Dear 2009,
I hope you come with a seatbelt. I took it easy on this year, given what I'm capable of.
Tomorrow morning, you and I will dance like lovers unto we pass out into a double digit decade.
You think you know me...
You haven't even opened your eyes yet.
As for you 2008, You are like a second love. Nothing quite as spectacular as a first, but a definite pair of arms in which I could cry while recovering from 2007. We had some pretty good times. I Think we both took advantage of each other for the better part of our time together. I was too busy to pay much attention to you and as a result, you've shown me how unflattering mediocrity looks with red lipstick.
I'm sorry for all the time we lost, for all the sleepless nights I pushed you aside and for all the times I will surely look back upon what I knew of you and ultimately sigh, wishing I had spent a little more time lost in your embrace rather than studying the past or preparing for the future.
I can't say I will miss you terribly, but I'm positive with time, I will grow to have an even deeper respect for what you've taught me. I don't know if I'd go so far as to say it was love, but we definitely had something we won't soon forget. You brought me back to my roots, 2008. For that, I suppose I owe you my future. Rest assured I will eventually cry with your passing, but give me just a little more time and I think I can make you proud.
I'm sorry I didn't spend more time asleep in the sun, but I'll cherish our times on the interurban trail. And of course, my time spent with Athena. If I leave you with any regrets, it would be that I didn't say I love you enough. I guess we'll never know what could have been.
It's probably better this way.
And so it goes, the clock ticks, clouds shift in the sky and once again, I dance in the arms of uncertainty.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
FECK!
The only thing it lacks is "u."
I just found this quote online in a music video.
The path to pursue more than the usual
More than what is safe and known
Is wrought with time-sharpened jagged blades that cut deep
Blocking many from the road to something greater
Beyond the stunted imagination of their peers.
Within the veins of a few
Passions fills every sinew with a sweet, unquenchable purpose
Calming the fear of those treacherous paths
Though each slice burns and bleeds
Still they take each cut, and wear the scars with pride, to signal their choice
That undying pursuit of greater joy within every chord...
I feel on the verge of explosion.
I used to be someone. I used to be going somewhere with my life and somehow I've managed to drown myself in a fucking fishbowl without even noticing it. At least once a week someone asks me "Okay so... why are you working at your job??" And at least three times a month I get job offers in other parts of the city/state/country.
Part of me regrets not taking the job in Hollywood when I had the chance. I was waiting for an offer with more hours even though I could have easily doubled it with a second job. Given my contacts and my skills, it would have been a piece of cake. The plan was to be gone by the end of the summer. And for some reason, I'm still here. I'm waiting for some holy star in the sky sign to tell me where to go next. Waiting in this fishbowl feels like waiting to die. I belong there as much as John McCain belongs at the Democratic National Convention. Which is to say, not at all.
I've spent the last month in serious contemplation and at one point, decided to just give up. Sell all my bellbottoms, vintage polyester shits, dye my hair "corporate america brown" and dress like everyone else. Stop my involvement in politics, stop trying to make a difference, stop being the one who "rocks the boat" even when sitting still and stop telling people my ideas. I could find some mediocre guy, settle into a mediocre life and have three mediocre kids with a dog that never barks and a cat that never claws the furniture.
I thought long and hard about it for a few days and in the end I just couldn't go through with it. I tried even the smallest steps and immediately all my friends asked what had happened to me that I would suddenly turn on everything I believed in and strive for a life that would make me misrable.
I suppose it all comes down to the simple fact that now matter how hard we try, we can no more tell a balloon to come out of the sky than we can tell a rock to rise from the ground. I was never meant to be a rock. I was born with my head in the clouds, I will die in a rainstorm and the most you can do is tie me to a chain link fence in hopes that I will stay put.
I've been there before. I've done it. In the end, I deflated and died.
There are only so many times one can die in a lifetime.
I used to be so much more than I've become. I spend 45 hours a week trying to censor who I am and contain the visions I see for this world. But the rest of the time, when there are no witnesses, I am free.
I can only stay on this life support for so long...
I just found this quote online in a music video.
The path to pursue more than the usual
More than what is safe and known
Is wrought with time-sharpened jagged blades that cut deep
Blocking many from the road to something greater
Beyond the stunted imagination of their peers.
