MARK: My Words.

Life is absurd and so am I. Sometimes, I offer a glimpse into the random nature of my thoughts in the hope that I will be accepted, rejected, celebrated or ostracized on my own merits.

[askmarkward]

You’ve Forgotten Who You Are...

We may resist times of trial and tribulation, but it is in those moments that our character is most developed.  Our discovery is not simply limited to the nature of our being; it includes a demonstration of our true strength.  We are reminded that we are the true hero and protagonist of our story.

Take some time today to reflect on your life to date. Look at how much you have been through (and you are still here!). Rather than painting a picture of regret and victimization, celebrate your victories. Tell the story as truth--you are the hero that has triumphed over great adversities.  Now, examine the qualities that enabled you to move beyond the obstacles. It is these characteristics that define the hero: you! You will begin to notice that the challenges that you face today are no greater than those that you faced in the past.  You simply need to use the same strength of character to overcome your current challenges.

Success or sabotage? In order to be successful, you must remember that you have already made great accomplishments. How can you appreciate success if it remains unacknowledged?

Is this going to be an incredible day? Find the qualities within you that make each day incredible.

[askmarkward]

View this post on Instagram

Take a moment... #gratitude #picplaypost

[askmarkward]

Little Boy Found

Today I saw a lonely red headed boy sitting on a stoop. There was a look of longing cleverly hidden behind the innocent façade of the child. He is smart—this one. He knows more than those around him do and he knows it. The child mind does not permit him to process the information in a way that he can communicate his differences to those around him who have not felt his pain or experienced his insight. He knows that even a hint of realization could bring them pain. So, he carries it around; an extra load, which is seemingly heavy on his little frame. Occasionally, he reads a book or sees a film where the writer is able to capture his truth but quickly the book ends or the credits roll, leaving him again alone. He puts is head down away from the sun, away from the light. He wishes for a day without information. “Let me just ‘be’ my Lord. Let me just ‘be.’” He will grin. He will laugh. He will cry when he is alone. He knows that he must bare it for his real work has not yet begun. He raises his head, reties his shoes and goes home…again.

[askmarkward]

Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah

I caught myself in the fridge again, conversing with the cheese. It speaks with a gentle kindness while the leftover Chinese food looks on with resentment. There is nothing more angry than a day old, ignored Asian Chicken. It is definitely more sour than sweet. I could swear that I heard the apples gasp when I selected an orange to accompany the cheese on the snack plate. "No accounting for taste," someone said. I think it was the mustard. "French's." Figures. I am feeling judged in my own kitchen. I never have this problem with the freezer. Too cold; it simply cannot be bothered. The ice cream always seems to warm to my presence. I retire, full, to the quiet comforts of my living room. I wonder now as I may wonder until the day of my death: does the refrigerator light really go out when you close the door? I may never know. Somewhere in the distance, a single dill laughs at my uncertainty. Who knew that the answers to life's questions were contained in the life of a lonely pickle?

[askmarkward]

Boogey Bagels

It is Vienna, sometime this side of the twentieth century (not the one in Austria, but the one in my mind; they eat pizza there). I walk in rhythm to the memory of yesterday's rain. My face is not mine, but another's. I am wearing a brushed tweed jacket, pleated gabardine slacks and polished brown wing-tipped shoes. The oversized sweater against my chest reflects the color my eyes should have been. The morning fog rolls in unyielding opposition to my every step. Step, hop, step, hop, step; step on a crack, break your mother's back. My pace is interrupted at the assault of a bakehouse aroma. Old Lady Reinholdt was seen picking her nose last Thursday, through a bakery blind. I had sacrificed my breakfast bread for the love of three potato chips: sour cream and onion, barbecue and nacho cheese--all unsalted and individual. My passing brings me face to face with a stranger. She is a woman, the likes of which I never dared dream. Hormonal excitation produces blackheads. I recalled reading it in a back issue of Highlights magazine at my brother's dentist office. The woman sighed at my body's obstruction of her path as she left the bakery. She took a bite of her breakfast and slipped into my past. I allowed her passage, but quickly considered the alternative. Step, step, pivot-step, run...all raisins are not born of grapes. Somewhere, a woman grows sour at the taste of a raisin bagel.

[askmarkward]

small PARTS, small ACTORS

I live quietly in resentment. This is NOT the contract that I signed. I was not made to blend. I don't know how to blend. I don't WANT to blend. What does the actor do when he misses his cue? Does he rewrite the script and dishonor the playwright by creating his own entrance? Can his own honor be held in higher regard than the integrity of the play? What if his inner dialogue has more insight than the limitations of his role? Does the temptation to take center stage in opposition to direction alter his intentions? Why is my blocking obstructing my growth? Is a performance without an audience still a play? Tonight, I will take a bow. Perhaps tomorrow, I will get my answer.

[askmarkward]

Dream States

I saw you walking in the rain last Tuesday from the car window. You didn't have an umbrella, but you didn't rush; You sauntered aimlessly (in my mind, I hummed to the splashes of your rhythms). Your hair and the passion of the winter breeze teamed to obstruct your vision, but you brushed it from your eyes with a gentle coolness. I tapped on the car window... From across the street, you turned. Slowly. You smiled the famous smile and stretched your hand to a wave. Fade to black. The sun appears from behind a cloud and I realize that it is morning. It was only a dream. But, I know that I will return to sleep because I will always find you there. In my dreams. I miss you in my waking.

