Mistake

I had insatiable passion.

I was writer, dancer, creator, singer, performer - a drama maker - the spotlight queen! That was me.

For some time now, I've felt dead. Just detached and sad and depressed. I don't keep in touch with friends - I've let things fall behind. I've fallen.

And I haven't cared at all.

Lately though, I've felt a spark.

At times it scares the crap out of me because I'm not sure what to do with it. I don't even feel like I'm good enough to have it, but it is hot and fast and moves from the recesses of my brain into my gut. Trying to supress it makes me want to vomit. I don't sleep, my mind is going going going turning like a turbine ready to spark some fantastic machine that will launch me to something great and fulfilling and worth my time. And I know if I let this spark flicker too long without lighting something bigger than me it will fade and sputter out.

I remember this feeling. Like I'm going to explode, like I'm running so fast my heart breaks through my skin, like someone turned on the light and illuminated every mystery of the world. I used to have it all the time. Back then I couldn't control it - and didn't want to. I didn't know how to harness my power and self-destructed over and over again. And loved and loathed every single minute of it.

At some point - and I can pinpoint the time nearly to the second but am not going to tell you - I guess I just succumbed to the "supposed to" world. And the second I did I lost everything that was magical and wonderful about me.

There was a time that I was a firework - sparkly, bright and inspiring. Nothing and everything mattered at the same time. I was fiercely fantastic and dangerously loyal and just so into living life instead of being complacent and settled.

God I hope I'm here again. I want to be that me again.

The giblets came flying out on the approach!

There is just something about chucking a 15 pound frozen turkey down a 25' linoleum hallway to knock over a bunch of pins.

It is especially satisfying when it smacks against the overturned table against the wall and juices spurt out of the end.

what i did last weekend

i'd never seen a lavender moon
except for in my dreams.

but there it was,
escaping sunset and changing
its face
through pink and purple hues
in rapid, short, gasps -
hanging low over the outer banks
basking in the north carolina wind
caught between blades
of swaying beach grass
above the cool, shell shocked sand.

it climbed high into the
peach fuzz clouds
battling with the ever darkening blues of dusk
to be the most arresting view in the sky.

and as night fell dark and warm -
wrapped in stars and satellites -
the moon completed its cycle of color
and changed back to its flat face
of bone and teeth.

at peace.

In the cool humid morning, traffic backed up as usual. The same commuters who drive I-95 each day still left way too many car lengths between bumpers and slammed on brakes to switch lanes. NPR blabbed Petraeus. We talked about it being a harsh winter.

I thought of the things I had to do today and played with ideas for my novel. And as I crested over the hill on 395 on my way to work, the Pentagon in front of me put things into perspective.

Six years ago today, in the same hour as I was arriving to work this morning, freedom in America adopted an eerie new feeling.

There are points in our lives that we all remember. In the days, hours, and months after the attacks when the phrase "nine-eleven" became a rallying cry and we briefly united as a people, one of the most significant things I remember is that the feeling of safety I once enjoyed was never going to be present again.

And the worse realization for me was that many people in the world had never felt safe at all.

And I was ashamed to be so lucky.

Maybe Rove will go that way too...

Roxy has been out and about in the sweet backroads of Virginny and feels compelled to post a bit of news that she learned about one Mr. Jerry Falwell, the leader of the Morally Bankrupt.

It seems to be a confirmed fact* that Mr. Falwell's death wasn't reported 100% accurately.

While I must say it pains me to tell y'all that NPR was wrong, I am abso-posi-fucking-lutely happy as a redneck watching Nascar to inform you that Jerry Falwell did not die in his office at Liberty University as reported.

Your pal Roxy, while doing field research in Lynchburg, Virginia this past weekend, discovered that the Fartwell went out just like the King.

That's right folks, Jerry died on the shitter.

Which is so apropos since it really doesn't matter where he was - in the office or on the john - he was definitely full of shit.

And that is reason enough to resume posting on my blog.
*Fact confirmed in a bar by a reliable source who confirmed with EMT's on the scene.

Hiatus

Roxy is taking a hiatus from her blog because she is worn out, spent, has no creativity and in general is pretty much bored with life.

And so I sign off, in typical yearbook fashion,

Enjoy your summer! Stay sweet! Don't ever change! K.I.T!

I do declare!

Why Chapel Hill, you're as refreshing as a cool glass of tea on a hot August night. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd have thought you were trying to woo me away from your sultry cousin Virginia.

Despite my hatred of North Carolina (on par with my feelings about New Jersey), I must say I'm simply delighted to be staying at the Carolina Inn at UNC Chapel Hill with its richly appointed entrance, lovely grounds, elegant sunroom, and delectable four-star fare. What a charming seductress of a town, all cafes and college cottages tucked between flowering butterfly trees and long slips of brick pathways. I'm simply mesmerized at the enchanting atmosphere of the places I've seen so far: UNC (I linked their awesome "Virtual Musuem of Univeristy History" - check it out), Vespa Cibobuono, and Franklin Street.