Within the veins of a few
Passions fills every sinew with a sweet, unquenchable purpose
Calming the fear of those treacherous paths
Though each slice burns and bleeds
Still they take each cut, and wear the scars with pride, to signal their choice
That undying pursuit of greater joy within every chord...
I feel on the verge of explosion.
I used to be someone. I used to be going somewhere with my life and somehow I've managed to drown myself in a fucking fishbowl without even noticing it. At least once a week someone asks me "Okay so... why are you working at your job??" And at least three times a month I get job offers in other parts of the city/state/country.
Part of me regrets not taking the job in Hollywood when I had the chance. I was waiting for an offer with more hours even though I could have easily doubled it with a second job. Given my contacts and my skills, it would have been a piece of cake. The plan was to be gone by the end of the summer. And for some reason, I'm still here. I'm waiting for some holy star in the sky sign to tell me where to go next. Waiting in this fishbowl feels like waiting to die. I belong there as much as John McCain belongs at the Democratic National Convention. Which is to say, not at all.
I've spent the last month in serious contemplation and at one point, decided to just give up. Sell all my bellbottoms, vintage polyester shits, dye my hair "corporate america brown" and dress like everyone else. Stop my involvement in politics, stop trying to make a difference, stop being the one who "rocks the boat" even when sitting still and stop telling people my ideas. I could find some mediocre guy, settle into a mediocre life and have three mediocre kids with a dog that never barks and a cat that never claws the furniture.
I thought long and hard about it for a few days and in the end I just couldn't go through with it. I tried even the smallest steps and immediately all my friends asked what had happened to me that I would suddenly turn on everything I believed in and strive for a life that would make me misrable.
I suppose it all comes down to the simple fact that now matter how hard we try, we can no more tell a balloon to come out of the sky than we can tell a rock to rise from the ground. I was never meant to be a rock. I was born with my head in the clouds, I will die in a rainstorm and the most you can do is tie me to a chain link fence in hopes that I will stay put.
I've been there before. I've done it. In the end, I deflated and died.
There are only so many times one can die in a lifetime.
I used to be so much more than I've become. I spend 45 hours a week trying to censor who I am and contain the visions I see for this world. But the rest of the time, when there are no witnesses, I am free.
I can only stay on this life support for so long...
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Poets, Lovers and Dreamers
We are all screwed. :)
The world was not created for people like us.
We are cursed with the trying task merely attempting to survive daily life in this world and in place of socially constructed normalcy I am inundated with poetry filling my head, pen in my purse and my book of prose tucked carefully in my suitcase on the other side of the train. I could have searched for it in the dark, but I didn't want to have to explain my aimless stumbling to the conductor.
I have six blogs on six different websites. I have six because I cannot yet commit to seven. However I've noticed a trend in creating new blogs whenever my life is on the cusp of taking a cosmic shift to the left.
Tonight on the train ride home, I heard the Bob Dylan song "My Back Pages" in a Christmas movie.
"I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now. "
Age is a funny thing. As this year comes to a close, I am forced to not only look back upon the last 52 weeks, but how it fits into the "big picture" mosaic that has become my life.
I'd never ridden a train before this weekend. They lend themselves quite a bit to introspective opportunity. A man on the train told the woman across from him that he was going to Bellingham because "It's home. I've been to 28 states, 3 U.S. territories and 4 countries. But not matter where you go in life, you always come back to the place you call home."
I realized, upon counting the numbers in my head, I've never lived anywhere longer than 8 years. Every time I reach that 7 and a half year mark, something happens. Whether this is a self-perpetuating habit as a result of a nomadic childhood or simply Divine Intervention, I have yet to understand.
However, when forced to look at numbers, it ties my hands a bit in trying to determine what exactly I call home. People ask me where I'm from and I have to ask "Right now, where I went to high school, where I spent my childhood or where I was born?" I usually never get more of a response beyond crossed eyes and "uuuuuuummmm...."
Nearly four years ago, I went home to visit Arizona and while at a baseball game, someone asked me where I was from. Playing the safe bet of assuming "most recent residence" I listed Washington as my stomping grounds. My friend, a famed local DJ and hometown hero grabbed me by the shoulders and calmly but very emphatically said "No you're not. You're from here."
His words have never ceased to haunt me.
Yesterday someone called me a "townie" and cited that I was "one of those people who knows everyone in town" and equally, whom everyone else knows as well.