[askmarkward]

Wet Dreams

A cliff, a sunrise and a being. She couldn't remember when she started having the dream, only that its memory was always with her. It was a comfortable part of her composition, like a birthmark. She hadn't asked for it, but was at ease with its consistency. The dream was repetitive, but vivid in image. She is standing at the edge of a cliff at sunrise talking to God. She is not quite sure how she knows that it is God; she doesn't remember asking, it is just assumed. He was not like she had heard him described on talk shows (a "warm, white light"). He was just God, a simple being with a purpose. She doesn't remember His face--maybe He doesn't have one, she is not certain. But, she does remember His words, "I am going to make you a woman." "NO! I won't be any good at that; let me be water...please!" Suddenly, she is alone on the cliff and, despite the rising of the sun in the distance, she is cold. In frustration, she jumps from the cliff. It is at this point that she awakens from her sleep to a life of devoid of satisfaction.

[askmarkward]

Mime Love

When I first saw her, she was performing in the Grand Avenue subway station. She felt at a wall that wasn't there and my heart lept. I wanted to penetrate that wall. She was a quiet angel in black and white. At first, I thought that she was just pale, but, then I realized...A MIME. Who'd have thought? She didn't talk much, not at all really, but I loved her. We walked against imaginary winds and picked at non-existent flowers, together, hand in hand. When the date for the wedding rolled around, I was psyched. There we were, in front of the church. The minister turned to her and said, "Do you take this man to be your wedded husband?" She made some theatrical movements, but did not utter a sound. BITCH!

[askmarkward]

Sofa Sighs.

I think the sofa is angry. I am certain that I heard it sigh as I made myself comfortable in my customary spot. Some might suggest that it was the air escaping from a yet undisclosed hole in the cushion; I beg to differ. That couch has tired of the presence of my ass and it is making it known. My first reaction was one of anger and resentment. I pictured myself chopping each piece of the sectional into tiny, little wood pieces and then throwing them into a fire. Naturally, I would roast s'mores or something to ensure complete and total revenge. Then I realized that I cannot burn a fire in a fake fireplace. In those quiet moments that followed, as my dreams faded into the abyss, I experienced an awakening. It seemed almost spiritual, but it was more likely an "ah-ha" seasoned with a little gas (beans for dinner again). My couch loves me. The anger is an act of love. Somewhere down deep, below the foam, it knows of my talent and potential and wonders why I am sedentary on a couch on a Friday night in one of America's greatest cities. How could I have missed the love eminating from the comforts of my couch? Why could I not sense the truth in the solace of the butt-groove? I feel so close to it again. What's a little anger amongst life partners? Tomorrow, I will treat him with Extra Strength Febreze; I will turn the cushions. I may even leave the house.

[askmarkward]

Vitamin A: The Date Rape Drug

I tried to look away, but those ripe red tomatoes continued to mock me. They giggled with cruel delight in response to my growling stomach. Temptation came to visit in answered the call. I quietly descended the stairs, calculating my next move with every step. I looked around for sufficient cover. Once I realized that I would not be seen by the neighbors, I made a mad dash (yes, it was indeed mad. I was mad with desire!) and ripped a small succulent tomato from its comfortable cradle. It may have released a hushed scream; I cannot be sure. I felt no regret as I sliced the tomato, seasoned it and directed it to its death. In the world of vegetables, "no" means "yes."

[askmarkward]

The Passion of the Latte

I saw you looking at me from across the room. Don't deny it. Your lips may be tempted to say, "NO, NO, NO!" but the truth in your eyes says, "YES, YES, YES!" You are a saucy one, aren't you? So coy. So demure. So alluring. I cannot help but wonder if there is really anyone on the other end of that phone. Are you engaged in conversation or simply trying to torture me with your hypnotic laugh? With whom are you speaking? Is it your priest? Yes, I believe it is your priest. Are you telling him about me (about the stranger with whom you just shared a moment)? After 13 months of concentrated celibacy and sobriety, you have surrendered to the passion that is bubbling within. You are going to make a move. I cannot let you do it! I cannot allow you to surrender your dedication for a lifetime of tireless, unending passion. You are better than this, you know. I am TOO MUCH for you. My insight, wisdom and power to paralyze with a single kiss would destroy the very essence of your being. The purity of my love would consume you like this double-shot mocha latte. I must go. I must leave you without ever saying hello. I will not look back, but just know that I am doing it for you...for us. Tell Father Flanagan to bless us on our journey as we redeem one another from the depths of despair. It is only for you, my love, that I carry this beast of burden, this cross of unrequited love. I am rolling away the rock of temptation and walking out of the Starbucks...Alone, but redeemed again. God, save the Queen and my nameless, caffeine-addicted lover!

[askmarkward]

Burn the Fat Away!

The Pizza was angry with me. It threw itself from the foil pan that I had lovingly created and made its escape. GO LIMP! The pepperoni, mushroom and extra cheese split from the security of its crusty foundation and embedded itself in the crevice just north of the broiler. It was like dirty animal sex without apology. In my shock and awe (some wars must be fought on the home front), I attempted to scrape the oozing innards from its cozy resting place. I was greeted with a scream. At first, I thought it was the scream of a woman; then, I realized that the gutteral sound was my own. My knuckle foolishly made merry with the scorching bitterness of the oven rack--leaving me with a visual reminder of the inflationary cost of unwelcome flirtations. I retreat in defeat to the dining room. I consume the spoils of battle--four pie crusts divorced of flavor. My body resigns to hunger as the oven hisses happily forward...with more built-in seasonings then one could ever have imagined. Viva Italia!