what can God do with that?

EVERYTHING.

Example: Helen Keller.

But what do you do with that is the more pertinent question. Because you go right there and dig yourself deeper into your cesspool.

But when you take that first little step, and Jacob's ladder comes down and the Heavenly Hosts sing hosannas and you realize it's because of you, what can God do with that?

Everything, again.

But what do you do with that?

You take that next step, because that first one wasn't all that bad. And you take that next step, and, hey, I'm getting the hang of this.

And you take that next one.

It's all you, Sweetheart. That's the good news and the bad news. It's all you who determine who and what you are. The past is the past, and, yes, there were terrible things that happened in it for you ... and for others who picked themselves up.

You can pick yourself up. And dare to face the world.

And dare to face, face-to-face, vis-à-vis, to Love. Love is always coming your way. You can dare, now, to accept it, and look at yourself through Love's eyes, and see you as you are.

Beautiful.

I love you.

-----

The images are from the movie Sita Sings the Blues. the best movie of the year. Which year? Doesn't matter.

Or put another way. Twilight is this:



(thanks shiniez, and I may or may not have permission to post that, but I hope the number of hits to his site skyrocket (from the astronomical number of times I've view his site))

And Sita Sings the Blues is what Twilight could've been if it had the guts to dare to face the real world with a real relationship.

Oh, okay: `phfina's plot synopsis: Love, Loss, Redemption, Now, and Forever. Do yourself a favor: watch it.

Redemption Song

Okay, reading the last post, I can come off as blaming Frito-Lay and Coca-Cola and restaurants and mega-factory-farms and ...

Okay, this, this shit that we're all mired in, it isn't any of their fault.

It's our fault.

Look, Frito-Lay and Coca-Cola and McDonalds and your local Irish Pub, and, and ... sbux (Oh, God, I'm crying!) are in business to make money, and they make money by serving us what we want, and the successful businesses are the best servers.

So. It's not their fault I satiate my tongue with salt and sugar until I desensitize it. They are just giving me what I want, and when I want more, they give me more. If not them, then somebody else would step up and serve me, because, God-damn-it, it's my American-born right to be pleasured, and right now, at that.

Oh, and to be clear, I'm not writing this footnote to defend Corporate American, Inc, nor am I writing it because I'm afraid of being sued by them.

The ones who are afraid are them, not me.

First of all, if they sued me, they'd lose their shirts in legal fees.

But that doesn't give me carte blanch (that is Latin) to slander: if I want to be responsible (for, like, my health), well, responsibility is everywhere in my life, and I can't say that it's McDonalds fault for the diabetes epidemic.

Nobody forced me to supersize my order, nor even order in the first place.

And, in fact, these corporations, following the profit motive (because if they don't, then they won't be corporations for long), also are good citizens, like I try to be, too.

After all: I don't own foundations to assist orphans or save polar bears or any of that.

But they do.

So, they are there, and they serve the mass of people, and they serve them very well, indeed, and are justly, or magnificently, compensated for it.

And I still want to have a choice in my life as to what I put into (any part of) my body.

How can I do that with these megaliths overshadowing everything?

Easy. You live in the city, like I do? Easy.

There are nooks everywhere. Restaurants cater to their clientele. So: live a little. Go to a hole in the wall ethnic place and do a quick check of the patrons. More than 50% white? Well, they are now catering to middle America. Move on.

But if you go to an Afghani place, and there are all locals there, or if you go to a Vietnamese place, and they're all Vietnamese, or if you go to a Korean place, and they are all Han.

Then you're onto something. Something good.

Then, ... well, usually it's a mistake to ask the waitress what to get in these places, and here's why.

She'll look at you (at me), and say, 'Hm, white girl wants ...' and suggest something vomitous that one of the usuals wouldn't be caught dead eating.

No, you're American, you're rude, by definition, so: use it.

Point to the next table and say, 'I'll have what they're having.'

If the waitress looks shocked and says, 'No, no! You no like that!'

Then you've probably struck gold.

Or you'll hate it, but at least you tried something you never tried before.