What happens when you are a townie in 6 different cities?
Sometimes I feel as if my fingerprints fade with each new hand I shake.
My whole life, I have both deeply longed and incredibly feared the thought of settling down. Having a place you can unpack all the boxes and not have to worry about investing in curtains that might not fit the windows of you next home.
Tonight is one of those nights I want to fall apart in the shower and just let the hot water wash all my tears and apprehensions down the drain... along with the $84 hairdo I wore to the wedding. it's slightly amusing to say I can literally watch my money go down the drain, but I suppose there could be worse fates. The guy at the salon who charged my card told me I was beautiful in such a way that I didn't suspect he was trying to secure a future appointment. "Townie" feels like such a stark contrast to "beautiful." Such a bleak fate for a townie. Like "Delta Dawn"... always waiting for her prince to arrive. Unrelenting hope that someday she would shed her townie smile and blossom into a beautiful princess.
Poets, lovers and dreamers. We always hope for something more in life. We are probably all idiots.
Perhaps this is my fate... ;)
The world was not created for people like us.
We are cursed with the trying task merely attempting to survive daily life in this world and in place of socially constructed normalcy I am inundated with poetry filling my head, pen in my purse and my book of prose tucked carefully in my suitcase on the other side of the train. I could have searched for it in the dark, but I didn't want to have to explain my aimless stumbling to the conductor.
I have six blogs on six different websites. I have six because I cannot yet commit to seven. However I've noticed a trend in creating new blogs whenever my life is on the cusp of taking a cosmic shift to the left.
Tonight on the train ride home, I heard the Bob Dylan song "My Back Pages" in a Christmas movie.
"I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now. "
Age is a funny thing. As this year comes to a close, I am forced to not only look back upon the last 52 weeks, but how it fits into the "big picture" mosaic that has become my life.
I'd never ridden a train before this weekend. They lend themselves quite a bit to introspective opportunity. A man on the train told the woman across from him that he was going to Bellingham because "It's home. I've been to 28 states, 3 U.S. territories and 4 countries. But not matter where you go in life, you always come back to the place you call home."
I realized, upon counting the numbers in my head, I've never lived anywhere longer than 8 years. Every time I reach that 7 and a half year mark, something happens. Whether this is a self-perpetuating habit as a result of a nomadic childhood or simply Divine Intervention, I have yet to understand.
However, when forced to look at numbers, it ties my hands a bit in trying to determine what exactly I call home. People ask me where I'm from and I have to ask "Right now, where I went to high school, where I spent my childhood or where I was born?" I usually never get more of a response beyond crossed eyes and "uuuuuuummmm...."
Nearly four years ago, I went home to visit Arizona and while at a baseball game, someone asked me where I was from. Playing the safe bet of assuming "most recent residence" I listed Washington as my stomping grounds. My friend, a famed local DJ and hometown hero grabbed me by the shoulders and calmly but very emphatically said "No you're not. You're from here."
His words have never ceased to haunt me.
Yesterday someone called me a "townie" and cited that I was "one of those people who knows everyone in town" and equally, whom everyone else knows as well.
What happens when you are a townie in 6 different cities?
Sometimes I feel as if my fingerprints fade with each new hand I shake.
My whole life, I have both deeply longed and incredibly feared the thought of settling down. Having a place you can unpack all the boxes and not have to worry about investing in curtains that might not fit the windows of you next home.
Tonight is one of those nights I want to fall apart in the shower and just let the hot water wash all my tears and apprehensions down the drain... along with the $84 hairdo I wore to the wedding. it's slightly amusing to say I can literally watch my money go down the drain, but I suppose there could be worse fates. The guy at the salon who charged my card told me I was beautiful in such a way that I didn't suspect he was trying to secure a future appointment. "Townie" feels like such a stark contrast to "beautiful." Such a bleak fate for a townie. Like "Delta Dawn"... always waiting for her prince to arrive. Unrelenting hope that someday she would shed her townie smile and blossom into a beautiful princess.
Poets, lovers and dreamers. We always hope for something more in life. We are probably all idiots.
Perhaps this is my fate... ;)
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Life's Important Decisions
At 1:30 this morning, I was lying in bed trying to make one of the most important decisions for my future:
blackberries or alfalfa.
