Parquet

In restless dreams I walk alone, down narrow streets of coble stone.

2006-07-05T19:56:00.000-05:00

My cat Bagheera lets me make kissing noises over his head, but pulls away if I come to close. He is in a mood tonight, the rain pattering on the glass makes him anxious; he cannot understand nor catch with open claws the source of the noise. I too am anxious, wanting, waiting, on a quiet rain soaked summer night, and fear I have been too long in waiting. A pile of graduate school applications lie next to me, half completed. I am not lonely; taken to staring out the window with blank eyes catching the chance individual drop of rain, yet plagued by a certain impatience. I cannot wait forever. Time to act. Bagheera and I will not be anxious tomorrow, when the sunlight comes again.

Lizards, and snakes, and spiders - oh my!

2006-05-25T19:16:00.000-05:00

I am a lucky girl. Somehow, I managed to have a job that I love; doing work that I love, with people that I love. And get paid to play with tarantulas. The library system presented a program called “Grossology,” aimed at young boys at that special age where they are interested in all things gooey, gross and ultimately hilarious. With an ample dose of potty humor, and plenty of fake vomit, young boys would visit various booths set up around the library to be grossed out. (And secretly learning things like biology, but don’t tell them that. For the kids, it was all about the barf bags.) The Nature Lady was part of Grossology, and the only part that I allowed myself within ten feet of. My fellow sexy librarians and I took turns volunteering to work at different branches helping the Nature Lady out, after seeing the chaos that followed a table full of snakes, lizards, and little boys. I was extremely lucky to assist at two libraries other than my own. So were the animals. During the three Grossology programs, the spider was dropped twice (tarantulas have an exoskeleton that can shatter if dropped far enough), the frog almost stepped on, the ribbon snake dropped and screamed at, the turtle wandered through the bookshelves, and the lizard rescued from riding home on some forgetful boy’s shoulder. It was fun, but it was stressful WORK keeping 2 snakes, a tarantula, a lizard, a newt and a frog alive for 2 solid hours of squealing, hyper 8 year old boys. But, I loved it. And I discovered I have a deep, hidden love for tarantulas.

The Best Shoes Ever.

2006-03-31T21:08:00.000-05:00

No, seriously. Just look at them. The shine. The sparkle. The. Best. Shoes. Eah-ver.

The Bahgeera Chronicles

2006-03-31T19:59:00.000-05:00

Those who know me quite well can attest to the fact that I am utterly, inconsolably, ridiculously, and religiously afraid of cockroaches. I cannot stand the thought of them, and have had a battle with the evil creatures ever since I have come to live in my current apartment. So, you can all imagine my joy as I share the following narrative.

Tonight, Bahgeera single handedly (er, pawedly) hunted and captured a vicious, horrible, extremely large and Kafkaesque cockroach.

I was lying on the couch, finishing my tasty dinner of enchiladas, (I can make a mean enchilada,) and giggling quietly to the wit of John Stewart and his band of merry writers that make up the humoriffic Daily Show, when I heard a commotion in the kitchen. Bagheera had previously spent time this evening knocking over his water dish by landing in it, (picture an over turned kitchen stool for visual aid in how this might have happened,) and by trying to jump and reach the hinge of the kitchen door. (Tried so hard, and cried about it when he couldn’t reach. I finally picked him up and held him in reaching distance to the hinge so he could bat at it with his paws for a few minutes and purr appreciatively.)

After hearing the commotion, I called out to him, expecting to hear the sound of four little paws scrambling down from off the forbidden kitchen counter and to see his little face come trit-trotting my way. He did not come. I called him again, in a nicer tone, so that he wouldn’t think I was too mean, lest he decide not to grace me with his presence. He still didn’t come, and I went back into my TV stupor without thinking too much on it. When I heard nothing from him for a good ten minutes, I called his name again.

