Gone

                                        

We were all witnesses to the very end.  No words to describe the loss every Cavs fan in Cleveland is feeling right now.  Another kick to the gut for a city that can never seem to catch a break.

Chasing Pavements

My love affair with you, oh city of disparaging dreams,
Began on a Tuesday morning in December 1985
That snowy 17th you cradled me in your gritty arms
And I called you Home

I know there are some who prefer the country
Who delight in the vast expanses of hill and vale
But I prefer the dirt and the concrete
The crush of people and the incessant pulse of the city
I love the busyness of it all, the start and stop of things
The vivacious rhythm that one can only find in the urban oasis
I can’t be without it, the hushed sound of the streets calling my name
Without you, my humbled city, I am lost

I grew up in awe of your stoic presence
In the shadow that your brick and stucco edifice cast
I navigated the throng of the metropolitan playground
My hand safely tucked in my mother’s as I adventured about town
There was a great deal to see in my glittering world of you
And I tried to drink you in as much as I could, my shimmering jewel of a city
I was immersed in the wide eyed infatuation of a child

I lay in bed at night, lulled to sleep by the sound of traffic
Of airplanes flying low overhead
I could hear the hustlers making their money on the corner
The whispered lyrics of the inner city song
Noisy mufflers and women shouting provided the music
Breaking bottles and distant gunshots were the refrain


As I grew older I took you for granted
My dingy, dirty ramshackle city of broken dreams
The glittering gems of my youth were now, in my eyes of lost innocence
Nothing more than cracked and lackluster shards of poorly painted glass
I turned up my nose at your boarded up window fronts
When I should have lamented at your crumbling plaster shame
I scoffed at your downtrodden children, dirty and astray
Who slept in your doorframes and street grates
When I should have wept for your former glory instead
I turned my back on you in your most dire hour


I didn’t know your pain at the time
I was only focused on my immediate moment
Suburban daydreams, green grasses and strip malls
White picket fences and the empty lies of a charlatan fool
When I should have listened to your concrete whispers
Calling me back to the ones who truly loved me instead
It took a broken heart and shattered dreams
To make me find my love for you again
I promised you, my aching city, that I would never turn my back again


So I teach my son the illustrious history of your youth
The shining glory of your golden age
I show him your proud buildings from an era long since past
I tell him that through your tarnish there still is beauty
Though many see it and are confused
They fail to realize that in your dimmed magnificence there is a promising future
That in your veins runs the possibility of change anew
They fail to see that you still breathe, my damaged city
They choose instead to give up on themselves and on you
And thus, in their ignorance they blatantly abuse you


They break your heart with a sudden blast
Violently and instantaneously snuffing out the life
Of another of your bright and promising children
With a cowardly leaden bullet
And they seem to forget that when your rough concrete skin is splashed
With their innocent blood you die a little too, my fading city
A hundred thousand tiny crimson deaths
Beading and congealing in your cemented pores


And your people, they cry out in pain
They scream and bemoan their anguish to the skies
They cry out and leave vestiges of their sorrow
In the teddy bears and flowers they leave on the side of the pavement
The dates painted on windows in memoriam of those they loved
Ribbons tied to utility poles, silent reminders of those who left one day
And never came home
Makeshift memorials in a guerrilla war on a deteriorating city
Where the right and wrong sides were never truly made clear


And it hurts you too, though you cannot cry
For no mother should have to stand idly by
And helplessly watch her children die
Especially over something so meaningless and insignificant
As cars or clothes or foolish, fragile pride


But you raise your head, Cleveland
For although they have beaten you down,
The dreamless assassin has not yet won
You are beautiful yet, and still strong and proud
And through all the tears and dirt and blood
Amid the crumbling concrete and shattered glass, I still hear your music
In the voices of the ones who refuse to back down
The song of the city continues to be sung
You shall carry on, Cleveland.
You shall carry on.
                                             --"Words of Hope for My City"
                                                            04/26/2010

Hey, Soul Sister

Hey my lovelies! Yesterday (Tuesday--yes, I know it's after 1 am, but in my bubble of Lashawn it is still technically Wednesday until I fall asleep and wake up at a later unspecified point in the morning. It's not Thursday in my mind.) was Nicky's birthday! He had a great time and is enjoying his presents--unbelievably, the rocketship never came up. He was more interested in his Thomas the Tank Engine trains. We watched his Max and Ruby DVDs, and I was informed by Encyclopedia Nick that Max and Ruby's parents were eaten by a dragon. My son is hilarious.

I should be writing my rough draft for my Honors English class on visual rhetoric, but I'm stuck, and one can only rant so much about Sarah Palin until the words mean nothing. It's due tomorrow night, and I have one long paragraph. I can work on it in the morning. Procrastination is a seductive wench, it really is. I gave up procrasinating for Lent, wish me luck.

In other news, I am singing at the "Solon Idol" in some little bar/club thing called the Blue Fig, in Solon, which is some itty bitty city out in the boondocks. I know of Solon only because you had to cut through there to get to Geauga Lake (an amusement park), which was in Aurora. I'm a big city girl--I mix up everything that isn't in Cleveland or immediately outside of it. I haven't sang on a stage in six years, and I get stage fright. I'm an awesome singer, but I'm nervous. Wish me luck!

