The Reason

{ d. sharon pruitt }

There's a woman in town who doesn't wear shoes. She walks the streets barefoot, sweeping the sidewalks with a broom. It's winter now, so she scrapes with a shovel instead, but still she walks without shoes. She's a common topic of conversation, this woman. "How does she walk without shoes? Do you think she has a home? Doesn't she get frostbite?" I'd never talked to her before, but like everyone, I worried.

This morning I was walking, the city a ghost town on Christmas Day, when I saw her up ahead, shovel scraping the ice, her feet pink and bare on the snowy ground. I wasn't sure what I could offer; all the stores were closed where I could have bought her shoes, and I'm sure she's been offered before. I thought I could suggest a coffee shop that was open, in case she needed to get warm.

"Are you okay?" I asked, stopping beside her. "Are your feet cold?"

"A little," she admitted, pausing in her work. "But they're always moving, so it's not so bad. It's my hands that get so cold." She laughed, a smile beset by just a few remaining teeth.

"I wish I could offer you mittens," I said, pulling my own bare hands from the pockets of my coat. I wasn't wearing gloves myself.

"Oh, I don't wear them," she said, returning to her work. "I used to wear them, years ago, but they get wet in the snow and my hands get so cold. You take 'em off and put 'em in your pockets, and then your pocket's full of snow." She shook her head. "It's too cold for gloves."

"And your feet?" I asked. "You're okay without shoes?" Her feet were pink, but not chapped. She had all ten of her toes.

"I go inside when they get too cold." She nodded to the house behind me. "I've been out four times already."

Her words didn't sound like rambling. They sounded like a logic I simply didn't understand. She didn't seem sad or in pain; she seemed like she had a job, and she was doing it. I wished her a merry Christmas and I continued on my way.

The more I talk to people who are eccentric or insane, the narrower the gap I see between them and myself. We all have our own strange logic, and no matter how weird the things we do, we always have a reason. We all always have a reason.

Merry Christmas, if you celebrate today. And keep your toes warm.

(Hide the rest)

Better Living

So, I have this neighbor.

He lives in the apartment below me. He has a penchant for heavy metal and the volume on his stereo is set permanently to 11. The preferred hour for his head-banging parties is approximately 3:30 in the morning, two or three nights a week.

This, I can live with.

He also has a yelling problem. And by a 'yelling problem' I mean that I don't believe he's spoken a sentence in his life that was not shouted as if from the edge of a cliff. He yells morning, noon, and night. From the window, from the balcony, from the comfort of his bed. The man lives to yell.

But this, this I can live with.

He also owns a bullhorn. It has several settings, one of which can only be labeled 'Olde Time Jalopy Horn' and which he uses more often than even the manufacturer could have hoped. When the weather's nice, he can while away an afternoon shouting through the bullhorn at passersby on the street. "He's got poop in his underpants!" he'll yell one minute. Moments later, he may simply shout: "Fart."

The man is in his 50's, in case that wasn't clear.

But this, too, I can live with.

What I can't live with, or rather can but wish I didn't have to, is this: this man, this heavy-metal-blasting, four-AM-screaming, bullhorn-toting man, has the most sensitive, virginal fucking ears in the Upper Midwest. If I so much as tip-toe barefoot across my kitchen floor-- and believe me, I wouldn't dare make a sound louder than that-- he will scream obscenities that would make a prison guard blush. He will pound the floor and shout like I'm the goddamn Barnum & Bailey circus waking him at dawn with an elephant stampede.

It. Is. Horrible.

I've lived here now for nearly two years, the longest I've lived anywhere in my adult life, and I'm still not hardened to it. Every time he screams at me, I freeze, I cringe, and then I cry. I've stopped having friends over almost entirely, I never wear shoes in the house, I only clean when I know he's at work, and I'll sometimes go to bed thirsty because I can't bear to tip-toe back to the kitchen and risk being bellowed to smithereens.

It's no way to live and I know that. I've discussed it with friends, coworkers, even my therapist. Everyone has a suggestion, none of which is something they'd likely do themselves. I've shouted back at him once or twice, and one particularly awful night I called the police, but quickly called them back and begged them not to come. The most common suggestion is to tell my landlord, but he knows, and there's nothing to be done. The man's a menace, but apparently a rent-paying one. Case closed.

I've found a few strategies that seem to help. Loud fans. Padded socks. Breathing exercises. It's no way to live, and I know that. I could move, and some day I will, but for now, I have my reasons to stay.

 { destroy what destroys you }

With winter comes an early night, and with early night, comes me-never-cleaning-my-house. I can only clean by sunlight, and on weekends my neighbor is home, and the soft swooshing of the swiffer is simply too much for his ears.

But this weekend, it had gone too far. Every surface of my apartment was not merely cluttered, but filthy. It needed a deep and detailed scrubbing and I was tired of putting it off. I collected a bushel of soaps and sponges, sunlight pouring through the windows, and for the first time in awhile, I felt strong and happy and good. I put on my apron and my Playtex gloves and I set about to work.