He still ignored my call. Even for a bad demon kitty, this was unusual. He usually comes when I call to him, unless he is doing something really bad, or knocked unconscious. Fearing that it was one of the two, I left the glow of the idiot box to go check on my kitty. I found him crouched on the floor of the kitchen in front of a paper bag.

“Oh.” I scold him, reaching down to give him a squeeze, “a paper bag is more important than coming when your mother calls?” I pick up the bag, intending to play the delightfully sophisticated game “torture the kitty,” and what should creep out from under the paper bag? You guessed it - the hideous cockroach from three paragraphs ago. I react in a dignified and worldly manner, by screaming like a banshee (that would be the “worldly” part,) and leaping across the room in a soaring arch which was quite dignified, I assure you. Bagheera, pleased to have his new plaything uncovered from the complexity of the paper bag, proceeded to pounce, chew and claw the hideous roach in a very un-vegetarian manner. Drawing my courage, I convinced Bagheera to let me flush the hideous roach down the toilet (a more humane death than death by kitten.)

Bagheera was then lauded with praise and special kitten treats, and many, many insistences that he was such a good, good boy, and that for every evil roach he captured I would in turn forget every evil deed Bagheera himself committed. So, tonight, he is my little protector and I am quite pleased with him. That is, until I went to take a shower and he crawled into my closet (again) and pulled more of my clothes off the hangers, and the towels off the shelves, and used his claws on all the delicate clothes I keep in the closet to be safe from said claws……sigh.

Nerdy Post

2006-03-31T19:24:00.000-05:00

This month, part of my wonderful job at the library is having the honor of creating a poetry tree, a "PoeTree," to cover one of the ugly cement columns. Each leaf on the "PoeTree" holds a poem, and the kids are supposed to decorate their own leaves with poems and smiley faces and whatnot. April is National Poetry month, and being the nerd that I am, I eagerly volunteered to tackle the poetry displays, PoeTree, and suggested having a poetry open mike. The open mike is themed, a "Beatnik Cafe," where hot chocolate will be served as the kids read their poems and the audience snaps their fingers instead of clapping.

This is the "Before" picture - ugly brown paper.

The back of my head as I sketch, while my co-worker taking the picture scolds, "turn around and show your face!" Me: "no!"

Mid project - half finished braches droop sadly

And done! Tacking the 50 odd poetry leaves made the week before!
(The sign on the tree explains what it is, and why it is there.)

A young patron with one shoe on comes to "help" me towards the end. When I ask her if she likes my tree, she nods and replies, "I can tie my shoe." Not the enthusiastic response I was hoping for, but cute none the less.

The Way I See it #83

2006-03-20T18:02:00.000-05:00

"They told you that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. What they failed to tell you is that it is best seen with the eyes closed. What you look like isn't important. What is important is who you are inside and the choices you are making in your life."

- Tiana Tozer, 1992 Paralympic silver and 1996 bronze medalist, women's wheelchair basketball.

A Hollow Tree

2006-03-02T19:33:00.000-05:00

It seems my only blogging is work blogging; but it is only in the quiet hours between carts of books and the evening show that it occurs to me to write.

I am frequently encouraged by all my co-workers to create a “myspace” account, but I am loyal to my sad little blog.

One warm day today – 74 degrees, with a cooling March wind. I sat outside with Sokha and Amrita and ate sushi while the wind threatened the red umbrella over our outdoor table with upward gusts. I was one solid grip away from being Mary Poppins, flying off into the sky. I hid in the sun during my break, and soaked up light. Too long have I sat in winter, this world of fragile things.

Kitten Blogging

2006-02-19T01:11:00.000-05:00

Bagheera, the wild child, blends into the foliage of the dining room table.

He keeps a close watch on his domain.

Notice the oddly pensive look of a beast longing to leap and attack at any moment. Because, you may think he is trying to look cute, but he is really waiting for me to make a grab for the detergent in the bag beside him. Then it's all claws.

Enjoy.

And many more...

2006-01-17T00:08:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday to me.

