FEED Validator

Congratulations!

This is a valid Atom 1.0 feed.

Recommendations

This feed is valid, but interoperability with the widest range of feed readers could be improved by implementing the following recommendations.

• line 1, column 118: Use of unknown namespace: http://schemas.google.com/g/2005 [help]

  ... r.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2 ...
                                               ^

• line 1, column 550: subtitle should not be blank [help]

  ... gs i carry</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://sch ...
                                               ^

• line 1, column 825: Self reference doesn't match document location [help]

  ... /posts/default?redirect=false&amp;v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text ...
                                               ^

• line 117, column 24104: content should not contain onblur attribute (2 occurrences) [help]

  ... s.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' ty ...
                                               ^

• line 117, column 24104: Invalid HTML: EOF in middle of construct, at line 1, column 170 (2 occurrences) [help]

  ... s.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' ty ...
                                               ^

Source: http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default

1. <?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearch/1.1/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0' gd:etag='W/&quot;DEAESXw4cSp7ImA9WhRUEU8.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467</id><updated>2012-01-21T00:18:28.239-06:00</updated><title>the things i carry</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default?redirect=false&amp;v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><link rel='next' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default?start-index=26&amp;max-results=25&amp;redirect=false&amp;v=2'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>189</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>25</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;CU4MRHk_eip7ImA9WhZVF0Q.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-2199982845451664823</id><published>2011-05-30T17:19:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2011-05-30T17:19:45.742-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-05-30T17:19:45.742-05:00</app:edited><title>Reservoir</title><content type='html'>I was running the marathon route the day i told someone. it was early. My running partner and I had started our run just as the sun was peaking out over the east, shining on us in the west, running the tops of the foothills. i run in the middle of the road on the dam that slices through the earth, cutting the reservoir off from the town below. I've always run in the middle of the road over bridges. i'm not acrophobic. i'm chronically suicidal. suicide ideation. i just can't not think about it when i glance over the sides. the steepness, the obelisks that beg me to worship them from the pointy clay bed of the arid reservoir.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-2199982845451664823?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/2199982845451664823/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=2199982845451664823' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/2199982845451664823?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/2199982845451664823?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2011/05/reservoir.html' title='Reservoir'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;CUADR3o6eSp7ImA9WhZVF0Q.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-5089535948496251996</id><published>2011-05-30T16:11:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2011-05-30T17:16:16.411-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-05-30T17:16:16.411-05:00</app:edited><title>settler</title><content type='html'>"I wanted to write a book. I wanted to document my time in the village, my experiences with the Kyrgz community. I didn't get a chance. I got so caught up in being 'on' all the time and constantly consulting 'the PC curve.'"&lt;br /&gt;
2. "I still have that chart.<br />
3. I should have had it framed. We all laughed at that curve, didn't we." <br />
4. We must make something of ourselves. Of our lives. We were part of the solicitous solution. What are we now but a slowly-spreading virus sweeping the land?<br />
5. "I teach grad students. I want to be a teacher." <br />
6. <br />
7. I make cheese. I'm not here to impress anyone. I don't have the capacity to eradicate my phantom life, so my real life becomes something I turn to for normalcy. I create with my mind and with my hands. My day ends with a result that is both quantified and qualified.<br />
8. <br />
9. "What are you, like a chef or something?" <br />
10. More like...or something. I've never been a chef, per se. I have yet to have both hands on that wheel. That leaky pirate ship, barely afloat there but by the grace of a good chef...or just a chef on uppers. <br />
11. <br />
12. I wake up when the sun is struggling to push through stippled, warm hues of pink and purple and orange. <br />
13. I gaze into my coffee and prepare to go into battle. I give myself the same pep talk that I did when my job was to step out into the world speaking Bulgarian.<br />
14. <br />
15. "Do you still talk to anyone from there?"<br />
16. <br />
17. Mimi was the first friend I made in our small village of Belogradchik. She's since moved herself and family to Utah. I live in Colorado. I haven't seen her yet although we talk quite often. She's a vivacious twenty-something, headstrong and yearning to find her way in this American society. <br />
18. I remember discouraging her from applying for entry into this country. Her parents spoke virtually none of this language and would be leaving the comforts of job, self-sufficiency, family, friends, and home in that village, so close to Serbia that I wasn't aware I was speaking "village dialect" until I went to the city to visit my language trainer. <br />
19. Many nights we sat at her house, peanuts and rakyia on the table as we talked. She walked me home across the village the night Pope John Paul II died and we saw a shooting star. <br />
20. I think they settled in Salt Lake because of the familiarity. The spirit they found in the rock formations and mountains. Mountains always hold spirit. They make the best out of it. Much like Mimi, determined. <br />
21. She would never believe it, but she inspires me to push myself further. After all, if she can uproot her family from their homeland and move them to this country, then what am I complaining about? <br />
22. I moved back to Fort Collins for the sunshine. I said it was because of my family, that I wanted to be close, but they understand me less than ever. I moved back to Fort Collins because I wanted to be close to mountains I understood, never quite adapting to the mountains in Washington State that always seemed to kill unsuspecting hikers. Probably because they couldn't see. There seemed to be a dense fog always consuming us on hikes. <br />
23. On one hike with my former husband and our friends S and Ven, another Bulgarian komrade, we got lost in the fog and snow on Rainier, ended up trying to find the water source, which was a 20 foot drop beneath us. I thought I might have to eat my friends to stay alive, at one point. At another, I looked at my then-husband and pondered the notion that we were both probably considering pushing each other off the cliff. <br />
24. <br />
25. I was "not a chef" in Seattle. I was a cook. I loved my job, just as I love this one. My family thinks I'm insane for being in the food production/agriculture field. I think they're crazy for not knowing about the food they eat. <br />
26. <br />
27. I didn't make many friends in Seattle, admittedly. I didn't fit in. I didn't let myself fit in because that seemed fake. Fake was actually what I needed to be to fit into Seattle. I needed to be so indie hipster that it hurt, or so foodie that I might explode with foodieness, or so coffee-shop-writer that i'd crap my pants from all the digestive stimulation. <br />
28. The people that worked in the industry were not this way. They were something that I have only read described so well (read: <i>Cooking Dirty</i> by Jason Sheehan, whom I stole the "pirate ship" reference from earlier). <br />
29. Mostly, I disliked current husband's friends. They reminded me of that line from that Steely Dan song "Reelin' in the Years"<br />
30. "You been tellin' me you're a genius<br />
31. Since you were seventeen<br />
32. In all the time I've known you<br />
33. I still don't know what you mean"<br />
34. they all told me they were geniuses. I never really saw any results of that. I saw them outdo each other at parties in one area or another. I thought about handing out trophies at the end of the night for "best attempt at hipster coolness." <br />
35. Really, I longed for something I knew. My real friends. The friends who I knew would never choke me with "fake" and make me go to "trivia night" or discuss inane bullshit. <br />
36. I wanted to write a book, too. I wanted to write about the everyday ridiculousness of my life. My family considers me irresponsible. I think it's adventurous.<br />
37. <br />
38. apprenticeship in the cheese cave. <br />
39. <br />
40. "so, what are you like, a chef or something?"<br />
41. <br />
42. 4AM. not unfamiliar to us. Coffee is already done. I get into the car and drive. <br />
43. The music is better on the radio at this hour. Pre-"morning drive" obnoxiousness. Post-infomercial. <br />
44. Out the passenger window I see the sun struggling to wake through a blanket of stippled dark blues and orange-pinks, and to the west, illuminating the strange polygon of fog that is lifting off of the reservoir. <br />
45. <br />
46. Step into my white boots, white pants, white shirt, all spotted with orange drips. <br />
47. <br />
48. Close the door behind me and into the cheese cave, already lit and humid, the heavy sweetness of warm milk in the low atmosphere. <br />
49. I lean in close to the tank and breathe it in. Grass and straw, thick and steamy. <br />
50. Any attempt at early morning reverie is interrupted by the alarms sounding and the rote action of cleaning equipment, hooking up hoses, setting out forms on tables, weighing up cultures and calcium, cleaning. <br />
51. <br />
52. I turn my hands over in the water. I have taken naturally to counting. This is just the job for the OCD-infected. I count, I wash. I turn my hands over. I count, I wash. Cold water only, one pump of soap. Wash wash. Rinse. <br />
53. I see that my fingerprints have already been wiped clean today by the caustic and acid solutions, little cuts have already broken, edged by sharp corners. <br />
54. <br />
55. I watch rennet. Always the same motion. The same detection. The fluorescent lights above flicker. Horror movie flicker this time. Undeterred, continue cleaning, continue pouring milk into the large buckets. Watching the curd form, i take my hand and lightly feather away the foam. I touch it. <br />