See, blackberries are God's way of reminding me that I'll never have to worry about going hungry again because there are still a few things Corporate America can't steal and things the government can't tax. The first time I ate blackberries in the wild was an act of defiance to my mother. I broke all the rules. There was no sink to wash the berries, there was no careful inspection for spiders or razor blades or ominous implements of destruction as was with the annual paranoid Halloween traditions.
Granted, I had no parental units within at least a thousand mile radius, but even so, unwashed blackberries could lead to the swallowing of a spider that would manifest in my brain and cause an incurable, undetectable disease that, upon my death, would go airborne and cause an outbreak of plague, leaving me constantly on the run in the afterlife.
My headstone would serve as a warning for small children who would grow up terrified of eating berries.
Alfalfa has less tragic connotations, at least in regards to health. No, that's probably a lie. See, farmtowns have little to offer beyond farms and county fairs that double as class reunions. But every September, alfalfa is God's way of saying "I still hear you." Because August comes crashing down with black-sky thunderstorms, 108 degree fading summer nights, flash floods and suddenly the sky clears for September. Mid-90s, chance of thunder and 100% likelihood that you will smell like pesticides until the crops have all been harvested.
We will probably all die someday from a pesticide-borne disease that causes our brains to multiply within out skulls until we have so many thoughts going through our many minds that we go mad and all implode. Our gravestones will appear on all organic produce labeling companies as a reminder that "only crazies would choose non-organic food." Or something like that...
But fresh-cut alfalfa still smells like hope on the horizon, no matter how desolate your fishbowl life might appear. Someday the crops will leave that little town and all the dreamers will follow.
And follow I did... to wild blackberries. To picking thorns out of my jeans late in the summer. There is rain here, but never thunder. Never any proof of God's power and strength. Storms should shake the ground. Just as blackberries should always be soft and beautiful.
Unfortunately for some of life's greater beauties, there is no chance for coexistence.
These are the thoughts that keep me from sleeping.
But alas, it is Christmas morning! I still have no parental units within a thousand mile radius and there are no thunderstorms... but in the back of the freezer there is a small bag of wild blackberries. Frozen and frost-covered, waiting for their chance to escape and become something bigger in this world.
I empathize all too much.
blackberries or alfalfa.
See, blackberries are God's way of reminding me that I'll never have to worry about going hungry again because there are still a few things Corporate America can't steal and things the government can't tax. The first time I ate blackberries in the wild was an act of defiance to my mother. I broke all the rules. There was no sink to wash the berries, there was no careful inspection for spiders or razor blades or ominous implements of destruction as was with the annual paranoid Halloween traditions.
Granted, I had no parental units within at least a thousand mile radius, but even so, unwashed blackberries could lead to the swallowing of a spider that would manifest in my brain and cause an incurable, undetectable disease that, upon my death, would go airborne and cause an outbreak of plague, leaving me constantly on the run in the afterlife.
My headstone would serve as a warning for small children who would grow up terrified of eating berries.
Alfalfa has less tragic connotations, at least in regards to health. No, that's probably a lie. See, farmtowns have little to offer beyond farms and county fairs that double as class reunions. But every September, alfalfa is God's way of saying "I still hear you." Because August comes crashing down with black-sky thunderstorms, 108 degree fading summer nights, flash floods and suddenly the sky clears for September. Mid-90s, chance of thunder and 100% likelihood that you will smell like pesticides until the crops have all been harvested.
We will probably all die someday from a pesticide-borne disease that causes our brains to multiply within out skulls until we have so many thoughts going through our many minds that we go mad and all implode. Our gravestones will appear on all organic produce labeling companies as a reminder that "only crazies would choose non-organic food." Or something like that...
But fresh-cut alfalfa still smells like hope on the horizon, no matter how desolate your fishbowl life might appear. Someday the crops will leave that little town and all the dreamers will follow.
And follow I did... to wild blackberries. To picking thorns out of my jeans late in the summer. There is rain here, but never thunder. Never any proof of God's power and strength. Storms should shake the ground. Just as blackberries should always be soft and beautiful.
Unfortunately for some of life's greater beauties, there is no chance for coexistence.
These are the thoughts that keep me from sleeping.
But alas, it is Christmas morning! I still have no parental units within a thousand mile radius and there are no thunderstorms... but in the back of the freezer there is a small bag of wild blackberries. Frozen and frost-covered, waiting for their chance to escape and become something bigger in this world.
I empathize all too much.
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