I swear on all that is holy, my downstairs neighbor goes drunk bowling in his bedroom at least three times a week. It'll be like one or two in the morning and then I hear this SLAM!! so forceful it shakes the ground.
I don't know if he'd tripping and falling, if his arm hits the wall or what. But it shakes my floor. And most of the time, scares the CRAP out of me because it sounds like someone's breaking in to my house, which of course translates immediately into my dreams so I don't sleep well for the rest of the night and if I do, I have really bad dreams of people breaking in to my house and whatnot.
I suppose it's not that big of a change though, considering I already have a fair amount of unprovoked nightmares on my own. Pretty sure that's about 80% of what contributes to my insomnia. Even if I *could* fall asleep, I wouldn't stay asleep so just stay up until you're tired enough to pass out for the remainder of the night.
But first, I have to put new sheets on my bed.
Stupid human trick #42: how to tell if the milk in your cereal bowl is getting warm? Spill it all over yourself while sitting on your bed.
yeah. genius.
My heart is still pounding. I'm so damn sick of my neighbors. If I say anything to the one who makes all the noise, he just starts pounding on the ceiling any time he hears ANYTHING from my apartment (I mean as little as accidentally dropping a shoe on the ground.) The other roommate isn't too bad, but in order to ask him to keep his roommate in check, I have to risk the loud one answering the door. I've had it out with them enough times to know his roommate is a passive aggressive ass who will only play his radio louder and longer into the night if I complain to him directly than if I just put up with the jolting slams and bangs several times a month. When our leases are up, someone will be moving. I love my apartment, but if I have to live above this guy for another year.... I'm gonna be a bitch and buy a pogo stick. ;)
distraction distraction distraction.
I'm afraid to fall asleep. What a wimp. But it's either that or proofread this entry for AP Style, dead construction and passive voice. And really, that's worse than a nightmare. ;) I've actually refused to buy greeting cards because I couldn't get past the grammar. It was proper, but not for a newspaper.
I have the /weirdest/ damn occupational hazards.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Midnight Confections
are better than midnight confessions.
However, when combined, you get Little Debbie brownies and this
"And yet, I find myself constantly at his mercy with just a smile."
I've noticed a theme in this blog where I seem to talk incessantly about love. I've got six blogs. None of the other five are as embarrassingly mushy as this one. I keep telling myself it's just a phase and I'll grow out of it.
I got a "Save the date" card from one of my friends today. We went to college together. She sent out this giant postcard covered in pictures of her and her fiance with a story about them written on the back. It was utterly adorable.
And made em immediately think "I want to be happy in life..."
But the funny thing is, I am happy. I guess I just want a variety of happy.
I'm selfish. ;)
I don't know if there's something in the air or the water or what, but four of my friends have gotten married just since November.
For the last few weeks I've had THREE bouquets sitting in vases on my stove. It was pretty funny.
I was talking to a friend today about marriage and our hopes and fears, etc and I told her I've come to the strangest conclusion recently.
I've surrendered my heart to God and decided not to worry about love anymore. In that, if I'm meant to be married, I'm content to wait for the right one and not go out and seek losers in a bar or fill out surveys on websites. But if I'm not meant to be married, it's okay. Because I've already had the greatest love of my life thus far. And even though it ended several years ago, it was still the most I've ever been in love and if that's the closest I'll ever get, I'm okay with that. Because it's not every day that you fall completely and entirely head over heels in love.
I trip and stumble over guys all the time. One friend asked me once why I bother having crushes that never go anywhere or why I'm not mad about having crushes on guys who don't like me back. She said their lack of fruition made the entire ordeal a complete waste of time. And all I could really think to say was,
imagine if every time a certain guy walked past you, he made you smile. If every time he spoke your name, you fell apart. If every time you were near him, your stomach was consumed with thousands of butterflies and you struggled to not choke in response to his casual hello. Is being that happy really waste of time because it doesn't lead to another happiness?
Why can't certain kinds of happy leave us feeling content?
But I guess we're all a little selfish that way. ;) It's embarrassing to admit but, I love the way I feel when my heart flutters and my cheeks burn.
Mainly, I want someone to cook waffles for.
I don't own a waffle iron but if I did, I'd wear dresses, dance to Bobby Darin and make every Saturday morning feel a little bit more like heaven.
I wonder if God ever gets butterflies in His stomach...
"And yet, I find myself constantly at his mercy with just a smile."
I've noticed a theme in this blog where I seem to talk incessantly about love. I've got six blogs. None of the other five are as embarrassingly mushy as this one. I keep telling myself it's just a phase and I'll grow out of it.
I got a "Save the date" card from one of my friends today. We went to college together. She sent out this giant postcard covered in pictures of her and her fiance with a story about them written on the back. It was utterly adorable.
And made em immediately think "I want to be happy in life..."
But the funny thing is, I am happy. I guess I just want a variety of happy.
I'm selfish. ;)
I don't know if there's something in the air or the water or what, but four of my friends have gotten married just since November.
For the last few weeks I've had THREE bouquets sitting in vases on my stove. It was pretty funny.
I was talking to a friend today about marriage and our hopes and fears, etc and I told her I've come to the strangest conclusion recently.