That's a win in my book, either way.

USUALLY you strike gold.

I went to an Afghani place, and said I wanted a pita sandwich, and the owner said, 'No, you want the lamb kabab!'

And I was like, incensed! but then I saw all the patrons eating kababs, so I was like, okay, you're the boss.

He was. SO. RIGHT!

Okay, that's the city: eat the real ethnic food.

But you say you don't live in the city.

Sister, then you've won, big time.

You do have a farm near you, did you know you can order directly from them?

You win.

And then, your yard? All that space, that city dweller me doesn't have.

Just try a 6-sq foot garden, just start it, and then, a year later, you'll be like, '`phfina, you can't touch me for the food I make, and it's so easy to do. Why aren't you doing it?'

Yes, there's a McDonalds and Walmart in your town, or tri-town area, but just because you don't have a Thai restaurant or whatever, you're not deprived. You, too, don't have to go to McDonalds nor Walmart to get everything you need, when you can go to your local farm or you can be your local farm, for goodness sake!

You know, I think, part of the reason for this food-crisis we're having, is because we are so blessed with bounty, we don't even see the beautiful because the plentiful satiates then dulls our senses.

All you have to do to see is to take a wee bit of time, and to look, and to see.

... and then, when you see beauty, to be grateful for what you've seen.

We are not slaves to Corporate America, Inc, nor to Gov't regulation ... they are so big and grand, and care about the little mouse that is me insofar only as much as it can get me to give myself, my body, and my mind to them, so they can continue to exist.

That's why Corporate America, Inc, is afraid, and always will be: they are there to serve, and nobody knows that better than them, even little me, a (willing) Corporate slave of one of them, didn't get that until now.

Their jobs, their existence depends, always depends on a happy consumer.

So, we don't get all Fight Club on them. We don't need to.

An educated consumer? The one who says, "Hm, I want to taste the taste of tomato in my sandwich, not this bland cardboard taste"?

Who votes with his feet?

One of them?

Pfft! Who cares!

But one becomes two, and two, three, and three, more, and more, a movement, and that's how sbux started, one cup at a time. That's how Whole Foods started, that's how Walmart, that's how all of them started.

And that's good.

And that works well enough.

And then, there are the people who stand up, and say, "I am going to make that sandwich I want to eat."

And that's how 5 guys started, and now they are growing across the country.

And you read this, and you say, "But not me."

You say that. "Oh, I can't write like you." "Oh, I can manage a restaurant, but I can't own one and sell the food I already make with my own hands because ..." or "Oh, I'm not going to vote for any of the candidates: they are all crooks."

But what about you? Forget the 'if not you, then who?'

Forget that.

Just this: the next time you say 'If I were running this country, ...'

Or: "Who's the manager here, do you call this service?"

Or ... whenever you're not getting served the way you want...

Do you know people are paying good money, feeling exactly as you do, and they are willing to pay 8x the price they are paying for a cup of coffee made the way they really want it, not that dishwater they are drinking right now.

Or WHATEVER it is that you are settling for as a consumer.

Are you going to live a 'settled for' life?

Yes, you are. But now you know that you are settling for, every day, several times a day, you do settle for.

Knowledge, ... sight, ... is a beautiful, cursed thing. Because you see now what you see, and what you do with it: you either leave well enough alone and settle for 'Well, that's the way things are, ...'

Or, you're going to plant the first apple seed on your walk across the country,
Or, you're going to design clothes that are both elegant and comfortable and fashionable and affordable,
Or, you're going to run for State senate, and lose, and then, like Lincoln, run for President: the first woman President of the United States: you,

... and change the world.

-----

Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery
None but ourselves can free our mind
Woh, have no fear for atomic energy
'Cause none of them-a can-a stop-a the time
How long shall they kill our prophets
While we stand aside and look?
Yes, some say it's just a part of it
We've got to fullfill the book
Won't you help to sing
These songs of freedom?
'Cause all I ever had
Redemption songs

BOB MARLEY - REDEMPTION SONG

Hot Water

... that's me: I'm either getting into hot water, or I'm fearfully tiptoeing around the edge of the cast iron pot, scared to death that I'm gonna fall in.