Here is my Wednesday Late Night Playlist. Enjoy!

"I Still Ain't Over You", Augustana, (Can't Love, Can't Hurt)

"Sleep", Azure Ray, (Azure Ray)

"Taylor", Jack Johnson, (On & On)

"Speechless", Lady Gaga, (The Fame Monster)

"Uprising", Muse, (The Resistance)

"More Than This", Missy Higgins, (Steer & More-EP)

"Dying Day", Brandi Carlile, (Give Up the Ghost)

"I'm On Fire", John Mayer, (Battle Studies)

"Lifeboats", Snow Patrol, (A Hundred Million Suns)

"Know Your Onion!", The Shins, (Oh, Inverted World)

"Human of the Year", Regina Spektor, (Far)

"Gravity Rides Everything", Lenka, (Gravity Rides Everything-Single)

Summer Breezes

I'm melting. No, not really. I'm in a nice, air-conditioned office at the moment, but I will most certainly be melting later this evening. My dad, crazy old man that he is, doesn't believe in AC. He thinks it saps electricity. That may be true enough, but it's our first 90 degree day ALL summer, and the humidity and heat index and whatever is making it feel as if it were 99 outside.

Supercalifragilistic. My hair is preparing the rebellion now. Vive la revolution.

I can't stand it when the mercury climbs above 85 degrees. I get all sluggish and throw myself all dramatic across our couch, complaining that it is way too hot and I can't wait until winter. I think most Clevelanders do this, although the average Clevelander loathes our winters. A Cleveland winter is chock full of snow, wind, subzero-ish temperatures, snow, puffy coats that don't exactly cover your ass (I, however, own a L.L. Bean parka that covers my ass quite adequately--being warm doesn't mean being all cutesy and shit...you have to get a bit shapeless amd frumpy in order to stay nice and toasty), and snow. Talk to me from mid-November to late March, and I'm either threatening anarchy or moving to Hawaii, or both.

This type of weather calls for sand, surf, flip-flops, and a nice, big strawberry banana margarita. No salt, extra liquor. Yum.

But the beaches in Cleveland are questionable, I can't swim, and I'm broke til payday. So...I guess I can just put some flip-flops on and call it a day. Good enough.

So here's our muggy, 90 degree Sunday playlist. Enjoy.

"Summerboy", Lady Gaga, (The Fame)

"Call n' Return", Hellogoodbye, (Hellogoodbye--EP)

"I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked", Ida Maria, (Fortress 'round My Heart)

"I'm Ready", Jack's Mannequin, (Everything In Transit)

"Blame It (Feat. T-Pain)", Jamie Foxx, (Intuition)

"Gasolina", Daddy Yankee, (Barrio Fino)

"Sunday Best", Augustana, (All The Stars And Boulevards)

"Good Girls Go Bad (Feat. Leighton Meester)", Cobra Starship, (Hot Mess)

"It's Amazing", Jem, (Down to Earth)

"My Love (Feat. T.I.)", Justin Timberlake, (FutureSex/LoveSounds)

"What You Know", T.I., (King)

"I'm In Miami Bitch", LMAFO, (Party Rock)

"Make Her Say (Feat. Kanye West, Common, and Lady Gaga)", Kid Cudi, (Make Her Say--Single)

And, as a shoutout to my girl Tricia, "Whoomp! (There It Is)", Tag Team, (Whoomp! There It Is--Single)

See Fernando

What an amazing morning this is turning out to be.

To start things off, I have a pimple in my foreheadular region (we'll call him Fernando). Fernando started scoping out the neighborhood Wednesday and moved in some time during that night. I've tried everything to evict him from the epidermal premises, but he refuses to leave--I guess he's decided to squat for the time being.

Fabulous.

Then, after trying to corral Fernando into some semblance of submission (say that three times fast), I tore down my street to catch Cleveland's shit-tastic public transportation. I'm near the end of my street when I hear a crazy screeching sound. I look up in confused alarm, and see the sandy body of a squirrel scurrying in a drunken sort of way over the branch of the tree above me. I sort of freaked out, seeing as I'm a bit afraid of squirrels, and quickly crept away.

After the near-attack from the cracked out squirrel, I made it uneventfully to the bus stop. I sat down and was about to listen to my iPod when I noted that something didn't smell quite right. I look all around me for the source of the funktacular smell, and when I peer under the bench (which I'm still sitting on), I see a huge pile of shit on the sidewalk. I jump up, very grossed out and a bit nauseated, and go out to the safety of the tree by the bus stop. I was mildly outraged and incredulous, because who craps on the sidewalk? Who does that? When did it become socially acceptable to crap in public?

Only in Cleveland, I swear.

And then the shenanigans continue to ensue on this warm and sunny Saturday.