Good to know

2005-12-28T15:57:00.000-05:00

Been down and out these past weeks with pneumonia, Christmas, finals, work, a new kitten, and stress. That's all.

Your Tax dollars at Work!

2005-12-28T15:53:00.000-05:00

I'm taking this moment of library time to wonder if the mirrors in public bathrooms are two-sided. And if they are, I wonder if someone is spying on me when I wash my hands. Because, sometimes, when I wash my hands in the bathroom, I sing. And if there are other people in the restroom with me, I mime singing, without making a sound. Does anyone really want to spy on that?

Some New Favorites

2005-12-13T19:10:00.000-05:00

I Blame the Patriarchy by Twisty Faster is being added for sheer brilliant wit,

Shakespeare's Sister for the Maniac Cat One Act play,

and Dude! because Amrita is my friend, and nothing makes the time spent reshelving 15 carts of snotty picture books fly by like having someone to lament with.

Ode to the Back turned towards me in Sleep

2005-12-09T19:17:00.000-05:00

I am cartographer to the map of his sleeping back.
Each landmark known, each signpost and rest stop detailed.
I become miner to those plains of flesh,
rake the ground as a master Zen gardener.
When he wakes, I dig into his back
as if it held my orgasm,
long red marks crosshatch the raised mound of spine.

His shoulders are broad lighthouses, beckoning wistfully
above the tattooed laughing face of comedy, the gaping mouth of tragedy.
The dark lines of tattoo, on closer inspection,
each dotted pore and circle of ink,
become every tear ever cried;
for a broken toy, an ex-girlfriend,
a hungry mother or aching solitude.

His breathing fights cravings for nicotine
as the half moon of his back rises, shifts.
The stale scent of cigarette smoke lingers,
mixing with the scent of carpentry glue,
a last whiff of deodorant applied hours ago,
a nighttime scent of garlic and butter pasta.

He is pierced and painted and scarred
to a nonchalant perfection
even my scratches do not taint.
In the half light his skin becomes smooth,
a magazine air-brushed reality,
I press the raised bump of freckle on his lower back
to find it is soft and yielding.

He glows yellow and peach,
His flesh is no longer flesh but a rainbow of light,
of Oxygen, of untouchable things that melt away
into the sounds of morning.
I find refuge in the curve of his spine
between tightened shoulder blades.
I carve myself into his skin, a nest for my own
breasts that fit squished against his rising consciousness.
I wander the frontier of his back with quiet fingers.

*Copyright Natalie J.H., 2005*

More Work Blogging

2005-12-02T12:01:00.000-05:00

The noon-tide lunch hour, and I'm quite ready for a break. Maybe wander down North Tryon for a bit of Indian Cuisine at the only-for-lunch restaurant, or count my pennies for Starbucks. The strange holiday season has fallen, and the pressures of shopping and joy are upon us. I have no need to add any stress to my life, but for some reason I am compelled to rush to the mall and join the throng of cheery capitalists.

Or as the Communism Bunny says,
"Silly Capitalists, Trix are for Everyone!"

Work Day Blogging

2005-12-01T17:59:00.000-05:00

In one fell swoop of my eager clacking keyboard fingers, I have joined the legion of bloggers who sneak in a post or two (or all) at work. Welcome, the opportunity of being caught, and the swift risk of being sacked. My work day blogging actually takes place at 6 in the evening, and ImaginOn is packed with the wiggle-bodies of small children waiting to have their photo-op with dear St. Nick. Which means, in short, not so many patrons wanting books. And with this in mind, I feel I can snoop around my blog and write.

It's been a long time coming, my blogging, since all the writing I have been doing is for Grad School. But, all of my work for Poetry Class has been completed and turned in, and 14 days until the full length play is due. I tried to write today during lunch break, and have been writing a little bit each day, so that I am not so horribly overwhelmed when I sit down to complete the final product. And then. . .I'm done. No more school for a bit. I can actually use my days off from work to have days off from working, period. And all the world rejoiced.