No, that's not right, I'm not scared that I'll fall in. I know I'll fall in, it's just a matter of when.

It seems my life is defined by my troubles, or, if I'm not in trouble, then I'm (not) living in dread of with is to come, and that in-between time, that dreading that something's going to happen? That's not living: that's waiting for fate to deliver me my doom.

ick.

... but then.

Well, so, okay. So I have my troubles. Bummer.

Or.

Well, there are people who don't have troubles, I'm told, and those people are resting six feet under their gravestones. I am troubles. Okay. That means I'm alive.

So I suppose another way to look at my troubles is to be thankful for them. I know you are thankful for my troubles, eh? It produces such lovely writing that you enjoy reading.

So I should be grateful for my troubles.

Just like the hot water I'm in.

I realized this, while showering after swimming in the pool after work yesterday. And I showered and showered and showered and let the heat of that water heat my very being.

Helpful, don't you know. We had an ice storm, and it was 'bitterly cold' at 0°C, and little me, slipping and skipping from my car to the pool ... well, yes, I was grateful for the hot water.

Which brings us to today's .... 'poem'

In the Dirt, by S. Carey.

"Don't leave,
'cause I believe
we were meant to sleep in the dirt.

If you doubt that I'll be there,
Don't despair
Don't you dare."

— `phfina commentary

This song is this week's download from a certain little coffee shop. Not much there. Modern music ... *sigh!*

But it's very nice to listen to: the driving beats and the alternative, chant-like quality of the music.

And then, well, I see the lyrics as my dialog. "Don't leave, 'cause I believe ..." and then: "If you doubt that I'll be there, don't despair, don't you dare."

Because I do want to leave. I want to run away. All the time.

And I do despair.

All the time.

But maybe ... I can dare. And maybe, there's somebody there.

So I don't have to despair. I can turn to others. I can turn to you, and bear my hear, and bare my heart, and get hurt, yes, but then I can hope, too, and I can know that I am not alone in my loneliness and sadness.

I feel pretty

HA!

So, like, I have this flu, and so, I'll spare you the details, but every single muscle aches, and I'm experiencing hot flashes early in life, I guess, except when I'm shaking so hard with the chills that if I don't stop myself I'll shake myself right off the bed. I'm conscious of every breath I take, and in fact, I rather hate having to take the next breath because it hurts, and so me, sitting up (very gingerly) at this keyboard?

FUGEDABOUTIT!

(um, actually, I don't remember any of my relatives actually every saying that)

And those are the pleasantries. I am SO NOT describing my full-on sprints to the bathroom.

And it's almost noon and I've just now gotten up from bed and I looked at myself in my half mirror and see this ... I don't know ... not-quite-making it survivor: sunken eyes, gaping mouth, hunched shoulders, matted hair, sweat shirt and sweat pants.

Headliner: WASHINGTON D.C. PARALYZED BY FLU AS ANGRY CUSTOMERS DEMAND THEIR LATTES FROM EMPTIED SBUXEN!

It's like everybody is sick and I am SO NOT going into work today. Sorry.

Actually, don't worry, there are people there; you can get your coffees, okay? and why the ... (nice word?) ... am I nerving about this when it hurts just to sit up and type?

So I look like a mess, I am a mess, and I feel worse.

But so what? I have the flu, so I'll get better, or I'll die (a very real option even still today, and have you read historical fiction?), so next week, it won't matter. So why should it matter today?

It doesn't. I've resolved to rest, to start sipping water again today (VERY TENTATIVELY), and ... write this entry.

And then I get a PM from Saga, that says she's going out for the weekend, and what she hopes for me?

I hope and pray that you are more then well; I hope you are happy, bouncy and giggly and so flirty that your customers blushes and fidgets in their chairs. And the pretty girls bites their lips and steal glances at you when they think you're not looking, and asks for a refill, and another, and another… And knowing how very loved you are makes you straighten your back and hold your head high, so everyone will know: this girl is loved. This girl is growing.