56. It always feels the same like the dead, wet cheek of a woman. Rubbery and soft, moist, like liquid porcelain.<br />
57. I handle it, carefully, like I'd handle a beating heart. <br />
58. <br />
59. We cut it, ladle it, flip it over, salt it, cut it, ladle it, flip it over, salt it. <br />
60. Then it's cheese. <br />
61. It's not that simple. <br />
62. Whenever I enter the ripening cave, I think of all the microorganisms swirling around me, fermenting the firm rounds. Careful not to disturb their work. <br />
63. Flip them over. Flip them over. count them. account for them. <br />
64. <br />
65. It wasn't so delicate in Bulgaria. Wasn't so refined. It just was. It was self-sufficiency brought to you by a generation that still keeps preserves of jams, picked vegetables, and fermenting wine in their cellars. That odor still haunts me. Salty, pickling cabbage, old potatoes, mold, stove fuel, and musky wine. The colors on the old shelves in the dead of winter when there was nothing much at the markets...bright oranges, greens, reds, sweet jellies. It just existed. The new generation has lost interest. They want box stores full of colors and bright, beckoning boxes of preserved, dried food, rehydrate at your convenience. <br />
66. <br />
67. People sometimes refuse to understand my need for physical labor. Moving around. Creating. Producing. Turning earth and love and labor into something edible and delicious. <br />
68. <br />
69. I sometimes don't understand why this road has led me here. It did. I moved back to the Fort so that I could see people I recognized. People that were contentedly happy. People that make a difference through actions and not just outdo each other with words. <br />
70. <br />
71. Yes, Ted is still here.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-5089535948496251996?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/5089535948496251996/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=5089535948496251996' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/5089535948496251996?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/5089535948496251996?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2011/05/settler.html' title='settler'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;D0MFQHkzfip7ImA9WhZVFU8.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-7638585932606227694</id><published>2011-05-27T14:43:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2011-05-27T14:43:31.786-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-05-27T14:43:31.786-05:00</app:edited><title>Strangers</title><content type='html'>There's nothing real about those letters. &lt;br /&gt;
72. I read them. Reread them. Looking for a sign of life. <br />
73. They were pomp and circumstance of you. <br />
74. of you packing up and leaving your home. <br />
75. looking for a reinvention. <br />
76. That girl in the pictures. <br />
77. You in the pictures. There's nothing real about them. <br />
78. Those people. Those smiles. The implicating background noise. <br />
79. Self-importance and dependence *flash*<br />
80. You pose. You smile. <br />
81. You write them as if you want to fall in love. <br />
82. But your pictures say that it's nothing serious. <br />
83. I watched the devastation pry itself between you both<br />
84. As she left the room with someone else. <br />
85. And you returned to the emails. Sorting. Reaching. <br />
86. Connecting and disconnecting, thinking that this time maybe<br />
87. This would be real. <br />
88. This time you could improve upon the reinvention. <br />
89. That this next one could replace her in your heart. <br />
90. Even though you dove in head first and couldn't escape what you saw<br />
91. Ensnared. Your own old knotted net. <br />
92. You pretended they were her. And you could not forget. <br />
93. It dripped onto all of the other pictures. <br />
94. Like Dali. It melted time onto those letters.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-7638585932606227694?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/7638585932606227694/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=7638585932606227694' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/7638585932606227694?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/7638585932606227694?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2011/05/strangers.html' title='Strangers'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;C0IMQX0_cSp7ImA9WhZVEUs.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-985548028344786568</id><published>2011-05-23T08:40:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2011-05-23T09:39:40.349-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2011-05-23T09:39:40.349-05:00</app:edited><title>sometimes i catch you looking</title><content type='html'>I was in the Fuel cafe with him, alone. &lt;br /&gt;
95. As he unwrapped a pack of smokes,<br />
96. the clear wrapper floated and landed with no sound onto the sticky floor. <br />
97. Slowly sipped his coffee, lighting the cigarette between two cupped hands, lifting his head for that first sweet drag, eyes still fixated on me. <br />
98. He leans over to tousle my bangs.<br />
99. "Let's go for a walk."<br />
100. <br />
101. It was freezing. <br />
102. I tried my best to maintain a bright, shiny smile, lips flattened, holding back the shiver held in my jaw.<br />
103. "Where are we going?"<br />
104. I wrap myself in the blue and black-striped Gap scarf,<br />
105. it's freezing. <br />
106. "Let's just go walk along the river."<br />
107. <br />
108. No snow on the ground yet, <br />
109. I watch him inhale, exhale, <br />
110. smoke mixing with crisp air,<br />
111. P-Coat blanketing me with scratchy certainty<br />
112. of my intentions.<br />
113. <br />
114. Standing on the bridge downtown, <br />
115. snow begins to fall, <br />
116. Knit hat forgotten on the chair in the cafe<br />
117. Flakes bursting as they touch my face.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-985548028344786568?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/985548028344786568/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=985548028344786568' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/985548028344786568?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/985548028344786568?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2011/05/sometimes-i-catch-you-looking.html' title='sometimes i catch you looking'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;Ck8GQn08eCp7ImA9WxBVF08.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-8997463126954627777</id><published>2010-02-20T20:40:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2010-02-20T20:53:43.370-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2010-02-20T20:53:43.370-06:00</app:edited><title>a letter</title><content type='html'>a barrage of typed letters&lt;br /&gt;swirling into our mailbox&lt;br /&gt;heavy cardstock and typed&lt;br /&gt;under the guise of hard liquor and baudelaire&lt;br /&gt;an annoyance to neighbors everywhere&lt;br /&gt;click click click&lt;br /&gt;click click&lt;br /&gt;savoring the burn&lt;br /&gt;the work&lt;br /&gt;the sweat&lt;br /&gt;pretending within a swirl of cigarette smoke &lt;br /&gt;he pretends she's still here&lt;br /&gt;and reading between the lines&lt;br /&gt;he pretends she's alone, thinking of him at 3am&lt;br /&gt;she hears his voice and is shouting his name&lt;br /&gt;He grins through a stench of breath&lt;br /&gt;days in a hard, wooden chair&lt;br /&gt;pretending&lt;br /&gt;that when he hears church bells &lt;br /&gt;that she hears them&lt;br /&gt;but it is his imagination&lt;br /&gt;she is no where near&lt;br /&gt;she merely dances, musing him&lt;br /&gt;he sees her everywhere&lt;br /&gt;click click click&lt;br /&gt;click&lt;br /&gt;pretending he's in cuba, NYC, Mexico, paris&lt;br /&gt;he's not. &lt;br /&gt;He's not even in a shitty apartment infested with roaches&lt;br /&gt;he's in an upscale white suburb&lt;br /&gt;not knowing what his point is, only that she and he&lt;br /&gt;once&lt;br /&gt;in squalor&lt;br /&gt;behind a club when they were teenagers&lt;br /&gt;when they were subhumans&lt;br /&gt;when they were surreal&lt;br /&gt;when nothing mattered except the odor of rain&lt;br /&gt;steam rising from the hot asphalt-filled potholes&lt;br /&gt;He sits, interrupted by tap tap tap&lt;br /&gt;it is a wife he does not recognize&lt;br /&gt;when he dreams&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-8997463126954627777?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/8997463126954627777/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=8997463126954627777' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/8997463126954627777?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/8997463126954627777?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2010/02/letter.html' title='a letter'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DEUAQ3k5fip7ImA9WxBXGUg.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-7380246084656747066</id><published>2010-01-31T10:35:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2010-01-31T10:44:02.726-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2010-01-31T10:44:02.726-06:00</app:edited><title>I now possess all of the copies of Catcher in the Rye</title><content type='html'>can we pick up the story from where my jaw fell to the ground?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You'd follow him anywhere. You'd never follow me. You told me so.&lt;br /&gt;He's ceaselessly,&lt;br /&gt;hopelessly in-between jobs. All of your friends are.&lt;br /&gt;That's part of the allure. It's creative. It's creativity you never pursued.&lt;br /&gt;and that makes you want to eat them up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You wouldn't follow me out of the country, but you'd follow him.&lt;br /&gt;it changed my perspective of you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Move back to Chicago? Part of me might have, had I not just been posed the question by you&lt;br /&gt;Only because your boyfriend said that when he comes back from Berlin, he might just end up there.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Move with him. You tried before. I remember. You were so in love with your boyfriend's ex-girlfriend that you tried to move to Germany&lt;br /&gt;to be with her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe there's a chance for you all, yet.&lt;br /&gt;I escaped those winters. No. I don't know if i would move.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;we're gathered in a triangle outside a pretentious tavern in Seattle&lt;br /&gt;on a Saturday night, the drinks will be watery and thoughtless,&lt;br /&gt;and the waitress will pay slim attention and protectively tuck her demeanor into an apron pocket.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You can't stop smoking because you don't give a shit.&lt;br /&gt;That's my answer to you.&lt;br /&gt;I watch you. I watch your reasons and they are unconscious actions.