I'm half tempted to take back what I said about this state earlier this year.

Then again, even though you did launch such fine acts as The Squirrel Nut Zippers, Ben Folds Five, James Taylor, and those fine hunks of redneck rockabilly Southern Culture on the Skids, (and soccer great Mia Hamm), I don't think I'm prepared to love you as a whole entity just yet.

We'll see what happens next month when I come here again.

Forget the taming mousse, I'm shaving my head

It is so humid here.

I was deceptively lulled into believing that our East Coast summer was going to be all breezes and butterflies.

Apparently not.

When I left the house this morning, I caught my reflection in a window. With my unruly, curly hair running wild on top and the kitten heeled peep-toes adorning my feet, I could have been mistaken for a Jersey whore.

Thankfully I don't have 2 inch bloodred fingernails with little rhinestone designs. I'm sure that's the only thing that kept the guy outside the Metro from offering me $50 and a good time.

A fairytale for people with trees in their belly at 3:00AM

Once upon a time, there lived a girl who had a tree living inside her belly.

It wasn't an ordinary tree grown from a wayward pit or carefully sewn seed; in fact, the girl didn't knowingly plant the tree at all. She didn't remember how it got there - just realized it was there one day even though no one else could see it. And while the girl never asked for a tree to grow inside of her, she knew that it was very important that she care for it for all of her days.

Even though she didn't have an instruction manual for her tree, the girl could sense it was flourishing inside. Her healthy tree was any number of rainbow bright colors - sometimes a daring pink or converging shades of orange and yellow. When the girl was content, new green leaves festooned twisting silver and gold branches and a royal purple trunk. And when she was excited, the leaves changed colors and sparkled as if lit from within. Even better, when she felt really happy, the tree sometimes curled up its roots inside itself and flew through her, a cool soulful wind blowing through its long-leaf hair.

But the girl knew that her tree wasn't always healthy. She felt it one Saturday afternoon when nothing seemed right with the world and she didn't know what to do. She began to sense the change in her leaves almost immediately - the tendrils curled and turned a muddy green and the branches cracked, slightly brittle. Her mouth had the distinct taste of Brussels sprouts mixed with tar. In that moment, the girl learned that no amount of water or food could feed the roots or nurture flowering bulbs on the delicate branches. Her thoughts and moods alone were responsible for growing a proper and brilliant tree.

Most days, the girl only thought of the tree in her belly once or twice. She listened to the leaves rustle in the wind of her soul and learned from them - heeding their warnings and celebrating the little things that made life so wonderful. The tree rooted itself deeper and deeper and got bigger and bigger with time. She never worried about it getting too big because it became part of her core and backbone. And it was beautiful. The strong clear trunk supported long limber twists of branch covered with thousands of different colored leaves in hundreds of textures. Before long, the girl didn't know where the tree ended and she began. She wondered if other people had trees in their bellies too.

So she went on her merry way in life, dancing around the world and thinking of trees and dreams. Occasionally though, she forgot peek inside to check and feed her tree.

And then one day the girl woke with a start. The clock on her bedside table read 3AM and she tasted tar and Brussels sprouts and fear in the back of her throat. She knew her tree was dying. The branches were black and brittle, turning to ash, and the crisp brown leaves scattered the floor of her stomach. She couldn't feel her roots in that moment, but sensed that they were somewhere uncovered and exposed to harsh thoughts and wilting dreams.

And the wind was so quiet it scared her.

She sat straight up in the darkest part of the darkest night and cried. She howled for the impending loss of her tree. She screamed on the inside. Why hadn't she paid more attention to those strong roots, the delicate branches? Anger, frustration, uncertainty, and fear poured out of her through Brussles sprout tasting tears. Her stomach churned. She was hopelessly lost.

When she finally stopped crying, her body felt bruised and broken. She felt as if she'd never feel safe and whole again. She laid back down as the clock silently turned to 4AM.

As she lay there in the dark willing sleep to come and deliver her from sadness, she felt an odd stirring in her belly. She inhaled sharply. Was that the end? Was it gone?

The stirring continued.

A single, yellow-green leaf sprouted from a tiny branch toward the bottom of the tree in her belly. And in that instant, she felt thick roots grasp her tight as the wind of her soul began to whisper to her softly.

All in all, it's really cool to be me right now...(aka I think I've had too much wine)

It is the end of Day Two.

I have vascillated on what to do with my entire career - am I excited? Should I quit because I'm overwhelmed? Should I dive in even though I don't know what the hell I'm doing? I'm riding the roller coaster -wanting to quit my job seconds after thinking I have the best opportunity in the world.

I've met 20 new people, helped finish 6 bottles of wine, and obtained 3 new hefty promotion prospects.

I love conferences.

The only thing that would be cooler is if this meeting was in San Diego or Vegas instead of Chicago.