And, so, yes, obviously, Saga has never been to an sbux, so like she and I are totally incompatible. Oops! Getting into my next entry! Sorry! But isn't that sweet? I resolve to be beautiful in the face of all the evidence to the contrary of how I feel and what my mirror reflects, and the world, this one time, plays along with my resolve.

Excuse me, tears are welling up, and that hurts, too, so I'm going back to bed.

kisses for you (don't worry, they're air-kisses through the sanitized medium of the internet)
'phfina

p.s. Sixth day dry: clean and sober. I do feel somber, but not very clean. Maybe a shower will do me good?

Another life touching lives

'phfina היקרה,

It's been so long since I last wrote you, so long since I had time to sit and think what I want to say (to you, to myself, to everyone else), and so, so long since I last decided to do something to myself only, made time to stare and wonder, sit and read fanfiction, fail translating a story, whatever.

I'm writing you now because I came across something you wrote that held a lot of meaning to me so I saved it. Something about loving myself, appreciating myself. Remember? You gave me (us) homework- to look in the mirror and tell the reflection how beautiful she is. (have you done your homework lately? If I read your latest post correctly, it seems like you're slacking)

I wanted you to know that I've made a few changes in my life. I decided to give this year. I live in a Commune (not something big and scary with wierd acts involved. Just six girls, of the same age, that decided to volunteer and give together this year. No orgies either ;)), and we work with broken girls, some just a year younger than us, in a closed institution, where they were admitted by court order. We spend all our time with them, talking, laughing, passing their time, trying to help. Giving and getting so much in return. I feel like ?I don't have time to breathe, like I'm drowning, but when I resurface, when I take that breath and pause- I think to myself 'why the hell did I stop?' and dive right in again.

I'm telling you all this because at first, when I started looking at myself in the mirror, I wanted to believe what you told me (us), but now, after two months since I started this work, I can and I do actually believe it. And I just wanted to share that with you.

There are broken girls everywhere you look, it's not only something you read about or see in movies or TV. A lot of people don't realize that, or don't want to, or are scared. But a lot more people don't know about those that try to help, and sometimes even succeed in helping. They are a lot harder to find and believe in, those nutters that want to be a part of some stranger's messed up life, but they are there, and they want to help. I know, I'm one of them (apparently).

I wanted to thank you, for those PMs and posts that for me are more than just plain words from a stranger; for your writing, that touches me. And I wanted to let you know that there are people out there that think that the good news for them is being accepted into the life of a person that might need them more than someone else, and not the oblivious pink-versioned one.

Lupera

reposted with permission

Liebst du um Schönheit by Friedrich Rückert

Liebst du um Schönheit by Friedrich Rückert (1788-1866)

Liebst du um Schönheit,
O nicht mich liebe!
Liebe die Sonne,
Sie trägt ein gold'nes Haar!

Liebst du um Jugend,
O nicht mich liebe!
Liebe den Frühling,
Der jung ist jedes Jahr!

Liebst du um Schätze,
O nicht mich liebe.
Liebe die Meerfrau,
Sie hat viel Perlen klar.

Liebst du um Liebe,
O ja, mich liebe!
Liebe mich immer,
Dich lieb' ich immerdar.

— phfina commentary.

Okay, here's my translation (deep breath):

If you love me for beauty, don't love me.
Love the sun, for her golden hair!

If you love me for my youth, don't love me,
Love the Spring, it's young every year.

If you love me for my money, don't love me.
Love the mermaid, she has clear pearls.

But if you love me for Love. O, yes, love me.
Love me for ever, and I'll love you forever, too.

Okay, here's my take:

God, this is so beautiful! And Mahler's setting to music? I'm crying, just listening to it (à propos de rein I just so love lieder! I'm feeling a little melty right now ... TMI? Oh, well). And the thing is this. Do you love me? Why? 'cause I'm pretty? 'cause I'm young? 'cause I'm (not) rich? (yet)

Honey, all of these things are temporal and shallow! They will pass, you know? "For richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health 'til death do us part."

