The Birthday Theory

The Birthday Theory

At the stroke of midnight on my 28th Birthday, I found myself alone in my room drained from work and drowning in a contemplative state of "Why's?", "How's" and "What Ifs?"

I suppose such weighted sentiment is to be expected from a girl like me on the joyful anniversary of the opening my eyes to the world while bellowing an immediate baby-belly-pay-attention-to-me-love-me-nurture-me-squeeze-me howl into the sterilized echoes of the Baylor Medical Center Delivery Ward. "LOVE ME!!!!!" "FEED ME!!" "MAKE ME FEEL LIKE THE MOST EXTRAORDINARY CREATURE ON THIS TINY BLUE PLANET!!" It was a loaded, claws-to-the-blackboard scream, no doubt. How do I know? Am I a rare case of Human Being that recollects the earliest of infant memories? Ehh, nope. I know because the unnerving childhood methods of screaming and staging tantrums continues on, still today, in my 28th year.

The pay-attention-to-me tactics have been diluted a bit, morphed into more acceptable adult behaviors, but, none-the-less, my motivation has not changed. This is no unique behavior. An integral element of Human Nature, for sure: the need and desire to be loved. To feel incubated in the warm, radiant glow of acceptance, nurturing and connection. The Human Condition. (Which, ideally should, in my mind and heart be labeled, the Human Unconditional. Silly, I know.) But, what if the rare splendor of our personalities was always embraced and the twisted guts of our psychological needs were always met with compassion and generosity? That's a big "what if," I know. (At least we can pay reverence to my gushing idealism in my adulthood, eh?) But, perhaps, if we as humans, yanked our grayscale eyeballs from our partially-hydrogenated assholes, we'd see what we are doing wrong...how we neglect our basic human need for love (and nutritional value.) Not just to receive love, but to express love in all of our actions, reactions, relationships and personal endeavors. This neglect of the heart is exactly why, at 28, I am still kicking, screaming, drinking, rebelling, shooting my flare gun into the sky.

This is why many of my comrades, my beloved band of orphans, are still desperately leapfrogging from empty relationship to relationship, finding synthetic solace in the forty bag of blow in their pocket, drink with reckless abandonment, smoke weed on their way to class, wait tables well into their thirties, leave their dreams in the wrappers, all the while wondering, with genuine naivety, "why the fuck do I do this to myself??" My Birthday Theory (and it has certainly been theorized by many others before me) is that the early and continuous neglect of basic human needs (whether it was stemmed from the selfish neglect of our parents or the foolish neglect of ourselves) is why so many of us sabotage our happiness, use control as a means of communication, fuck ourselves and fuck our eager, loyal audience with the capricious recklessness of a heroin-laced Rock Star. (Pete Doherty: screaming child in need.) (Oooh! His razor-wire-figured hottie ex, Kate Moss: thinks she needs another line of Devil Dandruff. Wrong! She needs her Daddy.) So, you are probably more than getting the point here... What the world needs now is love, sweet love, right?

Cute, huh? Seemingly silly and ideal, yes. But, this butter-bean heart, this child-in-need is, indeed, in immediate need of some love. (That had a nice cadence.) Some good-ol' fashioned nurturing of the soul. I've been frantically spinning my wheels to the tune of "gotta go to work, gotta write, gotta date, gotta go!go!go!" without stopping to offer gratitude for all the hard work I've been doing. So, to wrap it up in Birthday ribbons, if I seem like I have chugged a chalice of circa 1994 Ecstasy next time you see me, I have, in fact, not (most likely.) I'm just practicing...

P.S. Just to serve as a bit of insight into the overactive mind of KriKri, all of these thoughts took place in about two minutes of thinking. This was just the philosophical tip of the iceberg of last night's Birthday Eve curiosities.

television has been cock-blocking
my relationship with God.
and the sweat dripping from my
dizzy, celebu-not head
is leaving pools of perspiration
in the shape of do-it-yourself feeling blue prints
on my pillowcase.
and it seems that only after
I have witnessed every house in America
become extremely made-over,
will I learn that what does not kill me,
makes me sleepy.
…like plots in porn.
and Court TV.
and baseball highlights.
and math.
boo, math.
seriously.
numbers make me soooo sleepy
but, oh, how I love to sleep.
when I’m sleeping,
I quit talking and when I quit talking,
I quit asking questions like:
why is California always on fire?
why do my toenails grow so fast? (eww.)
why do I always mention my toes in my poetry?
why is Ashton Kuthcer always wearing a mumu
and waiving a checkered flag in my dreams?
why do I keep asking the snake to bite me?
I know how I sabotage myself, but why?
I know who I need to forgive, but how?
I know it’s going to better, but when?
these are the moments I lose myself.
only to find myself.
every question quilts me closer to God.
every time I stitch myself closer to God,

I freak the fuck out!
and turn on the television.

i think I’m afraid he’s going to judge me for
ingesting too much acid in high school.
I’m afraid there is no Project Runway
on the path to enlightenment.
I’m afraid I will no longer find salvation through
lonely, drunken nights of Sex….
and the City.

but, see, God, whatever this is,
it’s not working.
it just ain’t.

