Thursday, April 26, 2012

No Title/Rambling/No Point/Happy Rant--You Choose


(oh the unedited scripts full of typos)

In life, I have always had to grow and change and adapt and be agreeable.  I don’t have to do that anymore. But I will continue to grow and learn and learn the hard way. Maybe I can learn to learn the easy way? You think?

I feel peaceful and sleepy. The calm before the storm? Not sure how much more of this I can take. Work, work for work, work for love, work for personal growth, work for S, work on chores, work out, work. Where is the fucking fun in that?

Personal growth. If I grow much more I will turn into a giant green-and-gold goddess hovering above the little emotionally stunted miniature people down below. Do you know that some people never cry or think or try to do or be better? Do you know that some people think that they are fine just the way they are (usually fine with being totally fucked up and mean and cruel or boring and dry and vacant?) Sure, some stasis is healthy and a great fucking relief after a long growth spurt, but don’t you want to learn new things? See new things? Challenge your tastes in music or art or food or love making? What about people? Haven’t you ever been surprised by an unusual person? Isn’t that a cool learning experience? For the love of all that is good, get out there and see some new shit! Climb the wall or tunnel under it, whatevs, just go, get, go ‘head.

How can you love or do anything worth a shit in your life if you don’t live or rather, if you don’t feel alive? 

This is why writers and creative people are fucktards sometimes…because we have to feel alive—that life quest makes us make art. Life inspires (forces) me to write—without living and making mistakes and trying new things, I would have nothing to write about. Sometimes that desire to feel alive translates into fucking things up and making a big mess so I can feel something, learn something, make something. Being a grown up in a real way, means finding inspiration from less destructive things like documentaries and conversations and photos of old NYC and so on.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2134408/Never-seen-photos-100-years-ago-tell-vivid-story-gritty-New-York-City.html

But being a crazy creative person also has its advantages. It also means, loving a lot, and being exciting and having passion and new ideas and having really great conversations and being surprised and surprising a lot. Looking not only outside the proverbial box but also around it, and under it and next to it and three miles away from it. Maybe that’s why creative people get along so well with kids—we are like them, unashamed, unembarrassed, questioning to annoyance.

That’s what I want…I want to feel alive, and do and think and see and say new things. But I need a good stable place to call home that balances out all of the creative crazy happening out there and in here [points at heart.]

It’s nice to live in the same house forever. I would like that.
Without the stable home you can’t find where you need to get back to.

Is that a cliffhanger? I feel like there’s more. I also feel like this is a very adolescent-no-duh blog today. Like duh, as if, H, as if.

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Therapy Exercise Part 1

This is part of my therapy. You do not have to read it. I’ve wavered between posting it and not posting it, but I’m practicing having courage, and being brave, and being fearless and all that shit. So what, I am vulnerable. There I said it. Move along.

This is a process of figuring out my shit. The things that scare me most are part of that. Part of the therapy plan is to be aware of these things so when I get there I can recognize that I’m reacting to one of my issues. Sounds so simple.

I have two big fears:
1. Being trapped. (Part 1)
2. Being abandon. (Part 2)

PART 1: TRAPPED (Otherwise known as Trust Issues)
The fear of being trapped is a funny fear. Certainly not funny, haha, but funny in that it manifests itself in a variety of strange ways and is the cause of strange reactions and actions. This fear is not to be confused with the fear of small spaces but I’m not a fan of those either. Here are some examples:

A. Always know your exits. In any room, party, bar, store, person’s house, relationship, plane, job, situation—I always know what my exit will be (I almost wrote “is” but “will be” is more true and totally more fucked up.) Do I know my way out? Where is the nearest exit? Who do I have to jump over to get there first?

When I was young in love, I used to have a break-up plan at the very beginning of any relationship. I always had an escape in mind, just in case that one moment came when things got too intense or too challenging or too much love was present, and I would use my emergency exit and flee, check out, bail. It was so mean and heartless and shitty of me. I feel very bad about the callus and careless way that I treated love (and wow! payback is quite the bitch.) I was just so freaked out and so un-ready for it that I had to bail—it was my best defense mechanism. No one can trap you, if you leave first.