But do you love me because you love me? O ja, mich liebe! Lieber mich immer and I will love you forever, too.

I can't help that. Can you get that? I still love Julia; I will always love her. Yes, she gave me my heart back, but she had it for a while. So did Cate, so did Brenda, so did ... and the list goes on ... and if you love me, truly love me, so do you. You have my heart, my love: always.

So, if you love me for this or for that, guess what? I'm so going to smell that! You think you can hide anything from me, or from yourself? I know I can't hide anything from you, I'm really bad at hiding from just myself. You love me for something, I'll know. And, on top of that, then this or that that you love me for passes away. You love me because I'm weak and sad? Well, I'm strong and happy and fierce today. You love me because I'm young ... well, I'm gonna be old and wrinkled soon ... and that soon will be today before we know it. You love me cause I'm a smart little thing and write all this neat stuff? Well, guess what, I say more stupid things when I open my mouth than anybody else I know (so I tend to keep my mouth shut and be really, really shy ... unless I'm being a real b!tch). You love me because I'm pretty? How shallow is that? Every person is beautiful, but I think I'm only beautiful when I'm loving and I'm loved, and loved not because (of this or that) but loved just because.

And if you love me like that, if you love me no matter what, if you look into my soul and see me exactly as I am, and exactly as I'm not, and love me anyway, not 'because,' but 'anyway' ...

... then, in the face of that love, I am helpless but to love you back, and oh, what love! You love me regardless of the fact that I'm a b!tch or that I'm sweet. You love me regardless of the fact that I'm a proud prowling panther or a scared little mouse. You love me. Regardless. And I cannot but help to love you, and to love you as (toppy) George Sand loved Chopin (so! the fem) — she told him: "I am not full of virtues and noble qualities. I love. That is all. But I love strongly, exclusively and steadfastly" (quoted from the movie Impromptu).

You know what? I just realized something. Bella, in my stories, loves Rosalie that way. Regardless. Regardless of her external façade of cold beauty, regardless of her black soul. Regardless. And in my counter-story, Bloodbuzz Rosalie loves Bella that way. Regardless. Regardless of her fatalism, regardless of her atrocities. Regardless.

You know what 'regardless' means? It means 'blindly.' "Love is blind"? No. Love sees the other person clearly, exactly as they are, and exactly as they are not, and still loves: "strongly, exclusively, steadfastly."

I'm not asking you to love me. I'm not. But I do ask this: if you do choose to love me, love me.

This is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams

This is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten

the plums 

that were in 

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me 

they were delicious

so sweet 

and so cold

— 'phfina comment: Got nothing, m'dears. I got nothing. But how come I want to cry when I read this poem?

Okay, I do got something. Breathe after each line. "I have eaten [breath] the plums [breath] that were in [breath] the icebox [breath] [breath] ..." This poem's soul is in its breaths. It says so much in its silence and pauses. So little is going on in the foreground, and behind it, behind the apology and regret is an entire world, a well of sadness than I can only take a tiny sip from the ladle drawn from just a bucket-full pulled from this infinite depth that is this poem. To read this poem is to die.

Damn it, my eyes are leaking! Excuse me a sec while I go to the bathroom (a.k.a. 'phfina's crying/recovery room), your drink will be on the bar momentarily, sir.

Customers

God's testing me. He [yes, He] is always testing me. I hate Him. But that's another entry, even though it's appropriate for this one, too.

So, you know, when it's 10 am and there are 17 cups lined up on the bar and some jerk comes up as I've milk foaming and asks all fakey-polite in an annoying whine: 'Did you forget my drink?'

You know those days that you don't know whether you're glad or you're sad they make you check your AK-47 at the door ...?

Actually, I prefer the Katana ... it doesn't run out of bullets, and that's important when the zombie flood rises ...

'phfina, stay. on. POINT!

Oh, right. Sorry.

So, today I had a doozy of one. This big hulking guy comes in, about my age, but I mean, football player? Hell, he could eat football players for lunch! You could pack, hm, four of me in him and he'd have room to spare. Tee shirt, shorts, flip-flops. His tee shirt proclaimed angrily: "King of the [Effing] Remote!" as he shambled off with his drink, and the look on his face? Sour puss, anyone?