I wasn't five minutes into the job when I gently set a plastic bottle of countertop cleaner on the kitchen floor and--

"GET A FUCKING RUG!" he roared up through the floor like a lion. I jumped. I didn't even realize he was home. It was nearly noon on a Saturday morning and I'd set a plastic bottle on the floor. I was stunned, frozen. I spent half a minute trying to think of a comeback, but all I could think was, "no YOU get a fucking rug," which didn't even make any sense.

And suddenly, I'm crying, standing over the sink, Playtex gloves and an apron at my waist, and I feel so tired and alone. And I'm doing this sort of dainty housewife cry and suddenly I start to laugh, because I look like such a cliche: apron at my waist and my Playtex gloves, crying at the kitchen sink. And suddenly I feel warmed by the long line of women before me who have cried at their kitchen sinks for holier reasons than this; my own mother, I'm sure, and her mother before her. Millions of women, and men too for that matter, because who is exempt from feeling alone? Even the jackass downstairs probably cries sometimes.

I forget sometimes that this is part of it, the pain and the loss. I'm always searching for that happy plateau where everything just works out. It doesn't exist, I'm finding. If one thing is happy, another is sad, and that's just the way it goes. There is no plateau, there is only this: my Playtex gloves and the apron at my waist, the man shouting curses downstairs. The sunbeam on the counter, the grace we are shown, the hope that beats on in our hearts.

I sigh. I pick up the bottle. I clean.

This, I can live with.

My hair is red again, by the way. Thank god.

(Hide the rest)

Pick Your Poison

I have this.





And I'm not afraid to use it.

(Hide the rest)

This Is the Thing

{ curious days }

(Hide the rest)

The Ugliest Ugly Sweater

A few weeks ago, I found the world’s ugliest ugly Christmas sweater. It was hanging in the window of a thrift store while I was on my way to a party. I went inside, took it down, and bought it. Then I left it on the floor of the party. Tag still attached, unworn.

I needed the sweater for a contest we're having at work, so Thursday night, my friend Kathleen met me for a show, ugly sweater in hand, salvaged from the house of our mutual friend. Tag still attached, unworn. I left it on the seat beside me.

Friday afternoon, I called the theater, on the off chance that someone had turned it in. How anyone could part with such a gem, I couldn't imagine, but it was worth a try to see.

"I left a sweater there last night," I said, embarrassed. "Someone may have turned it in. It's... kind of ugly."

“What does it look like?" the woman asked, rifling through a box in the lost and found.

"It's actually very ugly."

"What does it look like?"

"It's black and it has elves sewn all over it."

She paused.

"I don't think these are elves."

"It's elves and a Christmas tree."

"These look more like trolls."

"It's black and it has trolls and a Christmas tree."

"Are you sure you want this back?”

I met her at the loading dock at a quarter past four, just as she'd instructed. She held the sweater between two fingers, like it might have a disease. I laughed and thanked her. She didn't laugh back. She said, "Good luck."

I'm still not sure what she meant.

Anyway, I have the sweater now, so everything's okay.


UPDATE: It's been brought to my attention that this sweater is SO UGLY that someone is selling it for $45 on Etsy.

(Hide the rest)

Ice

{ weird friends }

I slipped today, for the hundred-thousandth time in the snow. There are people who love snow, people who complain every day that it doesn't come down, saying, "When will it snow? Why doesn't it snow?" Upon hearing this plea, my instinctual gut reaction is to slap the person in the face. This strikes me as a disproportionate response, so instead I make a mere silent oath that should this person die while I am living, I will not attend their funeral.

I have a friend who gets migraines. And when I say she gets migraines, what I mean is that she's had a migraine every day for at least ten months. It is unimaginable. But what triggers her migraines, possibly more than beer or loud music or lack of sleep, is sunshine. Sunshine. The more beautiful the day, the worse she feels, so that when someone chirps sweetly, "I hope the sun comes out!" her instinctual gut reaction is probably illegal in most of the 50 states.

And so I slipped today, for the hundred-thousandth time in the snow, a patch of ice on a dark sidewalk. I swore, nearly fell, caught myself in time. I saw, a block ahead, a man walking toward me and I cringed. I wondered if he'd seen me, but as he neared I realized that he hadn't seen at all. He tapped his cane on the frozen ground, feeling for objects in his path. "It's icy up there," I warned as we passed. He said, "Yup."