My default was telling myself that certainly he would get sick of me any day now. He was better off without me. Better leave now, just in case. Some of this is healed as my self-worth grew. Some of it I grew out of. I don't feel this way anymore. History is important.

At a therapy session in NYC, I accidentally said this to my shrink and she flipped out. I was always so terrified to be loved (read: felt unworthy of love) that I would plan a way out. Just in case. I worked through this last time around the couch, but it’s worth mentioning. I no longer plan a way out of a relationship, but I do still look for exits in a room, and have some anxiety about small spaces. I like escape routes, if only for the comfort of knowing.

I'm good/better at recognizing my flight responses and keeping them in check.

Re-read and replace “job” for “relationship.”

B. Traveling. Trust issues with going to remote places with people I don’t know well. Boats, etc. Three or more examples:
   1. I will not go to a wooded park with people/a person I don’t know very, very well. This one is common sense too, but can get weird at a work retreat or when meeting friends at Central Park (too far off the beaten path.) I get all skeevy and can’t settle in. In my mind I think about how fast I can run barefoot through the rocky woods to escape Bigfoot or whatever. Why am I always barefoot? Because who besides RuPaul can run through the woods in heels?
   2. I will not allow someone to drive if I don’t trust him/her. (Cabbies in NYC were a different story although not always…I usually took the train or walked.) I have friends that I’ve never driven with. When I am in a car with someone new/untrusted, I find myself in a mini-panic-attack trying not whiteknuckle the dashboard while tisking and saying undermybreath “Ohshit.Holyshit.” Once, I made a friend pull over on the freeway so I could take over. True story. I know this is a control issue too but come on…don’t act like you have never driven with someone and feared for your life. And as a matter of fact, I love to be driven around (by someone I trust. It is one of my greatest simple pleasures.)
   3. When I met D, we'd had one official date, and he asked me to go on a boat with him and his friends. I freaked. Hell no! I was suspicious of him for asking me to do something so crazy like that so soon. Then, he asked me a few weeks later to go to a wedding with him. Wow. I just wasn’t there yet. Not enough trust to be trapped on a boat or stuck talking to some lame-os at a wedding. Too scary.

C. Breaking bread. There are some people I will not eat with. More people that I will not invite to eat with me in my home. Eating is a big deal for me. I do not take it lightly. How is this a trapped thing? Well, I love to cook and eat dinner and have parties and friends over when I can. I will not feel trapped in my own house at my table with some stooge criticizing every bite or shoveling in copious amounts of food that I prepared with love. Some meals/invitations are sacred—cooking is an act of honor and respect and should be treated as such. I will feed anyone…but I won’t sit and eat with just anyone. This is weird too because I have had hundreds of people in my home for food. I am just a little weird about it. It’s a special thing for me.




Make Me

http://youtu.be/Zz5pskaTNJU

This song is so cool. I like the idea of putting on shows to make each other laugh. How nice is that? Make me laugh please. This shit is too serious.

I also like the idea of dreaming about your love for years before they show up (again). Romantic, no? Ah, poor little princess trapped in the tower. Too many icons of women locked in towers. Might have to smash the whole shit up.

yeah.

Monday, April 23, 2012

Tonight, Tonight

Long, hard, emotional day. Therapy is difficult if you're doing it right. Here's to a better me. In the thick of it, I am totally exhausted, a little defeated, and man, dredging up the past really wears on a girl. I feel like Ebenezer Scrooge with all them ghosts rattling about. Pipe down!

If only tonight I could curl up on a comfey lap, be held and petted like a baby or nice pup. Anyone want to hold me? If only....

Sunday, April 22, 2012

It’s All Good


I know that I've been all doom and gloom--and rushing around like a crazy, impatient person on fire. So, today is about rolling my shoulders back (and yours?) Don't worry. I am writing all of this to process. That’s all. Shake it off. Take a breath.

I have to spell this all out for myself—isn’t that a terrible pun? To remind me of how it goes. Have some faith. There is time for everything. Slow down. Bump the brakes. I am still here writing, thinking, singing, working, playing with S, and handling my shit. Yes, me…handling my own shit. Here’s my plan: work and finish these nasty deadlines. Keep going to therapy. Talk, read, write, think, work. Then by the end of May, I will breathe.