&lt;br /&gt;It's not as if a frustration, an anger, a social occasion arise.&lt;br /&gt;you just do it out of instinct.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You don't even do it after we fuck.&lt;br /&gt;Habitual nonsense. You simply are not present for your life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Joining our gathering are your friends. Your friends. Arriving in a trickle.&lt;br /&gt;They're all someone else's friends.&lt;br /&gt;They're not mine.&lt;br /&gt;I remember when a friend of mine went to Amsterdam with her boyfriend and all of "his" friends.&lt;br /&gt;I remember her obsessing about it constantly. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I divulged this to one of the "friends" at the tavern-&lt;br /&gt;That it had been difficult this past year because everything was this giant game of&lt;br /&gt;Six Degrees of "Person who shall remain nameless".&lt;br /&gt;She said this was hard for her, too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wore my wedding band last night.&lt;br /&gt;I picked it up. I put it on the opposite hand.&lt;br /&gt;I told you it was "just something i found."&lt;br /&gt;But it was a deliberately measured move.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We move on after our shitty drinks to a party at an art gallery in SODO.&lt;br /&gt;"Friend" leans over and says, "i feel so out of place at these things. I'm glad you feel the same."&lt;br /&gt;I've spent a lot of my life watching. I've been there, I've just been watching.&lt;br /&gt;I barely participate.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He hates that I have less friends than he does. He wants his friends to be my friends.&lt;br /&gt;He should be more discriminating of whom he lets divulge information to his girlfriend. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We're all gathered at this party, "friends."&lt;br /&gt;In a circle. Having a "moment" of "togetherness."&lt;br /&gt;I look around the room, wonder if i could wear half of the clothes that the other girls are wearing.&lt;br /&gt;I ask him if he thinks I could pull off the Skinny Jeans.&lt;br /&gt;He looks at me and says i should wear more skirts.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-7380246084656747066?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/7380246084656747066/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=7380246084656747066' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/7380246084656747066?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/7380246084656747066?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2010/01/i-now-possess-all-of-copies-of-catcher.html' title='I now possess all of the copies of Catcher in the Rye'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DUIHRHczfip7ImA9WxNSF0k.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-1683331072066574579</id><published>2009-08-31T14:13:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-08-31T14:38:55.986-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-08-31T14:38:55.986-05:00</app:edited><title>Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option</title><content type='html'>my thought was to begin with "therapy: week X." In all honesty, I can't remember what week it is. I went from once a week to three times a week back down to two, with intermittent visits to other mental health professionals to manage the cocktail, to manage the OCD, to manage the ED. &lt;br /&gt;I sit on the pink couch in the pink room at the therapist with a pink button-down and hair as white as an old witch atop her head. &lt;br /&gt;I sit in front of her, our eyes meet on the same level. &lt;br /&gt;She tells a story, I reveal a sliver, embedded visibly beneath my flesh, waiting for me to pick at it with a dull knife and tweezers. &lt;br /&gt;Surfacing now.&lt;br /&gt;Watching my mother with a drink in her hand. Then another. Then another. &lt;br /&gt;Watching my dad with one drug or another in his lungs, in his nostrils, and another, and another. &lt;br /&gt;And my mother picks up another drink. Everyone picks up another drink. &lt;br /&gt;And i don't. And i can see what they hide. &lt;br /&gt;And so i am distrustful and have every reason to remove myself and be the hidden reason. &lt;br /&gt;The one left behind. The one with burns and blood. &lt;br /&gt;I am beginning to shut the door on this &lt;br /&gt;I can't stay out in the open and be left behind for another. and another. &lt;br /&gt;And watch you hide from something that i see so clearly.&lt;br /&gt;I stand on the gravel behind the house, staring up at the sun. &lt;br /&gt;My arms are underneath the lid of the recycling can, attempting to mute the deafening sound of bottles pouring to the bottom. &lt;br /&gt;I recall therapist's question.&lt;br /&gt;"Are you strong enough to leave him when there's nothing left that you can support? When he's taken every ounce of love and turned it into nothing? Can you watch him slowly kill himself like you've watched everyone else fade and die and give you nothing?"&lt;br /&gt;That answer weighs heavily.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-1683331072066574579?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/1683331072066574579/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=1683331072066574579' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/1683331072066574579?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/1683331072066574579?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/08/never-allow-someone-to-be-your-priority.html' title='Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;A0AHRH86fSp7ImA9WxJbEU8.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-2807149039847558340</id><published>2009-07-20T17:40:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2009-07-20T17:42:15.115-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-07-20T17:42:15.115-05:00</app:edited><title>that sheet pisses you off anyway</title><content type='html'>As I am sitting at my desk, preparing to create busywork for myself,&lt;br /&gt;The sun beams through the window&lt;br /&gt;I finger through my make-up bag, pulling out little orange pill bottles.&lt;br /&gt;There are seven now. &lt;br /&gt;What was it like before the morning cocktail of anti-psychotics, anti-anxieties, anti-depressants, supplements? &lt;br /&gt;I look in the tiny mirror lying beside me. &lt;br /&gt;Do I look like that person? Like the person who relies on three psychiatric professionals to structure her day?&lt;br /&gt;Like the person who needed the fires put out in her head? &lt;br /&gt;It is much cooler beneath my skull. &lt;br /&gt;There are no flames spurting from between crooked fissures. &lt;br /&gt;I still don’t sleep. Vivid nightmares wake me from a Benzedrine state. &lt;br /&gt;A non-relaxed state, more of a sweaty sleep state&lt;br /&gt;In which I expect those dreams. I expect the noises and familiar voices. &lt;br /&gt;They cannot escape during the day, so they wait. &lt;br /&gt;Yesterday, I walked out of the therapist’s pink, cheerful office&lt;br /&gt;Out into the sunshine and to the car&lt;br /&gt;And to the gym&lt;br /&gt;And home&lt;br /&gt;Where I sat, speechless, dead-eyed, staring at the television.&lt;br /&gt;Not even at the television. At the fireplace. At the curtains. &lt;br /&gt;Before we left for the market, I bent forward and laid my head&lt;br /&gt;On the leather ottoman, stretched, and cried very silently.&lt;br /&gt;There was no reason for him to know.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-2807149039847558340?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/2807149039847558340/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=2807149039847558340' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/2807149039847558340?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/2807149039847558340?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/07/that-sheet-pisses-you-off-anyway.html' title='that sheet pisses you off anyway'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DkYFQXs6fyp7ImA9WxJUFk4.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-617735826066102803</id><published>2009-07-14T23:47:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-07-15T00:01:50.517-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-07-15T00:01:50.517-05:00</app:edited><title>its behind you</title><content type='html'>i have to ask you. &lt;br /&gt;why you won't cross the bridge anymore. &lt;br /&gt;you only follow until we come to the grating.&lt;br /&gt;then you fall and soundlessly hit the water.&lt;br /&gt;and you follow me into vivid, recurring nightmares.&lt;br /&gt;disappearing after i have chosen my weapon. &lt;br /&gt;staring out the opposite window facing me.&lt;br /&gt;pointing down from the 10th floor.&lt;br /&gt;motioning. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;i have not slept in days. &lt;br /&gt;i sit here now, in a dark kitchen at the sharp-edged wooden table. &lt;br /&gt;These chairs don't match the table. They don't match anything. &lt;br /&gt;Odd how familiar this light is, the only light we see in homes.&lt;br /&gt;Ginsberg walked along avenues noticing the televisions all on&lt;br /&gt;in every home blinking wildly, pounding out lip-smacking propaganda&lt;br /&gt;and variety shows.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;my eyes hurt today. &lt;br /&gt;sitting slumped into the couch, staring blankly at the television, &lt;br /&gt;wavering whether to go out and be social or &lt;br /&gt;sleep. &lt;br /&gt;yet here i am. not asleep. &lt;br /&gt;it's worse when i drink, much worse when i don't. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;retract. there is a vulnerability surrounding me like a duststorm.&lt;br /&gt;i am safely swirling in a comfortable vortex of particles&lt;br /&gt;waiting to be thrown to the ground&lt;br /&gt;my eyes teary and torn by debris. &lt;br /&gt;what if i start fighting myself?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(ironic)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;what if i stop.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-617735826066102803?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/617735826066102803/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=617735826066102803' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/617735826066102803?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/617735826066102803?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/07/its-behind-you.html' title='its behind you'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DEEFQn46fip7ImA9WxJVFUs.