However, these short paragraphs do not excuse a month's absence from blogging. Please feel free to ridicule my lack of commun-it-mi-cations skills, and remind me of those heart-felt promises of daily blogging that I pledged to do throughout the summer months. With winter, promises freeze.

For the Turtle Lover in all of Us

2005-10-12T14:25:00.000-05:00

NAIROBI (AFP) - A baby hippopotamus that survived the tsunami waves on the Kenyan coast has formed a strong bond with a giant male century-old tortoise, in an animal facility in the port city of Mombassa, officials said.
The hippopotamus, nicknamed Owen and weighing about 300 kilograms (650 pounds), was swept down Sabaki River into the Indian Ocean, then forced back to shore when tsunami waves struck the Kenyan coast on December 26, before wildlife rangers rescued him.
"It is incredible. A-less-than-a-year-old hippo has adopted a male tortoise, about a century old, and the tortoise seems to be very happy with being a 'mother'," ecologist Paula Kahumbu, who is in charge of Lafarge Park, told AFP.
"After it was swept and lost its mother, the hippo was traumatized. It had to look for something to be a surrogate mother. Fortunately, it landed on the tortoise and established a strong bond. They swim, eat and sleep together," the ecologist added. "The hippo follows the tortoise exactly the way it follows its mother. If somebody approaches the tortoise, the hippo becomes aggressive, as if protecting its biological mother," Kahumbu added.
"The hippo is a young baby, he was left at a very tender age and by nature, hippos are social animals that like to stay with their mothers for four years," he explained.

Monday Night Photo

2005-10-10T20:00:00.000-05:00

The obligatory kiss picture that so frequents the blogs of 20-something young sexy librarians.
(If you look very closely, you can see Joey’s eyebrow ring glinting like a tasty fish lure, minus the bait. )

Or, if you prefer, the anime version:

To Summons

2005-10-10T19:49:00.000-05:00

I am listening to David Bowie’s “I’m Afraid of Americans,” and for some reason, I am reminded to promote Sharsta’s new blog; same bat format, same bat style, but shiny new bat-free address.

So, please visit Sharsta, the patron saint of Hockey boys, as she writes duel posts in languages that we cannot even begin to pronounce, let alone understand. (Thankfully, she graciously gives English translations so we don’t all feel like biting our nails in worry that something important was missed, and that is among the many reasons why we should all love her.)

Question

2005-10-10T19:14:00.000-05:00

How did it get to be October 10th already? Wasn’t it just July?
When did Autumn so silently sneak into my bed?

Hob-knobbing Day

2005-10-06T22:22:00.000-05:00

Highlights:

- Early morning snuggling and strong coffee.

- Drank white, gin and tonic and sips of martini with the new co-workers.

- Met Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg at ImaginOn’s Donor party. (Her husband, Edwin Schlossberg, designed the main art sculpture.) I shook her hand, told her I was working and only had a moment but wanted to meet her, and asked her if she played with the Story Time computers (a feature of ImaginOn that allows children to write and draw their own story with photos or games). In hindsight, I felt shy and ridiculous asking such a thing, but she said she enjoyed playing on them, and was very gracious.

"A Prayer for the Fruits of our Labour " Or, "Persephone’s last Bite*"

2005-10-06T22:02:00.000-05:00

“Every woman wants her adventure to be a feast
of ripening cherries and peaches, Marseilles fig,
hot-house grapes, champagne shuddering in crystal.
Happiness, we believe, is on sumptuous display.”
- Edward Hirsch, from the poem “Colette”

Such voluptuous and supple ideals
And so tenderly do we desire
textured teardrop shaped figs oozing
with trapped sunlight or wine
tasting as if pale sand worn stones
from cold rivers have chilled
the bitter rot of grape into
sweet and biting

Isn’t it more than the adventure
Being ripe or being decrepit
in swirled brown vine
being between pomegranate seeds
or being quietly solitary, a twist of body
on wooden Sunday morning pew

We lash the last of faded
doll gowns to blenders
of peaches and cherry clichés
have lashed the small yellowed lace,
robes of bride, nurse, madam
in stained fruit skin
And come harvest, swallow
eagerly the pomegranate
seeds out of Hades upturned palm,
slightly sticky.