Mid June I am off for vacation. Zip line through the jungle, laugh, dance, read a poem at a dear friend’s wedding, swim in the ocean, sit still in the sun—have some fun. Fun, remember that? I do. I want to remember.

There is memory in my muscles. There are memories in my skin, in my fingertips, in my eyes. My eyes remember—the city park at last sunlight, the surprise of laughter, the smoke curling up from a cigarette. There is memory in the sounds of life, the waves rolling in and out and in again—the beach birds hollering, the shish of the wind.  

Memory in the sounds of the train, in the sounds of the city, the freeways, the whir of the air from an open car window. Traveling without moving. 

I can remember the scent of that baby’s skin. I can feel her breath on my face and shoulder. I can taste her tears and hear her laugh all in my mind. I can feel her baby hands touching, hugging, holding, patting.

Memories are strong today. Things are okay. I am here. I am writing.

Now, slave, back to work. 

Saturday, April 21, 2012

A Poem-ish Thing Revised



I told you not to forget and you did. Even the most perfect carrots 
in the world, can’t make up for that.
What if you delivered those perfect carrots—orange, purple, and yellow—naked 
or wearing a shiny, blue, macho-man suit and goggles?
I would rather have a hot-pink bike with tassel handlebars anyway. 

Hurry Up and Wait, or Just Effing Chill on It for Awhile


At work this week my motto is Now or Never. It has to be. I have so much to do at work that if I can’t respond to a new request rightfuckingnow, it won’t happen for months. It’s funny that people around the office think I’m “on it”—whatever that means—but truth be told, I am totally in the weeds.

In my non-work life, if you can call it a life, I am waiting for everything. Hurry up and do your stuff and then wait for someone else to do their stuff and hope that all that stuff is the right stuff and how many times can I type stuff? In my life, there is no now and there is no never--just adorable little blobs of ambiguity and uncertainty and maybes---real-life maybes that balance out the certainties of how much fucking work I have to do? Who knows? Float along and pretend not to notice. Sometimes, Dear H, it's okay to be in between. Sometimes, Dear Me, it's okay to just do your job and not work so hard on every little thing in your life. Ok? Right. Keep reminding me of that, will you? Always. 

Back to work please. Put your head down and work. Get it done. Or get fired. Don't fuck up. Ok? So, you ask, “Why are you writing this bullshit and not working right now?” Well, fuck you. That’s my answer. I have to write through the crap sometimes. Crapcrapcrapandturds.

[My inner monologues are turning into conversations. Yikes. That and spelling "turds" is really fun.]

I feel okay today. How’s that? Good question. I ran. I ate well. I am drinking coffee and working. Listening to this: http://youtu.be/LYXhAmlfNP0

I super like We Are Augustines and if you haven’t heard them, buy their album. That’s all. 

Friday, April 20, 2012

Oh Girl It’s A Pretty Life You Have



 Things I have learned this week:

1. I am not as strong as I think. I am not a strong as I want to be.
2. I want someone to take care of me. At least sometimes.  Can I get a witness?
3. I do not have a soft place to land. I can’t lose my shit because I don’t have anyone to pick me up and carry me home. I can’t lose my shit because I have a daughter to care for. She needs me. I can’t fucking lose it. Keep it together. Keep it together.
4. Now or never is my mantra.
5. All work and no play makes me a dull, dull girl.
6. I have an emotional wealth. I am rich emotionally.
7. Challenge. Question everything? Yes, everything. 
8. I know how I got here, but my limitation is figuring out how to get out of the mess I'm in. What to do? How to do it? How to inspire? How to create the environment where I get what I need from life? Creation is key.
9. I know you better than you do. I know me better than you do.

Listening to: http://youtu.be/Sv6dMFF_yts and also http://youtu.be/8UVNT4wvIGY it's a strange loop. 

Sunday, April 15, 2012

More and More (Maybe a Love Song)


The train came. It trills. You hear it. I hear it too. That’s how close I am to you. It just is. 

Funny how sometimes proximity makes me happy (especially funny when most of the time, proximity in isolation makes me crazy lonely irate and miserable? Funny funny.)