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-2989167714229466317</id><published>2009-07-01T19:42:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2009-07-02T15:30:13.016-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-07-02T15:30:13.016-05:00</app:edited><title>nameless</title><content type='html'>I have become an unwilling participant on stage. &lt;br /&gt;Not even in my own life. &lt;br /&gt;On display,&lt;br /&gt;constructing props, setting the stage, raising and lowering a curtain, waiting for the other me to arrive, to critique, to write about it later. &lt;br /&gt;Shakespeare said "All the world's a stage,&lt;br /&gt;And all the men and women merely players:&lt;br /&gt;They have their exits and their entrances"&lt;br /&gt;I feel like I'm watching myself play this role. &lt;br /&gt;That I'm not a real part of it, like a dream. Its not being controlled by me. &lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I go out there, out onto the stage and act my own part, &lt;br /&gt;but it's just an act, and the other me is sitting in the audience, &lt;br /&gt;arms crossed, waiting for intermission so she can go to the lobby&lt;br /&gt;and swig her gin. &lt;br /&gt;"Break a leg," she says to me. &lt;br /&gt;But i know she really means, "don't fuck up this time."&lt;br /&gt;She's watching like a hawk, &lt;br /&gt;meanwhile, I'm attempting to quell this wave of nausea &lt;br /&gt;with a dose of what they've handed me to numb the nerve endings. &lt;br /&gt;I wake up and cheer myself on in the mirror&lt;br /&gt;Smile and wave like a delicate princess,&lt;br /&gt;but my reality, my deservingness of these titles have been challenged.&lt;br /&gt;My leading men they face me, and they turn. &lt;br /&gt;They grab the hand of another &lt;br /&gt;and she looks at me with a speck of disgust&lt;br /&gt;How will I get through this act? I have no costume, no makeup, no lighting, &lt;br /&gt;no magic.&lt;br /&gt;Peering out into the dark audience, gripping at this restraint, this skin&lt;br /&gt;no bouquet of flowers lands in front of me as i bow,&lt;br /&gt;no curtain comes down and ends this act. &lt;br /&gt;This is how i get through, half-believing and pretending,&lt;br /&gt;shaking like a small dog, pissing on myself,&lt;br /&gt;Unable to escape the breathy-humid confines of this arena. &lt;br /&gt;Not knowing the script. &lt;br /&gt;Doppelganger, double-entendre.&lt;br /&gt;I step out of the spotlight.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-2989167714229466317?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/2989167714229466317/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=2989167714229466317' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/2989167714229466317?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/2989167714229466317?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/07/nameless.html' title='nameless'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;D0UMQ38_eip7ImA9WxJWGUU.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-1640090141669317768</id><published>2009-06-25T21:45:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-06-25T22:01:22.142-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-06-25T22:01:22.142-05:00</app:edited><title>"I'll be there in an hour"</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SkQ2bq3BuxI/AAAAAAAAALQ/fL9AB2GUpas/s1600-h/uhhh.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SkQ2bq3BuxI/AAAAAAAAALQ/fL9AB2GUpas/s320/uhhh.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351462106212449042" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Move here.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-1640090141669317768?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/1640090141669317768/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=1640090141669317768' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/1640090141669317768?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/1640090141669317768?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/06/ill-be-there-in-hour.html' title='&quot;I&apos;ll be there in an hour&quot;'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SkQ2bq3BuxI/AAAAAAAAALQ/fL9AB2GUpas/s72-c/uhhh.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DkUBQn04eip7ImA9WxJWGUU.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-7438520647365337896</id><published>2009-06-25T21:36:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2009-06-25T21:44:13.332-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-06-25T21:44:13.332-05:00</app:edited><title>Father's Day</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SkQ1AbD3KOI/AAAAAAAAALI/nF2UUYv_d-c/s1600-h/dad.do.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SkQ1AbD3KOI/AAAAAAAAALI/nF2UUYv_d-c/s320/dad.do.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351460538603219170" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is my dad. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ask me why I can't have normal relationships.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-7438520647365337896?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/7438520647365337896/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=7438520647365337896' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/7438520647365337896?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/7438520647365337896?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/06/fathers-day.html' title='Father&apos;s Day'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SkQ1AbD3KOI/AAAAAAAAALI/nF2UUYv_d-c/s72-c/dad.do.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;C0EMR3k6fSp7ImA9WxJWGEw.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-4663102166491400902</id><published>2009-06-23T21:19:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-06-23T21:48:06.715-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-06-23T21:48:06.715-05:00</app:edited><title>two very different erics</title><content type='html'>"oysters, black morels, homemade vino"&lt;br /&gt;posed atop a white table cloth, perfectly sunset-lit&lt;br /&gt;left to right, &lt;br /&gt;two glasses of sweet white wine&lt;br /&gt;a small white plate &lt;br /&gt;oyster shells and a delicately-carved, butter-smeared knife &lt;br /&gt;a black bowl filled with ice, small oysters&lt;br /&gt;a small white plate&lt;br /&gt;succulent black morels&lt;br /&gt;a large white plate of crusty french bread&lt;br /&gt;buttered&lt;br /&gt;with sprigs of fresh chives&lt;br /&gt;from their garden.&lt;br /&gt;They are more in love in their home. &lt;br /&gt;Smiling in dirty overalls from a wet, lush vegetable patch&lt;br /&gt;from over the handles of shovels&lt;br /&gt;in falling snow, flakes caught in mid-air flurry.&lt;br /&gt;Our conversations were sporadic, predominantly of &lt;br /&gt;love and architecture.&lt;br /&gt;There was a pinhole of hope as we parted ways at the bus stop,&lt;br /&gt;each in the hands of partners who would soon be&lt;br /&gt;shadows.&lt;br /&gt;I scattered the photos and looked into her eyes, &lt;br /&gt;believing it was two very different people&lt;br /&gt;sitting, sipping wine&lt;br /&gt;white tablecloth table,&lt;br /&gt;food and home &lt;br /&gt;created out of love more than out of necessity&lt;br /&gt;"cheers. to us."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-4663102166491400902?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/4663102166491400902/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=4663102166491400902' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/4663102166491400902?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/4663102166491400902?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/06/two-very-different-erics.html' title='two very different erics'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DEEGQn04fyp7ImA9WxJWFkU.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-8949060837670801856</id><published>2009-06-22T10:59:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-06-22T11:03:43.337-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-06-22T11:03:43.337-05:00</app:edited><title>but how do you fill that hole?</title><content type='html'>For one human being to love another:&lt;br /&gt;That is the most difficult of all our tasks,&lt;br /&gt;The ultimate, last test of proof,&lt;br /&gt;the work for which all other work&lt;br /&gt;is but preparation.&lt;br /&gt;--Rilke&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-8949060837670801856?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/8949060837670801856/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=8949060837670801856' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/8949060837670801856?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/8949060837670801856?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/06/but-how-do-you-fill-that-hole.html' title='but how do you fill that hole?'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DUcDQno7fCp7ImA9WxJWFkw.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-6144075692202540748</id><published>2009-06-21T14:58:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2009-06-21T15:44:33.404-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-06-21T15:44:33.404-05:00</app:edited><title>isis</title><content type='html'>Watching first dates at Barrio, he and i munching on chips and salsa&lt;br /&gt;over purplish-red wine, I contemplate the women that surround me, &lt;br /&gt;and the words that people say when they see me in something other than jeans and a black shirt. &lt;br /&gt;Their eyes open with disbelief. "Is that a skirt?"&lt;br /&gt;I'm still exploring my adolescent, 32 year old, puberty-stricken body.&lt;br /&gt;I stare at it in front of the mirror in disbelief, reciting a mantra over and over and closing my eyes to eliminate the existence of these new curves.&lt;br /&gt;Eyes focused on the couples that flock to dimly lit booths, you can always tell. &lt;br /&gt;There is too much smiling. Too much hope, optimism. &lt;br /&gt;You lose that later, you learn to disagree. &lt;br /&gt;We, sitting side-by-side at the bar. I take a sip of my sangria, dip a warm corn chip into a chunky, green tomatillo salsa, spicy, when he comes up with a gem.&lt;br /&gt;"I like that neither of us have anything."&lt;br /&gt;And that is true. It has always been true. I have whittled my life down to a shitty bed, clothes, half of the wedding presents and kitchen appliances, all of my books, my records. &lt;br /&gt;I drift back to this afternoon, "Nothing matters when you're riding. Everything melts, doesn't it? That's it."&lt;br /&gt;I drive back to my house, find ribbons in a box. I have thrown most of them away. I decided i didn't need those trivial mementos to remind me that this is the only real talent i have. Blue and red ribbons, reminding me that after almost five years of silence, my muscles remembered where they were when they hit the saddle. &lt;br /&gt;I take another sip of sangria, eyeing the couples that are now silent, uncomfortable silence. &lt;br /&gt;Ruminating. Masticating. &lt;br /&gt;I tug at my hoodie, feeling squishy under the PMS. I'm in jeans and a black t-shirt, a black hoodie. It's how i always am. &lt;br /&gt;I mull my strength as an athlete and how to balance it with the anorexia that i wish would magically re-appear. &lt;br /&gt;"Once you're outside you won't want to hide anymore." &lt;br /&gt;I've only been on one date in the past six months. &lt;br /&gt;We've accomplished our goal, backwards. &lt;br /&gt;"That one isn't a first date. Dude is in a t-shirt and flip-flops. You at least put the button-up over the t-shirt on the first date."