(Hide the rest)

Rhythm

I never knew anyone else felt this way about writing:

"This is what I mean when I call myself a writer. I construct sentences. There's a rhythm I hear that drives me through a sentence. And the words typed on the white page have a sculptural quality. They form odd correspondences. They match up not just through meaning but through sound and look. The rhythm of a sentence will accommodate a certain number of syllables. One syllable too many, I look for another word. There's always another word that means nearly the same thing, and if it doesn't then I'll consider altering the meaning of a sentence to keep the rhythm, the syllable beat. I'm completely willing to let language press meaning upon me. Watching the way in which words match up, keeping the balance in a sentence — these are sensuous pleasures. I might want very and only in the same sentence, spaced in a particular way, exactly so far apart. I might want rapture matched with danger — I like to match word endings."

Don DeLillo

It's a sickness, I think.

From: This Recording
 

==


Also, if you want to be a better writer, this is the most helpful book you will ever read. I've probably read 30 or 40 books on the craft of writing, and Roy Peter Clark's Writing Tools is the most practical and straightforward of the bunch. If you apply these tools to your own writing, you will become a better writer overnight. True story.

(Hide the rest)

Rejected

{ old hollywood }

I was going to copy this rejection slip and modify it for my failed first dates.

But then I realized it doesn't need to be modified.

(Hide the rest)

2010: A Year In Review

{ 2007 }

{ 2008 }

{ 2009 }

I called this my throw-away year, but a better term is foundation. This was a year for laying foundation. Little happened, but everything changed. Next year's the year for ka-boom.


Creative/Career

I put out a 6-song EP. I bought a ukulele. I took piano lessons. I bought a fancy camera and started making videos again. My blog went public with over 700 subscribers, I started freelancing for Isthmus, and I opened an online shop. I sang in the first public reading of a musical about zombies, and I liked it.

For next year: I want to lessen my attachment to instant gratification. Instead of spending 3 hours on a short-term project I can share the next day, I'd rather spend those hours on a longer-term project with more meat on its bones, something no one will see for months. That's going to be a challenge for me, but I know it's an important hill to climb.

I also want to reorient myself to the idea of performance. I'm not sure what I mean by that yet.



Health

This was not a great year for health. I gained forty pounds, and lost some of it. I was prescribed medication for allergies and migraines. I experienced my first running injury. I had more colds and ear aches than my entire adult life combined.

I had a ruptured ovarian cyst in June. I collapsed on a trip to Florida and spent a day in the hospital, missing a wedding and leaving a puddle of blood on the floor. I had a concussion for a week and I still have a dent in my forehead. I was diagnosed with vasovagal syncope, which I think is Latin for “drink more water, dumb ass."

 { my bruising at day 15 }

For next year: Find homeopathic solutions to my allergies and migraines. Drop some weight. Drink less. Start running again.



Friends

I’ve lived in this city for almost six years, and my life feels more anchored than ever before. My connections have broadened and deepened and it feels good to call this place home.

On a harder note, I lost more friends this year than I can recall losing at once. My community feels fractured and disconnected, like far-flung points in a constellation. I need a tight-knit, family-like group of friends to feel whole, and my life has lacked that this year.

For next year: I want to create space in my life for community, whether that means hosting more events, joining a new organization, or reconnecting with old friends.



Travel

I didn't travel much this year. I went home to Florida twice, and I visited my ex-boyfriend in Berkeley. I haven't left town since June. This was a year for hunkering down, not venturing out.

For next year: I want to go on a road trip. I want to visit friends in New York. I want to see my family. There's a conference I'm attending in Philly, and I'll be in Austin at least once, to be a bridesmaid in my dear Lauren's wedding. Those are my travel goals for 2011.




Money

After spending almost a year unemployed and uninsured, I landed my dream job with benefits, a 3-minute walk from my apartment. I didn't use a credit card a single time all year. I lived without a car. I paid off all my personal debts, and nearly $8,000 toward my credit cards and student loan. I started buying gifts again. I started buying coffee again. I am finally able to breathe.

For next year: I'd like to pay $10,000 toward my debt. I'd like to get a raise at work, start freelancing more often, and budget well enough that I'm not checking couch cushions the three days before pay day. 



Giving Back

I started the Love Harder fund, which raised nearly $3,700 for multiple myeloma research. I got a job at a non-profit-- my third in a row. For the first time in my life, I can afford to give to charity, and I gave more than I thought I was able. I started working with a group of high school kids who want to be writers, and who are cooler than I was at their age. I helped moderate a community engagement session on public education, and have become passionate on the topic.

For next year: In January, I hope to begin weekly tutoring at a neighborhood elementary school. I'll continue giving to United Way, which does amazing work in our community, and also to exciting classroom projects.



Love

My heart was broken this year. I went on 20 first dates, 9 second dates, and 5 thirds. I dated one person for three weeks straight. I slept with five people, only one of whom I loved. I led an online discussion group on love and relationships and it predictably failed to thrive. I wrote a break-up survival guide that is one of the most popular posts I've ever written. I read in a dear friend's wedding, and became a bridesmaid for the first time in my life.

It was a hard year.

For next year: I really don't know. I have a feeling it's almost time.

(Hide the rest)