My bus is running five minutes late, which is not cool because if I miss the connecting bus I'll have to walk to work from there. It's only a fifteen minute walk, but that's beside the point when the first bus is late and rolls up to my shit-tastic stop at 7:40 am and I have to be at work by 8. A bit of Jesus comes through for me though, hallelujah, and the connecting bus is late too, and I can run across this grassy field thing at the bus station to catch it.

I arrive at good old Ford, hoping that things will calm down from here. Oh, but no. Of course not. Fernando decides that he wants to see what's going on at the dealership, so I have to duck into the bathroom and layer on the concealer.

As of now, things have begun to quiet down, with the exception of the phones. I can deal with that, so here's to hoping for a sane end to this workday!

I Miss My Sky

I have a new favorite word.

Ready?

It's grandiloquence. I love it. Absolutely love it. It means "speech or writing marked by pompous or bombastic diction"--ie, like unnecessarily quoting Shakespeare when you work in the stock market. I'm going to try to use it often...it's perfect for making wild, accusatory statements, such as "That guy was going to buy that Fusion until you had to use your grandiloquence and fucking quote Sophocles, you retard."

Great.

But I digress. It is a beautiful, sunny day in Cleveland, and where am I? I am stuck at work. Hurrah. But I shan't let work bring me down. Nay. I can see the sky from my window, and I guess I can live with that, so long as it doesn't rain any time soon.

At least that's what I'm telling myself.

I'm hungry, but I was running late for work this morning and in my rush I grabbed a cup of Jell-O and a packet of oatmeal. Not exactly sustainable. And I also left my money at home. Fabulous. I get the award for Most Brilliant Morning Decision. I ate the oatmeal at 9 am, no problem. I figured the fiber would hold me over for a few hours, hopefully. Yeah, okay. Those fitness magazines are full of shit. It's been a mere three hours, and I am starving. Well, not starving, but pretty damn hungry. I could go for some pizza or high carb-ed up pasta covered in a creamy, fatty, yummy cheese sauce. Maybe an Alfredo of some sort. Yummmmm. Delish.

I'm currently sipping on a bottle of water, trying to put off eating my Jell-O as long as I can. It'd be one thing if I did this you know, like once in a while, but nooo...I do this all the time. As we all know, I'm not exactly a morning person, and it takes me a while to get motivated. I usually jump in the shower and have just enough time to get out the door and get to work on time (-ish). Which would raise the question as to why I don't get all this stuff ready the night before. Good question. Very good question. I don't exactly have an answer for that.

(A bit later...)

Hmm...I ate my Jell-O. I couldn't help it! I'm sure the people at Lakewood think I'm anorexic or something, which is actually pretty unlikely seeing as I'm a size 8, but whatever. It doesn't look good when you eat oatmeal and peanut butter and crackers and Jell-O all the time. It makes me feel like a starving European supermodel, only shorter and not as skinny. If this is all they eat, then I get why Naomi Campbell is such a monster bitch.


Well, I won't bore you with any more grandiloquence (love that word!), so...I'll leave you with a parting final thought:

"this is the garden:colours come and go, frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing strong silent greens silently lingering, absolute lights like baths of golden snow. This is the garden:pursed lips do blow upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing (of harps celestial to the quivering string) invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden. Time shall surely reap and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled, in other lands where other songs be sung; yet stand They here enraptured,as among the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep some silver-fingered fountain steals the world."

--this is the garden:colours come and go, ee cummings
(taken from"Tulips and Chimneys", 1923)

Another Day

It's Friday, and I am sooo tired.

I work from 8 am to 6 pm on Fridays and Saturdays, and you'd think I'd be used to getting up at the asscrack of dawn, seeing as how I've been doing this for about a year and a half...But then again, I never got used to getting up at 6:30 am when I was in school, and that was 12 years worth of 6:30 ams. Oh well. I guess some people are crazy morning people who frolick about in the morning sunshine, singing Disney-esque songs as they skip all la-la-la like down the sidewalk with the sparrows, and then there are people like me, who pretty much live their lives like rock stars, staying up all night and then sleeping away a good chunk of daytime. I used to spend a huge amount of my summer vacations past passed out until 2 pm.

Those were the good days, my friend. I never realized how good I had it until I had to get a job my junior year of high school!


But back to now (as Garth Algar from the cinematic classic Wayne's World would say, "Live in the now!"), and the having to wake up at a very unreasonable hour. It is a very sunny and warm, dare I say hot, day in the city of Cleveland. It's supposed to reach a pleasant (note the sarcasm) and balmy 88 degrees...When I roll out of here later today, the air will be rife with mugginess, and I will be a walking pillar of sweat and frizz when I arrive at my equally sticky, un-air conditioned house.

Yesssssss.

And yuck. There's another fly in the office, flying around being all flyish and gross. I wish I could be gangsta like President Obama and just be like bam and kill it...but not with my hand, 'cause that would be gross, and I would most likely puke.

Puking is not a choice option, especially when it's hotter than hell outside. I opted instead for opening the office door, which will undoubtably bring hot air into the office, but hopefully will inspire the aforementioned fly to go out and enjoy the glorious day.