&lt;br /&gt;When the guy who sits across from me at work shows up in a button-up, he is striking enough for me to try to think of things to talk to him about. Although when he strips off his black hoodie, exposing sexy grey t-shirt and jeans, i stare at the tattoo on his left forearm. I cannot think of anything to say, so i turn back to the computer.&lt;br /&gt;The girls at the bar, backs straight, arms draped over the back, eyes on the punk-rock, coked-out bartender. High-heels click along the wooden floor. Back and forth, strutting. Ritualizing. &lt;br /&gt;Their waists have not yet thickened with age and stress.&lt;br /&gt;Beneath stylish low-cut blouses, artificially made-up flesh reveals&lt;br /&gt;Considerable cleavage.&lt;br /&gt;Revealing. Riveting to watch the mating dance&lt;br /&gt;As our tapas show their artful faces, &lt;br /&gt;We don't name what we are. There's a certain comfort that comes &lt;br /&gt;without a title.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-6144075692202540748?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/6144075692202540748/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=6144075692202540748' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/6144075692202540748?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/6144075692202540748?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/06/isis.html' title='isis'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;CUYASXk4eSp7ImA9WxJXEEs.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-448458656310188624</id><published>2009-06-03T12:15:00.006-05:00</published><updated>2009-06-03T16:05:48.731-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-06-03T16:05:48.731-05:00</app:edited><title>Porch. Beer. Ex-girlfriend.</title><content type='html'>--"So if I absorb my environment, what do I want to be absorbing?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My response: Last weekend, I rode with a friend down to the Red Hook Brewery. As we rode past urban sprawl, construction sites, through the tunnels, it opened up suddenly into the marshy farmland surrounding the Sammamish River. We stopped on the side of the trail to talk about it. &lt;br /&gt;"Would you ever live down here? Farm? Horses? Vineyards?" &lt;br /&gt;"Yeah. I would." &lt;br /&gt;It was a response precluded by a heavy sigh and a look into the distance, into the tall ornamental grasses on the bank of this rushing, clear river. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Me too. I've thought about it. I'd love some place outside the city. Close enough to go back to the city, but far enough that it's this quiet, this incredible."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At the brewery, we sat down with a beer, there were babies. An abundance of babies, toddlers. We sat there, half-paying attention to the pints, absorbed in these novel interactions between fleshy fat alien babies. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You think they know? Look how everything is new. Everything is amazing and honest."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Organic. They touch each other like it's the first time they've ever experienced anything. It's pure joy. Honest joy and discovery. Color and form, touch and feel."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Don't you think everything is like that anyway? The first time you fall in love, the first time you touch someone intimately? The first time you read Kerouac, the first time you learn about crayons or clay?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A glance in each other's direction. Honest. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is my response to absorption. Making love to every moment. Realizing that death is an invitation to live. I have to remind myself not to be rote, and to open my eyes, acknowledge what i'm doing, what i'm touching. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;--"Is it enough to just be loved by someone?  If I am who I think I am, then I think it's got to be sad for [someone else to know this about me].  This is the man who got an open-ended date tattooed on his body - the day we got married and an empty spot for the day I leave or the day I die if I go first.  What does that mean to enter a committed relationship with such an eye towards finality?  Is that the ultimate realist or does he really understand that I might not be here forever?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My response: Finality. I knew from the beginning that my marriage had an end date. I saw it happening. There was a tattoo on him with the foreboding warning, "caveat emptor." I didn't know then that i took what i couldn't handle. &lt;br /&gt;An empty spot filled with room for the sadness that a final breath brings. That final kiss that disappears into thin air when you shut the door, falling on silent lips. Is life or death really relevant at that point? &lt;br /&gt;I see it not so much as finality, but as an open-ended question. &lt;br /&gt;I have this irrational fear. This terrifying fear that I'll be left standing, dead eyes welling with confusing, burning tears. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;--"A friend of mine said I needed to find out who I was without a man in my life.  What does that mean?  I asked him.  I don't mean that you need to be alone forever, but that you need to know who you are on your own, he replied."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My response: I spent my whole life alone. So did you. Man or not. This alone-ness in our heads becomes an obsessive full-time job. Reeling over these chest-rattling sobs, these uncertainties. Who exactly are any of us without each other? This isn't Walden Pond and we are unhappily attracted to people who willingly give attention, but what are we without homes? How do we know where to go? So we go where our food bowls are, as far as our chains will stretch and bend instead of finally putting out a hand and finally admitting that you can't run anymore. That you're so tired. I don't necessarily agree with "alone." I run in circles alone. Mama raised an independent woman. She also raised a woman who never trusted anyone else to help her up. &lt;br /&gt;Yesterday, I was taking a CPR course. There was a point when we had to lie on the floor with our partners, putting each other on our sides into an appropriate position so we didn't choke on our own vomit. After it was over, I was lying on the floor, ready with my palms placed by my side to hoist myself up, and there "ES" was, bending over me with a hand out to help me up. I wondered why he did that. &lt;br /&gt;Then i remembered what I'd said, "you're the first person I've not walked in front of or behind, but truly beside." &lt;br /&gt;We've been alone in our own heads so long, having these conversations in our heads, lips barely moving, the words are dying to escape. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;--"At the same time, I don't know if I could live the life in my mind if I was on my own.  But would I have that without him?  Could I love myself without seeing myself through his eyes?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My response: Again, my marriage was an error in judgement. Pun intended. We judged each other unfairly. He watched everything i did and followed, in suit. I hated myself for it, for being weak. I hated him more for being weak. I always saw myself through his eyes. &lt;br /&gt;I was never allowed the life I wanted, the only way was without him. I planned for it. For years, I thought about it. I thought about what my life really was. I was a woman stuck in a little-girl body, stuck with little-girl thoughts because I knew he'd take care of everything. I knew he'd bail me out. I had to learn how to bail myself out again. &lt;br /&gt;The other day, lying on the bed, I realized something I'd never believed before. I didn't even recognize the words, the voice that was confident in who I was because I knew who I was in ES's eyes. There was no judgement there. There was no weakness or fear. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;--"Over the years I've resolved that if this didn't work out, I would likely never marry again.  If anything long-term arose, I would consider long term commitments, but not marriage.  It's something I should have learned early, though my husband has said that if I hadn't wanted to marry him, he would have ended things.  He needs that traditional form of commitment and I, now more than ever, know I don't.  Granted, I enjoy the security and soft-landing of my marriage.  In fact, the fact that I never had anything secure and stable in my life, let alone someone to love me and push me to be free, is precisely why it's so hard to think about walking away.  It's an addiction.  It's too easy.  I doubt that if left to my own devices I would actually be able to follow through on the things I speak about for a life of my own: Can I live alone?  Not the being alone, but the day to day practicalities of living...could I do that?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My response: Is it not easy because it's right? Why walk alone when you have someone to willingly give you that cushion with no strings attached? With nothing but a beaming pride that you're his? Or are you? Are any of us when we give ourselves, emotionally to others? It's not physical contact, a quick fuck with another woman that I fear. I fear exactly what I gave to other men when I was married--what I should have been sharing with husband, I gave to them. I gave myself to everything else. I was allowed to, but there were terms. There was no feather-pillow, marshmallow landing. The mundane practicalities, we all struggle with, our kind, our generation of etherial attention-span-less-ness. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;--"What he wants out of living life is different than what I want.  Regardless of any deep psycho-emotional connection and understanding and love we have...this is the realization I am coming to and it makes me ill...I don't want this to be the truth...I want the other life...but I want him to be in that life, too.  I think."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My response: I'm leaning over my computer with my hands covering my face thinking about what to say to this. I've never had this. I've never walked hand-in-hand with someone down the same road, with the same objectives, the same goals, the same life, looking at each other, completely content, completely without words.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-448458656310188624?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/448458656310188624/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=448458656310188624' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/448458656310188624?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/448458656310188624?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/06/porch-beer-ex-girlfriend.html' title='Porch. Beer. Ex-girlfriend.'