Blech. Blah. Barf. Working and listening to Metric. Not always sure if I love them or hate them...perfect for today love/hate, hate/love, fuck/run, hide/show, work/work, laugh/play.

“I’m not suicidal—I just can’t get out of bed. I can feel your ghost when I’m alone.”

List:
1.     Guitar lessons (yes, again. maybe I should have stuck with it, okay? I get it, but I would like to know how to play better than the shit that I try to plunk out in my head.)

2.     Stop playing guitar in my head and buy a guitar and play it in real life. Nerds rule. See #4.

3.     Steal a nice digital camera—one that has lenses and shutter speeds and apertures and that I can make do what I want it to do. My old manual camera (read: film) is great, but slow. I need a major upgrade. My digital point-shoot is okay but limiting in the manual settings—it’s too automatic. And fuck the iPhone. I need more than snapshots. More control so I can show you what it looks like in my head. (P.S., I won’t steal it, but I am looking for a "steal". But I will think about stealing it, because money is tight--see #4.)

4.     Play lotto. If I give up Starbucks once a week. I can buy one lotto ticket and still have money for cigarettes. Save, save. And maybe win, win? Or quit smoking and be a grown up. And save the extra non-coffee money and buy a guitar and a digital camera or you know, college tuition for S. Or maybe I will win the lotto and buy a small house with a porch and then have a garden again and a place to sit. And a room to write in. With a door that locks. And a few windows that open and show me green stuff. I still want to be able to hear the train. [Silly girl, vulnerable, silly girl.] 

“all the gold and the guns in the world couldn’t get you off. All the gold and the girls in the world…is it ever gonna be enough?”  Doubt it.  Don’t you want more too? Thought so. Don't we deserve more? More love? More compassion? More depth? 

That’s all. Damn train.

Friday, April 13, 2012

Panic Now? Or Maybe Later, I'm Kinda Busy Working...


This entry is not for the faint of heart or those under the age of 24. And if you are very religious, you may want to pray first to ask for forgiveness for what you're about to read. You have been warned. 

Being marginalized seems like a relief. You know what they expect and you know how to be that and how to be more than that. The limbo pole is set; you know how low to go to make it just under the line. I think all of that sucks especially if you are an immigrant or a homosexual or a Muslim. Is something nice about knowing it?--like knowing where you stand, even if you stand 20 feet deep in shit? 

[insert Great White Guilt here] The straight, white, newly named "native" Americans [seriously, WTF?]--the rest of us non-threatening, un-threatened breeder honkies--have been spoon fed the Great White Corporate American Dream. Here, White Girl, here is what you [are supposed to] want. Now, go kill yourself to get this life and don’t think twice about what you really want, just do what we say and you will spend yourself into our complete control.

We have been sold the American Dream. The Dream has been repackaged every semester or so and they seem to shuffle where it sits on the shelf—but it’s still there.

My generation’s American Dream was sold like a pool party on the High School roof is sold to freshmen. And watch us all fall for it. I fell for it—just like the rest of you Suckers. Now, I’m on the roof, searching for the pool, I just realized that I’m fucking locked out, and oh shit, yes, I’m completely naked with a baby in my arms. Did I mention that GoogleGod is documenting, so, even from space you can see pictures of gullible, totally-fucked, little naked me holding a baby on the roof of a high school? What will I say when they ask, “How did you get here? What were you thinking? You have a baby to think of!!!!” 

I have a job. I am married. I am a mother. I have a car. And I have shelter. I breathe air. I eat. I have luxuries too, good food, gasoline for the car, cigarettes, cute clothes, shiny diamond rings.

If we worked through an American Dream Sudoku could we do the math? Can we solve the American Disaster puzzle? Probably not.  We are all fucked.


Do you know any person who's happy? Here's the rub:

1. Most people who say that they're happy wouldn't know happiness if they were sucking Happy off in the men's room. Submissiveness and complacency do not equal happiness; they equal ignorance. Can you have thoughts and a mind and passion and an equal fear of and respect for death/life and the government, and be happy? Is that too much to ask for? 

2. Who calls up a friend to say, "Guess What?!?! I am so happy! My life is great. I just called to tell you that."? Unless that statement is quickly followed by this: "I have become a Zombie! It's wonderful. A strict diet of moron brains and carnage. You too can join the Zombie Collation for the low, low price of your soul. You won't be needing that anyway, right?" 