And then his Dad came in: looked exactly like his son, a slob, his tee shirt said: "Still here!" and he looked positively wild with a bandana tying back his long grey hair.

Scary, the both of them. I mean, I'm a nimble thing, so I could use my grrl-ninja-skliz and take them, but if they got a hold of me, I'd be meat pies.

But then they sat down with their drinks and they just sat there, and mostly looked at each other and just talked, quietly ... for more than a half an hour.

And I was like...

And I was like, when's the last time my Dad sat and talked with me for a while, quietly, just looking at me, not distracted by himself or anything? And that man/boy, the "king of the [effing] remote," at least he was king of something, you know? What am I the queen of? Coffee? Am I proud of that? Sometimes. But am I fiercely proud of anything enough to scream it out to the whole world, damn what they think?

And I mean, who the hell am I to judge him? Had I walked a mile in his flip-flops? Did his dad give him a ride in an exclusive liberal arts college to get an oh-so-practical degree that he immediately applied to become an sbux barista? Or have a Dad who would be falling over himself to bankroll him buying a used bookstore in nowhere Greece? Like my Dad would? Who the fvck am I to be judging this father and son who obviously care, no, love each other this much?

And then, later, more customers. A ton of them, all really, really old women, and the cordoned off our big table where the father and son had been before, and they got out their crocheting things, and they started chatting away and ...

... and having fun. They were laughing and smiling and crocheting and chatting. And they were all shapes and sizes, hairstyles, styles of dress. There was one woman in the group, and she was in her 30s or 40s maybe? So a lot older than me, but I thought: how brave! She looked so comfortable in that group because the group was just so comfortable with each other, so warm and accepting. And I felt a pang, because I know they would just let me join them, but I am just so different than them.

Then, oh-my-God! a girl about my age just joined them with her crocheting needles and the group just continued along as if nothing amazing had just happened, because it was the most ordinary thing, this really cute, hot chestnut girl (and girls, hm, she was so cute in that blue tank-top!) joined a group whose average age was senior as in citizen.

And then I saw them all, and they were all so, so beautiful. A smile would light up a girl's face, be that girl 65 years old, and it was just so beautiful to see, them all being with each other and for each other.

I'm a writer

Do you know how a bad day(s) can turn right around to be a good one? I know I'm suppose to create this myself, right? I have my own magic wand, so I can godoink! and grant myself smiles and happiness and joy. I have to take responsibility for my mood, be it pissy or joyful. I can't say: 'oh, don't bug me, 'cause I'm pissy,' because 'I'm pissy' is wrong. No: I choose to be pissy. So I can choose, right now, to be joyful.

But, wow, sisters, when you get that smile from somebody else, and she says, 'you know, 'phfina, you're a writer' and she pats your cheek affectionately before skipping out of the sbux with her caramel macchiato? It just makes it so much easier to turn a bad day(s) into a good one.

Lesson learned for me: surround myself with people like that. People who look for the good in you and then speak what's so right into existence. People who aren't the wet blankets at the party, but are the life of the party. People you just want to be around.

Lesson learned for me: be that girl for everybody I can.

Got and gave four hugs today so far, btw, and the day is still yet young.

Magic Wand

Okay, whoa, Whoa, WHOA! and STOP!

Okay, sweeties, I love you; every one of you, but, sheesh! the significance!

Really! Look, you're going through stuff. I appreciate that. I'm going through stuff, too.

So I have a special request. When you write a PM/email to me, don't send it until you:

1. go to your mirror, smile a happy smile, then return to your computer, then


2. read your PM you're writing to me as if you are the receiver.

Smile still there? Okay, send it. Smile gone? Then revise the PM/email and sit on it for a day and start over at step 1.

Look, you don't need to sugar coat stuff to me, and I sure am planning on staying out of diabetics anonymous, but if you're going to send me what's so, then just be ready, 'cause I'm going to send you what's so and in spades right back. And this doom and gloom I've been getting? It doesn't work. It doesn't work for me and it doesn't work for you. Who wants to live doom and gloom? I don't.