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;CEMBQnw5fip7ImA9WxJRFko.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-2729139627537544512</id><published>2009-05-18T12:48:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-18T13:47:33.226-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-05-18T13:47:33.226-05:00</app:edited><title>You were right...it was a date</title><content type='html'>My therapist asked me last week if what happened last weekend when I went cycling with my new cycling friend was a "date." &lt;br /&gt;I said i didn't think it was a date. &lt;br /&gt;She said, "it was a date. You need to decide what to do before you get yourself into a situation."&lt;br /&gt;Can't i just avoid this and hope it goes away?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We cycled this weekend over on one of the islands. There were moments when were forced to dismount on the side of the roads, these roads lined with tall grasses, vibrant wildflowers and dilapidated wooden fences, just to take in the view of the snow capped Cascades, of Rainier, seemingly on fire, floating on an island of its own. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'd notice him peripherally, taking my sweatiness in, and at one point he reached to sweep my bangs out of my eyes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This lighthouse at the pinnacle of an adjunct island. It reminded me of the old lighthouse in Milwaukee, the one that was being restored, that I'd run by through the park along Lake Michigan. White with a black ring, an enormous swirling lantern at the top. The metal casing would let out a flash reflecting the sun. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Low tide, we walked down to the beach, leaving our bikes on the rocks above, taking in cliche salty, fishy air. &lt;br /&gt;"It doesn't smell like this in the city," he said. &lt;br /&gt;"Can you imagine yourself living on an island like this?" &lt;br /&gt;I said it depended on the reason. It depended on my age, my intentions. &lt;br /&gt;"I can see that. It would probably depend on who you were with, too."&lt;br /&gt;I bit my lip. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We finished our ride at a sushi bar on a little strip of touristy-looking buildings, old. Maybe they weren't touristy. There were no locals hanging out. I wondered if the island had locals at all. &lt;br /&gt;"I don't know much about sushi anymore," he says. &lt;br /&gt;"I think it is basically always the same. You spent 4 years on a boat and you don't know about fish?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two beers and a spicy tuna roll later he reaches over and touches my wrist. &lt;br /&gt;He asks if we can consider this a date. &lt;br /&gt;"You have to have felt this. Am I the only one?"&lt;br /&gt;"I'm seeing someone."&lt;br /&gt;i look out towards the patio, noticing the sun begin to set. I felt a slight warmth on my arms where the punishing orb had attacked me underneath his fingertips still resting there. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"So, is it serious with you and this other guy?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thought back to every email, every text, every conversation, every time my I would lose my breath, every day, every night, every time we'd managed to dislodge the sheets from every corner of the bed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It is getting serious, yes."&lt;br /&gt;"Can we keep this friendly and see what happens? I really like you. I can't believe you hadn't noticed this at work. Do you think this could get awkward because we work together?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It might. His eyes changed from bright green to stormy blue, dipping a piece of albacore into the wasabi, looking straight into my own eyes. &lt;br /&gt;I wondered what color they were right now. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thought about the veins on his arms and the lack of tattoos. I always expect to see them when I see guys in T-shirts. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today, I saw him at work, he was in a meeting with one of the other engineers. He turned to look and flashed me a smile. Wearing those dark-rimmed glasses, poring through papers. I stopped for a second outside the glass, cocked my head, thought of how i hoped to god he wouldn't try to kiss me as I left his house, salty and wet. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Setting my file down, I closed my eyes and opened them only when i knew i was facing far enough to my right. &lt;br /&gt;I opened them only when I felt the cool breeze from my fire-escape window. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We've only had one date. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-2729139627537544512?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/2729139627537544512/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=2729139627537544512' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/2729139627537544512?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/2729139627537544512?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/05/you-were-rightit-was-date.html' title='You were right...it was a date'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;CEYGRnk9fCp7ImA9WxJRFEw.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-5042401141212400662</id><published>2009-05-15T12:08:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-15T13:28:47.764-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-05-15T13:28:47.764-05:00</app:edited><title>breakup letter</title><content type='html'>Sitting cross-legged, entangled in a damp sheet,&lt;br /&gt;This was the moment. &lt;br /&gt;The last moment of epidermal strength&lt;br /&gt;infallibility in droplets &lt;br /&gt;stuck in a well-woven web&lt;br /&gt;hanging by the last sticky thread.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;visceral deconstruction&lt;br /&gt;a rearrangement&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;i hesitate to define courage by fearlessness&lt;br /&gt;contraction, expansion&lt;br /&gt;only when we allow the air in the room &lt;br /&gt;to clear&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-5042401141212400662?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/5042401141212400662/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=5042401141212400662' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/5042401141212400662?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/5042401141212400662?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/05/breakup-letter.html' title='breakup letter'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DUUMQH8-fip7ImA9WxJRFE0.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-8274951857746094183</id><published>2009-05-14T14:19:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-15T12:08:01.156-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-05-15T12:08:01.156-05:00</app:edited><title>absinthe, cocaine, fulci or "it's your turn to clean the glue machine"</title><content type='html'>It's been since I left the brewery and went to Eastern Europe that i'd talked to J. &lt;br /&gt;Facebook, you've done it again. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't really remember the first day we met. It must have been when i started at OBC. I would be out in front, my first position was as a retail girl. Folding shirts and serving beer to groups of frat boys. 3 or 4 o'clock would roll around, the bottling run would be over, the boys would start to gather in the tasting room, filling pint glasses with their celebration, or with infuriation. &lt;br /&gt;I did remember thinking that I wanted that. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wanted to stroll in after a bottling run, after cleaning tanks, after struggling with labels and glue, wet and tired, clad in big rubber boots (I never did get over the "wet" part). Mostly, I wanted to be one of the boys. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After a few months in retail, I asked for a transfer to production. I remember walking onto that bottling line and knowing that the next two years would entail dragging hoses and attempting to end a run without throwing bottles at the German machinery. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As with any job, you start to develop close relationships with co-workers. I remember my first days bottling and kegging with J. Patience beyond belief, that boy. We'd arrive at 4 AM to start the keg run. He did everything those first couple days, never left my side, even though i know he had partied till just about the time he had to come to work. Sometimes we'd find our bottling supervisor still sleeping in the large bin of plastic wrap that our bottles would come packed in, maybe in a pool of vomit, maybe not. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There were times that J showed up so late that i'd already kegged half the tank. He'd walk in, reeking of the night before, be very sorry, and offer to clean everything. Inevitably, on those days, the machines would break down and we'd spend hours fiddling with wrenches, nuts and bolts. J taught me how to be spatial. How to use my left brain for good, instead of evil. He taught me the finer points of not being killed by heavy machinery and the forklift. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We had such shitty days, he and I, scrubbing pig-intestine glue off of the machines, water so hot we had to wear thick, awkward-fitting black gloves, scrubbing the dreaded pink mold from the bottom of the filler. Shitty days when bottles exploded out of nowhere and shot amber glass in all directions. Days when we'd have to unpack the bottles by hand onto the conveyers. Our hands were always cut up from bottle caps. We took care of each other, he and I. He'd rarely not be by my side in rotation, and we'd take such painstaking effort to make sure that nothing would go wrong for ourselves. Those days were long. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But nothing replaces those conversations in the early mornings, the sky was always dark, the air in the brewery smelled like malt-o-meal. J would be so angry sometimes, we'd start drinking early. Sometimes, I'd change the schedule so that we could be on the same runs. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes, I'd change the schedule so that we could go out to the bars and clean the beer lines, but really all we'd do is get really drunk and end up somewhere in Old Town, talking about drinking even more. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Many an evening was spent in J's basement apartment with the cat and the cold tiled floor, fat rails of cocaine, a bottle of absinthe, and horror movies, up until dawn, talking about music, about Lovecraft, bitching about work.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nothing replaces those days. They were long. I think about them and that stale beer and crushed hops smell runs from my brain into my nose. We missed a lot of each other's lives. