“A Book of Chrissyisms” by Christina Strigas cover reveal

I took the summer off to work on some projects. At the beginning of July, I started working on this book for fun. I was not sure when I would finish it or where I was going with it, but it somehow wrote itself. I amassed some of my quotes and tweets that were popular on social media, especially on Twitter and Instagram.

This is the cover reveal. It is a non-fiction book, based on my thoughts, poems, quotes, and essays. I hope you truly enjoy the philosophy behind the book.

So many people wonder what it is like to be a writer, to be a creative person. I hope to shed some light from my perspective. The title is A Book of Chrissysisms because that is a word that best describes living in my own mind from Monday to Sunday.

I am aiming to publish this book on my 50th birthday, in September.

Let me know what you think of the book cover.

 

Peace & Love,

Chrissy xebook CHRISSYISMS (1).jpg

 

Expectations

Expectation will ruin your life.

I wrote that because most people have these unrealistic expectations of their loved ones when they know that they have limitations. I can’t expect my husband to take out the trash when he never does. I can’t be disappointed in my book sales when I don’t promote myself like I need to. I can’t expect my friends to read my mind when I run out of restaurants upset. I hate to feel so much. At the same time, I don’t know what it’s like to feel nothing at all. Most people can’t see the cracks in the sidewalk because they are staring at their phone. I read a whold book on a plane and had time to drink. I feel that expectations should be kicked away as far away from reality as possible. Paths have a way of turning into gravel and detour signs are more prevalent now more than ever.

I am working on a book, a journal, a new life.

Chapters don’t need headings all the time.

Life needs to be unpredictable at times.

 

 

 

GNO

Vodka, champagne

ice bucket,

free drinks on the house

because

we know the club owner. This

is his wife, we are her

privileged friends. We drink

and eat for free and pretend

we mean something

to no one.

Girls, girls, girls,

on fire, out to impress

each other with

shoes and a purse

and nothing to say.

It was q & a for me

“What do I think of a thousand dollar

pair of shoes?”

I had so much to say

and no one who cared to listen

and a few “she’s a writer”

so hence the nods

at my philosophy of designer

shoes and purse

and where is the value

in that? to look good

and panic that someone

stepped on you or spilled their

drink and the world has to stop

because they are alive.

I am ready for the exit

but first I need a few more drinks

to discuss how I prefer to spend

a thousand bucks on books

and you won’t catch me dead

in those

the only way is to buy them for

me

so I told them my stories of how

I feel when I walk

when I talk

and who knew that jealousy

is so ingrained in some souls

that they hate me first

and then such love and compliments

that fakery fuckery has arrived to visit again.

Oh, yes, who cares my phone cracked

life is beautiful, the lights are purple

the women are complimenting each other

and then whispering the truth.

On the drive home, my friend turns

to me and says,

“you’re just an oddity

no one understands

or gets you

so don’t get angry

because they just don’t.

I’ve known you for years

and I get it

but that girl who said

she knew you but never met you

she knew where you lived

she knew all about you

and you, shaking her hands

nice to meet you.

She said, nice to finally meet you.”

I swear the night just got weirder

and stranger

couldn’t wait to get the fuck

out and stop defending

my philosophy

my Nine West shoes

my vegan food

my new hair

my books

my poems

my art

I need to seriously be drunk

to face society girls.

 

 

 

 

Lessons Learned

You once told me

you’re my lesson learned

or some other nonsense

that upon hindsight

deciphers how your soul

is as blind as mine.

I rarely keep my eyes closed

watched a movie

in a catatonic state

only to wake up to analyze

the ending in a forty-five minute

discussion about Mexican cartel.

I taught high school,

adults, children

all those degrees on the wall

are some type of lessons

I carry with me to the cafes

we used to visit

across the university campus

where a Philosophy major met

an English major

and we never stopped talking

you could never kiss me

you loved me too much.

You tried that one time

to invite me to a party

but I said no.

I was lying on my bed

with the telephone wire

wrapped around my finger

Depeche Mode was playing on my turntable

and you said

c’mon, bring your friends.

My friends had no place with yours.

We were a semester of illusion

discussions

as you played me the guitar

I sat on your bed

and you talked about Descartes

and when I ran into you at Loyola Campus

you came running down the stairs

to stop me

come see what I’ve written now,

you said,

come sit with me a while.

I have class,

I said.

But we both knew,

our time passed

and you had me on your bed

your roommate gone

and believe me I waited.

 

in simple words

Some people think
writing poetry
is a waste of time,
others absorb words
like young pupils,
still others have their hat on
and
walk right past us.
It may seem like a breeze, a simple tune you hate, that may have taken days
to compose in the heat of the muse.

All these wonders,
most of Them skip tracks on life;
you do not need to hold my hand too closely, I’ve always seen it.
So perhaps it’s time to tell you
that,
I will always love you,
it may be simple to say,
but we both know
how writing this
and saying this
are polar opposites
in both worlds.

It is somehow in all these places
on earth,
we visit,
reminding us of
the one we love
no matter
which ocean
we look out from.

Waiiting

Sun is burning through the thick layers of my skin, into my very core. The air is thick with averting eyes and hardhats. Trucks, cars, vans all waiting to fit their purchases into trunks that are made too small. Here I am, in front of Ikea, sitting on planks of wood that will be assembled to make my clothes feel comfortable, pretty to look at. Sweep the clutter away. Organize my mind, refresh my life with order and iambic pentameter.
I am waiting for you to put air in your tires and the strangers around me are smoking, talking, eating, working and my bum is sore. The worst part is I forgot my sunglasses and as usual my phone is dying, which means I have to stop writing, and after the battery dies and the words are not stopping, I will regret that I forgot my notebook on the kitchen table.
No one will read it, nor open it out of curiosity. No one seems to notice, but when I type it orderly and edit the sentences before I publish everyone notices. Waiting is good for the soul, it gives me time to think about not having to be somewhere. It gives me time, point finale.