so let’s pretend it’s Sweeps Week, eh?
and you’re the show at risk of being canned.
So, you need to get off your SoapBox
and to sneak into my window.
word?
word.
quit dancing with stars and bring your righteous ass in here.
press the warmth of your lips together
and whisper something smart.
mash those words together.
smash those syllables together.
you know the ones.
krissss-sssssi.
like symbols swarming.
like butterfly wings crashing into cars crashes
on D.U.I highways with horns honking.
like fingers hanging popcorn strands
on Christmas trees in bitter heat of august
and kernels are slipping onto the hot concrete
popping and cracking like my heart shattering
from the powerful fruit flavor of your Love.
you know, like that.
orchestrate your Song to thump beats
through the morse code of my
overheated heart.
promise me I’ll never find you fleeting, fluttering,
sputtering away.
because You are impervious
to my abandonment issues.
and, I'm gonna need that in writing, Sir.
30 day money back guarantee, please.
cause I’m slipping away
into the syndicated late night stories
of me.
my days are morphing into lost episodes
of the silence that fills these four tiny walls.
the silence that shapes the curve in my back.
the silence that makes the spit dripping from my lips run cold.
the silence that pushes me further and further away from You.

so, deal or no deal?
are you in or are out?
‘cause I could really use the batteries from my remote
for, you know, other things….

blaaaaaah.

Freak Out & Give In

An Ode to Butch Vig & Billy Corgan's OCD: 15 years later, Siamese Dream continues to stand alone as an authentic vision of the idealized dream of rock & roll.

It seems a rare offering these days for the Billboard music charts to dump a top-ten album in your lap that not only transcends the demands of stylized trends, but, also immortalizes itself through its own ethereal conception and tooth- and-nail execution.

The 1993 release of Smashing Pumpkin’s, Siamese Dream, spawned a mass phenomena of tongue biting in the mad world of media critics by defying its own expectations and leaving music journalist frantically scrambling to commit the Chicago bands’ sound to a specific genre and desperately trying to quantify its relevance to the thunderous Grunge movement that was currently defining alternative music. The remarkable thing about Siamese Dream was that the album, created with pure grit, blood and emotional combustion, could not be classified or shoved onto the shelves with its similar sounding 90’s comrades. This album stood alone as an homage to originality and innocent rebellion; a romantic vision of the possibilities of rock & roll.

With its quixotic lyrics, vertiginous melodies and elegant layers of fervent and swooning atmospheric guitar and drum chants, Siamese Dream, is to be revered, 15 years later, for its authenticity beyond anything else. In the current state of Billboard charts being dominated by homogenous, manufactured rock bands, it is imperative that in our darkest moments of music industry cynicism, we reconnect with the utopian ideals of such bands as the Smashing Pumpkins to know that there is always a splendid evocation of originality churning and tickling the underbelly of the music world. These days, however, within the massive pits of media outlets, its up to us to discover it....

i've had a day in a half.
whoa.
swollen with beauty.
and work.
and sweat.
and swings.
(not mood. actual.)
and wind.
and mug. as in mugginess.
like only austin knows.
i thought it would be a good idea to(and by good, i mean a justifiable extension of my sentiment and gratitude for the day up to this point) ride my bicycle with my eyes closed.

already, i had lured 5 Lone Stars into my belly.

and the uninterrupted, as in without static, conversation had me all juiced up. and stuff.

i peddled like a dog upstream.

the chewy slap of the breeze flushed my cheeks.

and i felt free.

physically.

it was extraordinary.

and, then, i ran into a parked car. d'oh!

it was a minimal impact. just enough for the adrenaline to push the lone star out of my veins.

but whatevs.

so far, today, i woke with the physical manifestation of Inent staring me in the face. it was more delicate than it sounds. stunning, actually. to see the laws of attraction in motion: declare your intent and so it shall it be.

i couldn't have been more satisfied.

and, then, i went to chuy's. ya know, to work. and the gush wore off. and the post-partum-birthday-funk kicked in.

but i mobbed- as in: held my own with a proud face.

and, then, i rode.

pecan street festival. my black denim favorites were glued to my legs.

spin. pump. breathe. spin. think. not too much, though. stop. look at the time. no, you don't have time. keep pumping. peddle. push. strive. haul. breathe. sigh. pump. blink.

i performed. won a nice chunk of change. saw the most beautiful man i have ever seen. like jimmy fallon in sexy, pin striped pants. rolled up. on his bicycle. handsome. confident. camel smoker. i always like the athletic types with unhealthy vices.

i invite him back. i wanted to say something...but i could only ogle. (are you listening , universe?)

and, then, milner and i talked about picking god's mind and gangsta rap faves of the 90's. he let me borrow his UGK cd and reminded me that i love Spice1. yep, Spice1.

and then i rode home from the jackalope. and thought it was a good idea to .... ride my bike with my eyes closed.

all this after, flip cup, lock flip, coin toss and lots of john legend.

so.

i also crafted an outkast-andre-and-big-boi-tool-box and discovered the key to life. you know, the one that the old fella in city slickers knows...curlie... but, he dies before revealing the secret...that's okay. death is absolute. and so is the truth that has been revealed...