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I still have that poem that he wrote me on the back of the 90 Shilling coaster.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-8274951857746094183?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/8274951857746094183/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=8274951857746094183' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/8274951857746094183?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/8274951857746094183?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/05/absinthe-cocaine-fulci-or-its-your-turn.html' title='absinthe, cocaine, fulci or &quot;it&apos;s your turn to clean the glue machine&quot;'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DEAESX44fyp7ImA9WxJREk4.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-4972160564585890891</id><published>2009-05-13T11:53:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-13T12:45:08.037-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-05-13T12:45:08.037-05:00</app:edited><title>you smell like glitter and cotton candy</title><content type='html'>Paperwork. &lt;br /&gt;I write emails to friends, chat, look at other people's profiles on Facebook. &lt;br /&gt;Look out the window, longingly, at my fire escape and the crows that gather there. &lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;My eyes take in brief sunshine. Glance at my Outlook, notice there's a message from the person who sits to my right. &lt;br /&gt;One word answers to my questions. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I sit here and try not to eat out of boredom. I try to chew gum. Bubble gum, minty gum. I think minty gum works. I chew piece after piece out of sheer boredom. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I walk into the production room on my way to the bathroom and run into my new cycling friend. &lt;br /&gt;"We should make this a thing."&lt;br /&gt;I have a hangover. Don't speak in riddles.&lt;br /&gt;"What? What kind of thing."&lt;br /&gt;"Cycling on the weekends."&lt;br /&gt;"oh. &lt;em&gt;that&lt;/em&gt; thing."&lt;br /&gt;"Yeah, so this saturday, then. I'll think of a route, we'll go out to dinner again. Cool?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I look past the papers he's carrying and notice the prominent veins on his arms, leading up to his neck. And then I am looking into his eyes and today, they are bright green. &lt;br /&gt;I'm considering the scars on his chest from lung surgery. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He smiles and tells me about the fieldwork he's been doing. I fiddle with a pair of scissors and listen, thinking mostly about the hockey game i missed while cooking dinner last night. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm listening, but only half-heartedly. I'm thinking about last night. About making dinner for a chef. About making dinner. I suck at life, I'm thinking. I should do this more often. &lt;br /&gt;Domesticity is not my forte and i forget about it, at the mercy of the wine. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But the chef's roommate was at the kitchen table with me, drinking wine, we were talking about something, laughing, chopping vegetables. I don't look at him, he brushes the back of my neck with a kiss.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm startled by new cycling friend's laugh. &lt;br /&gt;I think he said something funny. &lt;br /&gt;"What?" &lt;br /&gt;He tells me about something that happened on Sunday. I look back into his eyes and again, he smiles and asks where we should go for dinner. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A friend asked me the other day what i'd say if new cycling friend asked me out on a date, or if i even thought these were actual dates. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Would i tell him i were seeing someone? &lt;br /&gt;Part of me wants to say no.&lt;br /&gt;The part of me that traces veins with the tips of my fingers and thinks grey hair and scars are hot. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I walk back to my desk, throw on my headphones and think about where I want to go to dinner.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-4972160564585890891?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/4972160564585890891/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=4972160564585890891' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/4972160564585890891?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/4972160564585890891?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/05/you-smell-like-glitter-and-cotton-candy_13.html' title='you smell like glitter and cotton candy'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;AkAEQ3k6fyp7ImA9WxJREUg.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-4251041315802118513</id><published>2009-05-12T14:18:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-12T15:05:02.717-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-05-12T15:05:02.717-05:00</app:edited><title>things that aren't appropriate</title><content type='html'>I had a drink with my roommates last night. &lt;br /&gt;A couple of drinks. &lt;br /&gt;A couple of drinks after i had already had a couple of drinks. It's funny, when you don't see people in a while, you remember why you liked them.&lt;br /&gt;or why you didn't. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was sitting at the head of the table that the landlord left. It has an antique cover that i'd set my hot coffee on, and it left a white ring. We're trying to figure out how we can hide it. I'm having trouble figuring out exactly what to say, facing both of them again. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I never know how to begin conversations with my ex-husband. &lt;br /&gt;Maybe that was part of the problem. &lt;br /&gt;We didn't just laugh. We didn't just connect. We were good friends. We occupied each other's time, space, void. &lt;br /&gt;We snarled and poked at each other until we bled. &lt;br /&gt;And so we resort to suspicious behavior, snapping, hiding. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There is an air of un-forgetfulness, un-forgiveness. &lt;br /&gt;No guilt, no remorse, only something left behind.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our roommate decides to walk to the kitchen and pop open another Fat Tire. He asks if we want a chili dog. &lt;br /&gt;I don't want a chili dog, but it breaks through the uncomfortable tension of me questioning my ex-husband about his new "friend."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She's married. I wonder about this girl, this married "friend."&lt;br /&gt;Is she as unhappy as I was? Does she want out? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why would he choose someone in exactly the same situation as we were in two years ago? &lt;br /&gt;Wanting out, but wanting the security. Wanting the greener grass, but wanting to come back to the food bowl.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Does he wonder what she says to her husband? Does he wonder if her husband is expecting her home for a candlelit bubble bath, and what he is thinking when she doesn't show?&lt;br /&gt;He explains that it's because there's no chance of it working out. Ever. This is the reason he sees her. They talk, they have coffee. They must have something in common.&lt;br /&gt;They must share a passion for something. They must share experiences. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He doesn't ask about my relationship. I've told him that it's none of his business and that I don't want his opinions about it. &lt;br /&gt;We're just not there, yet. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He has another drink and walks to the kitchen to sort out some cast iron skillets. &lt;br /&gt;"These are mine."&lt;br /&gt;I tell him he can't take everything. &lt;br /&gt;"This is mine."&lt;br /&gt;I tell him he can't have it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He sits down with his chili dog. &lt;br /&gt;I ask about his other girlfriend, the sugar mama that he doesn't want because he doesn't want a serious relationship right now. &lt;br /&gt;I get nowhere with my questions. &lt;br /&gt;And i'm too drunk to argue anymore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I decide that, when i look at him, I don't like him anymore. It's not because he's being insolent, it's because i really don't like him. I don't know what he's about anymore, and he makes comments, likewise.&lt;br /&gt;"I didn't even know you liked hockey."&lt;br /&gt;I do like hockey. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I look at him and I cannot, for the life of me, remember what we had in common, what we talked about, if we ever really opened up to each other. &lt;br /&gt;This was a good example of our relationship. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We made better roommates than spouses.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-4251041315802118513?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/4251041315802118513/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=4251041315802118513' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/4251041315802118513?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/4251041315802118513?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/05/things-that-arent-appropriate.html' title='things that aren&apos;t appropriate'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DEAMQXs7cCp7ImA9WxJREEo.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-6054408015944474707</id><published>2009-05-11T14:29:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-11T16:19:40.508-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-05-11T16:19:40.508-05:00</app:edited><title>Detachment</title><content type='html'>"Do you know what the procedure is for detached retina?"&lt;br /&gt;No. &lt;br /&gt;"They place this little gas bubble behind your eye and...you have to look in one direction, not moving your eyes...for 2 weeks."&lt;br /&gt;(It's called pneumatic retinoxepy)&lt;br /&gt;Not moving your eyes. &lt;br /&gt;Not moving your eyes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One stray look&lt;br /&gt;Might have adverse, lifelong effects.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Permanent detachment. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I'm your typical boy."&lt;br /&gt;I've never dated a "typical boy." &lt;br /&gt;I have no idea what that even means.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Am I your typical girl? &lt;br /&gt;I don't know if my eyes could ever be still.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There was a very long time when I was stereotypically &lt;br /&gt;on a deteriorating raft&lt;br /&gt;surrounded by thick, salty air and hungry sharks.&lt;br /&gt;And sun that pounded my skin into blistery, bloody sheets.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"If you had a theme, what would it be? A theme. A word."