3. Do you think that if you were really happy that you would even know it? (then your face will surely show it, if you're happy and you know it, clap your hands, clap, clap.)

I have to go scrub the congealed pork fat from the Crock-Pot because let's face it, we all know you won't fucking do it. Happy Friday. 

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Another One Bites the Dust


Little S is biting again. If only we could all bite the shit out of people that frustrate or anger us. It’s a very clear message.

I feel terrible of course, that my little daughter is being so aggressive and feels frustrated with her limited toddler vocabulary. I'm upset by her behavior—for her friends, the ones that receive bites and for her baby-self, the little self in there that can’t find a better way (yet) to communicate. She has been bitten before. And that stinks. But emotionally for me, it is much worse when she is the aggressor.

I am certain that she learns to be frustrated and unable to communicate her anger/jealously/territorial pissing from me. Little S’s mama is also having a hard time communicating anger/jealousy/territory. I have no doubt that she must sense me struggling with this life that we share with her. S being so astute and emotive and intelligent, nothing is beyond her notice.

The apple and the tree. 

Monday, April 9, 2012

Company


“I’m almost too lonely to speak. My eyes dart around when you’re talking to me.
I can’t seem to make myself not think about the past and how you are now.

I think I’ve been left alone long enough to do something insane. My friends they worry I’m wasting away, I wish they’d just not say a thing.”
                                                            - Jessica Lea Mayfield

New York is the most deeply lonely city that I have ever been to or lived in. It’s not for lack of people in proximity. There are millions. Some days it feels like there are a million on one train. Other nights, very late, you won’t pass a soul on the street. Both scenarios can be desolate for the soul. It’s hard to be surrounded by people and to feel the lack, the void, the isolation—the island. Maybe that’s why it’s so tough to be lonely in relationships…what’s the point of having someone near by if they are not close at heart? How can I be lonely? Proximity versus connection baby, what else? 

Fandango. Part 2.


I am all out of words here. They all left me last week.

Too bad because I was going to come up with a safe word like “Fandango” maybe? I have stuff to write about having a safe word. But I can’t get there today.

Count back from ten.

Friday, April 6, 2012

Fandango! When is good not good enough?


I like my new shrink. She is smart and gets it. I don’t need much, just someone to check me when I forget to say how I feel (not just what I think) and someone to ask me questions to make me talk about things that I would rather not think about. Done and done.

So, what if I am trying to get orange juice from an apple? Some days I just want to be Beatrix Kiddo and put on a tight yellow ninja-biker suit and get my Hanzo sword and divide people in to halves. One half for you, one half for me.

Other days I want to be a silent and stern librarian—behind a desk full of judgment and smarts and unflinching coolness, where I have all the answers and authority and fearlessness. A place where I own my realm/helm/universe--where it's all mine and I don't have to cower or fear or worry. 

Now for dental work, yikes--pits and hands are starting to sweat. 

More on "Fandango!" coming soon. 

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Blueberries Are Our Friends


If only life was as simple as eating a good, nutritious breakfast. Let’s promise our kids that they can have a squeaky-clean suburban paradigmatic utopia if they eat all of their Sugar-Pops with hormone-laden, plaque-building, fatty-ass whole milk and five blueberries—part of a balanced breakfast? Fuck it. I have no point. Commercials are miniature lies. Little fucking bullshit vignettes designed to make us want something.

I want something. If I make my own commercial will I get what I really want? Doubt it.

Listening to: http://youtu.be/0HxNtWEIKhQ 
This chick can belt and she is known for wearing Motorhead t-shirts and flip flops on stage. I heart her.  That's all.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Sec


Dry salami, dry air, dry clothes, dry county, dry your eyes, dry the dishes, dry humor, dry mouth, dry personality, dry socket, dry drunk, dry fuck. Now I have said it too much and it has lost it’s meaning.

There are no more tears (for now). There is no more bourbon. There is not a wet soul in this house. You leave me dry. That’s what I wanted to say. Maybe I even said it.

I am trying to find a light—this little light of mine—a light in the middle of this dark, tedious mess that is my life and my love.  More shrinks, less coffee.