SO! I have this magic wand here. It has unlimited charge, and bink! waving it discharges:

Happiness
Smiles
Laughter
Joy

I give you permission to borrow my wand (I have lots), to use it, on yourself firstly, and then give it to your friends, too! BONUS!

And, oh! Step away from the computer, please: go outside (yes, I know! Ooh, scary! Outside!), smell some flowers, swing on a swing, ride a pony, kiss a girl (ask her first), get some hugs, call your mom and tell her you love her. I'm going to do those things tomorrow (except ride the pony).

kisses, 'phfina

Beauty and Truth

Okay, Bella deals with this; I SO deal with this; even ROSALIE deals with this, and I keep hearing this from you, in fact: three times this past week. So, more than likely, you're dealing with it, too, maybe?

Okay, put down your latte and don't you look away from me now. Look me right in the eye and you hear what I have to say to you.

You are beautiful.

"But, 'phfina ... I'm just not! Just, just look at me, I'm ..."

NO, YOU SHUT THE ... *ahem* ... UP AND LISTEN TO ME!

Look, I know you maybe don't see yourself as beautiful ("I'm okay, I guess, but 'beautiful'? No"), and that would total mystify me, if I weren't listening to what I tell myself all the time, so I just want you to stop listening to you for a sec and just get this, okay?

I've never met you. And chicken-shit that I am, if I ever do, it's because I'm passing you on my way to the bathroom to puke my guts out and then climb out the back window ("But, 'phfina, sbux girls' rooms don't have back windows ..." Yes, they do, or they will after I pull out the ball-peen hammer to make my escape route out of what used to be wall). So, yes, I don't have a CLUE what you look like, for most of you, so I don't have a leg to stand on, right?

Wrong. Sorry, gf, but you are so wrong. Look, I see all kinds, girls. All kinds, and my conclusion for nearly every single one of them? "God, I wish she saw herself as beautiful as I see her."

'Cause why? 'Cause in every single case where someone compliments that girl or woman, and she gets that (a little bit, there's often that disbelief), the smile that lights up her face ...

And I'm NOT saying your smile makes you beautiful (but God, does it ever! You tell me anything in the world that is more beautiful than a woman smiling joyfully? Hm. I should practice that, huh?). I'm saying YOU are BEAUTIFUL, just as you are, right now. FULL STOP! And, honey, I'm talking about YOU, because I have checked you out when you've come into sbux (I use my peripheral vision, don'tcha know ... um, am I gonna get fired now? *Ahem: 'The views expressed here do in no way represent sbux or its affiliates ... blah-blah-blah'), and I would be SO lucky if you saw yourself as you are, and you chatted with me for a sec ("Hey, violet ...") and smiled, as some of you do sometimes ... ?

God!

And when I say, "Thanks; enjoy your day!" in my cheerful-busy way that I do as I turn to make the next coffee drink at the bar? But do you hear the subtext? It's me, saying what I just said, yes, but also saying: 'You are beautiful. And thanks! Truly thanks for that moment, because I will treasure it the rest of my day.'

Ya. So, next time you look into the mirror, just take one more moment, and really look into the mirror, and see yourself, your perfections (God! your perfections!) and your imperfections (God! your imperfections, too!), and say 'I'm beautiful' and believe it.

Don't fight it. Don't second guess it. Just believe it.

'Cause it's true.

kisses, 'phfina

p.s. and next time you PM me, if you are wont to do that ... you know, along with *ahem* a review if you'd like, just tell me you did that: "'phfina, I did the homework you gave me." And call me to task, too: "Did you do yours?" I think every girl should be reminded of what's so: that's she's beautiful. It's like a civic duty, or something. I know I so need that reminder, sometimes, you know?

p.p.s. Pepe, this is dedicated to you. Thank you for believing this, and teaching your children this. I wish I got to know you; that great man everybody says you are, you know, ... before you took yourself away. I didn't get to know you, but now I just know I miss you and I love you.