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Suffocation.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And it will be a most undesirable way to die.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-6054408015944474707?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/6054408015944474707/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=6054408015944474707' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/6054408015944474707?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/6054408015944474707?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/05/detachment.html' title='Detachment'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;C0cMQHYzeip7ImA9WxJREUg.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-7917567625304471456</id><published>2009-05-11T12:39:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-12T12:58:01.882-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-05-12T12:58:01.882-05:00</app:edited><title>i brought a 4-pack of Guinness and potato chips to my first therapy session</title><content type='html'>I spent this past saturday with someone who told me that the reason they were 34 and had not ever had a serious relationship was because of their mother. &lt;br /&gt;I spent that morning walking along the beach, sunlight finally beaming in a cloudless sky. &lt;br /&gt;When he left me in the truck, i opened his wallet and peeked at his license. &lt;br /&gt;It's the same as looking through people's drawers. &lt;br /&gt;Piecing together their fragmented lives, snippets of an entire life before you came together. Bills, tickets, half-written-in journals, statements about their existence, condom wrappers, photos. &lt;br /&gt;He spent that day looking at me, hard. &lt;br /&gt;I couldn't quite figure it out, what he was looking for.  &lt;br /&gt;I couldn't quite put my finger on it. There were a few glances.&lt;br /&gt;Hazel. Blue-green. Like mine. &lt;br /&gt;You can't ever tell through the glasses.&lt;br /&gt;I decided I didn't date light-eyed men, fair-haired and fine-boned. &lt;br /&gt;It's a trust issue. &lt;br /&gt;Which is ironic. Because i have light eyes. Although not fair-haired or fine-boned.&lt;br /&gt;I did notice his room, his bathroom. The window that looked over the cherry blossoms and the lilac bushes and the quiet street. &lt;br /&gt;And then we were cycling on the island. &lt;br /&gt;And he always wanted to be on my left side, talking, questioning. &lt;br /&gt;I wanted to know what he meant by that. &lt;br /&gt;By stopping and mentioning where we were on the water, and the reflection, and the gin. &lt;br /&gt;He didn't let me lead. I took it. &lt;br /&gt;Sunset over the I-90 bridge.&lt;br /&gt;On my ride home, alone, I was still asleep on the pillow. I had pulled the sheets from the corner.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-7917567625304471456?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/7917567625304471456/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=7917567625304471456' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/7917567625304471456?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/7917567625304471456?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/05/i-brought-4-pack-of-guinness-and-potato.html' title='i brought a 4-pack of Guinness and potato chips to my first therapy session'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DEQBRHg5cCp7ImA9WxJSF08.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-5938791028545521760</id><published>2009-05-07T12:57:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-07T14:59:15.628-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-05-07T14:59:15.628-05:00</app:edited><title>bedside table drawer</title><content type='html'>The first memories i have are of my dad leaving for work. He worked swing-shift sometimes, and when he came home at odd hours&lt;br /&gt;from the metal forge plant,&lt;br /&gt;he would take off his burned, ashen clothes, pile them in the corner, and go to sleep.&lt;br /&gt;I remember seeing a picture of him in front of the enormous drop forge, a furnace burning hundreds of degrees hotter than my little body could ever imagine.&lt;br /&gt;In the summer, when my mom would take the scissors to my faded, worn-kneed jeans, she would give the legs to him. He used them as a layer of protection against the searing sparks that flew as he brought the heavy hammer down on a piece of iron, &lt;br /&gt;molding it into a tool, &lt;br /&gt;something practical, something useful.&lt;br /&gt;I imagined the jean-legs disintigrating with each firey ball that collided with the layers of fabric, finally contacting the skin, the smell of singed hair melding with the smell of hot melting metal&lt;br /&gt;He would come home, sleep, get up and leave for baseball practice. &lt;br /&gt;There was a dirty, grey uniform that he wore. Stirrups and white socks.&lt;br /&gt;I remember the uniform had a number on the back, maybe his name. &lt;br /&gt;I cannot remember the number. Maybe it changed. &lt;br /&gt;I don't remember watching him play. &lt;br /&gt;I was small then. I'm sure i never knew the size of his hands, or if mine would fit into his palm. &lt;br /&gt;I don't think that i ever knew if he had scars or callouses from work, from the baseball or the smooth wood bat. &lt;br /&gt;There were so many rough surfaces, so many edges.&lt;br /&gt;I ran into them all. &lt;br /&gt;Get up, look around, find a band-aid for the wound.&lt;br /&gt;"Don't bleed on my things."&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-5938791028545521760?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/5938791028545521760/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=5938791028545521760' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/5938791028545521760?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/5938791028545521760?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/05/bedside-table-drawer.html' title='bedside table drawer'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry gd:etag='W/&quot;DEUBQ3k9eSp7ImA9WxJSE00.&quot;'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17734467.post-3463412515260473006</id><published>2009-05-02T15:16:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-02T18:17:32.761-05:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app='http://www.w3.org/2007/app'>2009-05-02T18:17:32.761-05:00</app:edited><title>if you can cheer me up, i can learn to love you</title><content type='html'>The quote of the day concerned two awkward goof-balls attempting to wax poetic about social cues. &lt;br /&gt;this is something we do every day, pick apart a social structure or two until we've beaten it like a bad dog, until it's on the ground, begging for air, for the chance to show us a "different side."&lt;br /&gt;these conversations last days. we can pick up where we left off, always, and let the disintegration begin.&lt;br /&gt;i could potentially describe the bus ride that i had the other day, &lt;br /&gt;the one that began with my partner-in-crime and i walking to the bus stop on a cloudless morning, i hadn't noticed until we arrived at the stop and he followed me that he hadn't lit a cigarette. I raised my eyebrows. The #3 comes every ten minutes. Of course it was full, it was nearing 8:00, filled with junior professionals heading down the hill, downtown to the high rise cubicles that we all occupy, even on beautiful days. &lt;br /&gt;And then the Can Lady got on. The Asian lady with the half-drooping face. Some sort of deformity that i cannot define. She carries cans in ripped black hefty bags onto the bus, and they leave a slithery trail of flat beer and soda to the back door, where she absolutely needed to be, even though there were shoulder-to-shoulder bodies in the aisle. &lt;br /&gt;I think the drippy mess crept onto my jeans as she dragged her bags on the floor through our legs. I smelled old beer all day. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;i wish i were a better writer, i could describe what we talk about on a daily basis. &lt;br /&gt;i could describe a certain friend's descent (or ascent, really) into unemployment. fun-employment.&lt;br /&gt;everyone looks and says, "tsk tsk. jeez, aren't you looking? can't you find &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;anything&lt;/span&gt;? aren't you bored?"&lt;br /&gt;the answer i received, once, was..."no, i'm &lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;not&lt;/span&gt; looking." &lt;br /&gt;not looking not because she didn't want to, but because this forced break from the rat race was exactly what she needed to be able to sit down and really take a look at herself and her own needs.&lt;br /&gt;We work in this giant machine. &lt;br /&gt;I'm a firm believer that the machine works. It serves its purpose. &lt;br /&gt;That micromanagement is how people are "motivated" into doing "work."&lt;br /&gt;That nagging barb in the back of your neck that walks by your desk, employing some secret mix of formulated bullshit to suck your soul out and thereby rendering you able to do no more than make charts and graphs (not using red). &lt;br /&gt;The machine means that we all have a place. &lt;br /&gt;But when she left it, it meant that she didn't have a place. &lt;br /&gt;Accepting this was the first step. Because it doesn't come without withdrawal&lt;br /&gt;that longing...wishing you could score a job, any office job, temping&lt;br /&gt;anything to be able to prove your worth for 8-10 hours a day.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/17734467-3463412515260473006?l=ednaseyes.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/3463412515260473006/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=17734467&amp;postID=3463412515260473006' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/3463412515260473006?v=2'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/17734467/posts/default/3463412515260473006?v=2'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://ednaseyes.blogspot.com/2009/05/if-you-can-cheer-me-up-i-can-learn-to.html' title='if you can cheer me up, i can learn to love you'/><author><name>edna stinowski</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_8MZB1oCON_4/SYcBv5csZWI/AAAAAAAAAJw/5pUEUR9q3T4/S220/IMG_0597.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry></feed>

If you would like to create a banner that links to this page (i.e. this validation result), do the following:

1. Download the "valid Atom 1.0" banner.

2. Upload the image to your own server. (This step is important. Please do not link directly to the image on this server.)

3. Add this HTML to your page (change the image src attribute if necessary):

   <a href="http://feedvalidator.org/check.cgi?url=http%3A//ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default"><img src="valid-atom.png" alt="[Valid Atom 1.0]" title="Validate my Atom 1.0 feed" /></a>

If you would like to create a text link instead, here is the URL you can use:

http://feedvalidator.org/check.cgi?url=http%3A//ednaseyes.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default

Home · About · News · Docs · Terms