We rip memories into citrus pieces
tearing each slice for a hint of sweetness or
foreboding of tomorrows rotten air, the scent
of decay reaching our nostrils as we linger
paralyzed in lucidity

Come harvest, or come bleak winds,
fragile frost and withered vine
will crackle with disease,
and beneath his unloving fingers snap
and break for riper fare

we will cling to vines till we rot
until there is no fruit but a
spoiled apple blackening
the top of the refrigerator
an expired can of pineapples
in the pantry that smells like pepper
Until we are voracious with hunger.

* Persephone is the goddess of the underworld in Greek mythology, daughter of Zeus and Demeter. She was kidnapped by Hades and fed seven pomegranate seeds which bound her to the Underworld. Demeter was outraged, and the earth ceased to be fertile. Zeus intervened, and Persephone was allowed to return to the earth part of the year, which became Spring. When she would return to Hades, winter would fall on the earth as Demeter mourned.

Swimming in the Styx

2005-09-29T22:13:00.000-05:00

I am riding a Pixie Stix induced high that has left my tongue a bright orange tint and has given me the attention span of a gnat on crack, so while I am technically in the middle of writing the 20 pages of script that are due in my playwriting class on Monday, I cannot keep my head out of the clouds long enough to produce wryly effective dialogue between two engaging characters. The wonder filled magic of powered sugar and artificial color. Ten minutes till The Daily Show, the time I told myself that I’d give myself a break from all the hard work that I have been pretending to do on the less- than 20 page manuscript. I should have started with a one act and worked my way up to full length, but noooo I dove headfirst into a class that requires a 100 plus page stage script with a brain full of only about 30 plus pages of ideas. I’m losing what edge I had. I’m losing the joy of writing for writings sake. My creativity is unmoved, and there is a stagnant odor rising from the shimmery conclave pond of ideas that I used to draw from with both hands cupped.
I don’t know how to scrape clean the mold that has gathered in the dark places of my mind.

It’s 10:59 and Jon Stewart will be on soon. I have ranted. I have hoped. I have left the pond without a drop to quench my thirst. There’s more Pixie Stix over on the coffee table, anyway.

Setting

2005-09-27T23:19:00.000-05:00

The floors are original hardwood, circa 1915, stained, wax coated and splintering between the cracks. The room is old, like the building supporting it; a brick structure of history and spirit. There are layers of paint and tears lining the walls, the first layer from forgotten hands long since coated with a color for every personality that the small apartment held. Roaches hide tightly between the curved crown molding and grayish-beige walls. The personality of the paint says, “neutral” or, more accurately, “lazy.” It was the color of a tenet long since moved.

A butterfly canvas chair sits cradling a crooked velvet pillow the shade of young merlot, and a shoebox of computer disks rests beside it. Two large curtained windows cover a wall facing a near identical brick building, a air conditioning unit stares out of the neighbors window and peers through the old needle-work drapes. They are white, the old drapes, made of a sticky fabric that catches hair and runs rough under fingertips. A set of J.R.R Tolkien books are propped under the hidden industrial Venetian blinds, letting sunlight peek through between “The Hobbit” and “The Fellowship of the Ring.” In fact, books are everywhere in this old room filled with modern things, books in lopsided stacks on the floor, under the butterfly chair, in a flimsy black plastic bookcase an arms reach from the chair. It is crammed full of books and books on top of books. A wooden bookcase sits opposite the butterfly chair, on the other side of the room, and more books line its tall shelves. “The Handmaid’s Tale” wedged between an Italian travel book, and a novel by Neil Gaiman. The books are color on the bland walls, they shine out a enticing light and fill the void of personality that the walls lack.

A wooden desk is in between the shelf and butterfly chair, a bright computer monitor takes up more than its share of room. A large oil painting hangs above the desk, swirling an orange and yellow sunset over the sterile white of computer equipment. A desk hutch is there too; a long row of CD’s proclaim the sideways album and band names in shades from blue to neon pink. Snapshots of still, smiling faces in a variety of gold and silver frames line the top of the hutch. A dusty computer sits on the floor, with stacks of paper resting nearby. Basil and oregano, the slight smell of countless dinners lingers through an open door to the kitchen. A hint of sandalwood incense mixes subtly with the stronger herb smells, and the room is warm from sun and scent and the comforting solidity of age.

Sunday in Blue

2005-09-25T22:25:00.000-05:00

Sunday Brunch with Joey at Boudreaux's; I dressed like a fairy and he wore the white collared shirt that makes him look like an anime character with his newly-dyed and recently cut black hair.

First day of work in less than 8 hours. Needing sleep and chocolate, maybe some Sunday night love-making, or at least a quick snuggle.

A solid thirty minutes more and my homework would be done, but I want to shower and sleep and curl my hair in tight pig-tail springs, blog and wrap around “Anansi Boys,” the latest novel by the charming Neil Gaiman.

Who, by and by, was in a hidden bookstore on the rich side of town signing copies of said book, and I waited two hours in a line that overwhelmed the store, and got stuck in front of a group of barely-high schoolers trying to out-squeal each other. And, they kinda smelled bad, like moldy sweat and dirty laundry, only amplified by new sweat and a group combination of general teen-ageness that I find offensive, since I thought being tortured by teenagers was at a stand-still until I either worked in retail again or had children of my own.

Haven’t dreamed, and barely slept.
Good night world.

The earth says Hello

2005-09-24T14:00:00.000-05:00

I think I should go jogging, because jogging is what the 20-something girls do on a Saturday morning if they are sober enough. Jogging, or stumbling into a greasy diner for hash browns while still in Friday night’s make-up. I’d much prefer the stumbling-into-sober act compared to the hung-over soccer mom look I’ve got going today. Saturday morning is best observed in high heels, club clothes, and the lingering scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke mixed with sweat and Elizabeth Arden.

I shuffled into Starbucks at 9 this morning in jeans and an oversized Rosie the Riveter sweatshirt, a cheerful and resolved ”We can do it!” sprawled on my breast, catching the sleep that I rub out from under my glasses with watery yawns. I tried to avoid sidewalk puddles so I wouldn’t get my bedroom slippers wet. Good morning world.

It’s the first weekend I’ve been in Charlotte for the past month, and this singular moment is the first time I am able to sit uninterrupted in front of a computer with a working internet. Joey was filling in for a manager in Greensboro, NC, for these past few weeks, and took the computer with him. Work is work and the computer is technically his. I was left with the slow laptop, but it refused to work about an hour after Joey left, and for all my trying I could not get it to connect to the internet again. That’s all the boring news of my whereabouts and half-hearted balm for the wounds of broken promises to the blog.

In between spending weekends with Joey in Greensboro, I got to play single girl again. The level of my productivity was amazing; perhaps for lack of company, perhaps for lack of internet, and all the other distractions computers hold. (Spider solitaire, I curse you.)
Classes started back again, and I enrolled in a Playwriting workshop, as well as a class called “Writing the Long Poem”. (If I start describing my life as an epic, in full lyrical verse that would make Blind Homer weep, you’ll know why.)

I also, surprisingly, found a job. I am the new (and somewhat sexy) Library Assistant for the downtown children’s library. It’s a new facility, officially titled “ImaginOn!” and it combines the children’s library with the Children’s Theater of Charlotte in one huge block long building with a purple roof. The initial drawings and promotions for the building illustrated lines of bright yellow school buses, children bouncing on in an orderly fashion with books in hand. Since Charlotte-Mecklenburg schools have now cancelled all field trips, clubs and sports that require buses due to tremendous gas prices, it may be a quiet job.