I've surrendered my heart to God and decided not to worry about love anymore. In that, if I'm meant to be married, I'm content to wait for the right one and not go out and seek losers in a bar or fill out surveys on websites. But if I'm not meant to be married, it's okay. Because I've already had the greatest love of my life thus far. And even though it ended several years ago, it was still the most I've ever been in love and if that's the closest I'll ever get, I'm okay with that. Because it's not every day that you fall completely and entirely head over heels in love.
I trip and stumble over guys all the time. One friend asked me once why I bother having crushes that never go anywhere or why I'm not mad about having crushes on guys who don't like me back. She said their lack of fruition made the entire ordeal a complete waste of time. And all I could really think to say was,
imagine if every time a certain guy walked past you, he made you smile. If every time he spoke your name, you fell apart. If every time you were near him, your stomach was consumed with thousands of butterflies and you struggled to not choke in response to his casual hello. Is being that happy really waste of time because it doesn't lead to another happiness?
Why can't certain kinds of happy leave us feeling content?
But I guess we're all a little selfish that way. ;) It's embarrassing to admit but, I love the way I feel when my heart flutters and my cheeks burn.
Mainly, I want someone to cook waffles for.
I don't own a waffle iron but if I did, I'd wear dresses, dance to Bobby Darin and make every Saturday morning feel a little bit more like heaven.
I wonder if God ever gets butterflies in His stomach...
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Til Death do us Part
I've had my fish Picasso for a little over three years now. That's officially longer than any boy I've ever been romantically attached to.
My fish is very consistent, very predictable in his behaviour and for as utterly ridiculous as it may sound, I love him and I believe if fish are capable of love, he loves me too.
We tend to have the same sleep schedule, which means I should have been asleep 2 hours ago. It's 2:45 in the morning. Fortunately I don't have to work until later in the afternoon. Regardless, I can't sleep. Because I'm worried about my fish. I've been worried about him for weeks now and I don't know if he's getting better.
I can tell his mood by the way he swims, the color of his scales (blue = happy, red = sad) and I can generally tell when he's sleeping. However, he's been sleeping at the top of his bowl lately and I'm terrified I'm going to wake up one of these mornings and find him dead.
Which might not sound like much of a big deal to many people because "he's just a fish" but I talk to him on a regular basis and even as I type this, there is a lipstick print on his fishbowl from where he swims up to get kisses from me. I'm sure on some level, I've entirely redefined "pathetic" but to hell with it.
I've been giving him his special medicine for a week but the water seems suddenly very cloudy today. According to the medicine instructions, I'm scheduled to change his water out tomorrow anyway and then settle into "the waiting game" to see if his fins will grow back or if time will finally take its toll.
I feel like the most humiliatingly childish excuse of a pathetic loser because, while most girls my age are dragging themselves home from bars and sorting through piles of phone numbers from hot guys, I'm at home in fuzzy monkey print pajama pants and a hoodie whispering to a fishbowl and crying because his tail fin drags when he swims and right now he only has use of his two, very small side fins and I wonder if there's something I did to cause him to get sick andhave his fins start to atrophy and more than anything, I wonder if he's in pain.
Maybe he doesn't care because he's a fish. Maybe he can't even feel pain and this is all a waste of flustered emotions.
Just 3 degrees farenheit in either direction is enough to kill him. I worry about the current weather and our nighttime lows, I worry about how much my electric bill will be when it finally arrives because we had a record freezing winter and I turned my heater on not to save me but my fish. I know it's pathetic, but I live alone and I need SOMETHING to love. Some reason to say "It actually matters if I don't come home tonight."
I woke him up and he swam aroudn for about 5 minutes and now he's back in the same spot as before.
And I just realized... he's looking at me. maybe he's sleepy.
Maybe /he/ can't sleep because he can tell I'M upset and he's worried about me too...?
When we moved to Olympia 2 years ago, he was really mad at me for about a week and a half until I put up a picture of the captiol building so he oculd see where I worked.
He's looking *right* at me right now.
I don't want to go to sleep because I have this horrible feelinghe might die.
But if he's waiting for me to fall asleep so he can go peacefully, maybe I'm just making things harder.
There's something different about his eyes. They aren't focusing on anything and they're a different color and holy crap almighty! Who the HELL stays up all ngiht blogging online about their FISH?
I'm such a loser.
I should probably just go to bed. I've already said my good-byes to him several times this week. But tonight, I'm especially scared to sleep. Maybe I've been to too many funerals and I'm paranoid about death.
Or maybe I know it so well that I can see it coming...
*sigh*
you're a loser, beck. this is why you're not married. you're in love with a fish...
My fish is very consistent, very predictable in his behaviour and for as utterly ridiculous as it may sound, I love him and I believe if fish are capable of love, he loves me too.
We tend to have the same sleep schedule, which means I should have been asleep 2 hours ago. It's 2:45 in the morning. Fortunately I don't have to work until later in the afternoon. Regardless, I can't sleep. Because I'm worried about my fish. I've been worried about him for weeks now and I don't know if he's getting better.
I can tell his mood by the way he swims, the color of his scales (blue = happy, red = sad) and I can generally tell when he's sleeping. However, he's been sleeping at the top of his bowl lately and I'm terrified I'm going to wake up one of these mornings and find him dead.
Which might not sound like much of a big deal to many people because "he's just a fish" but I talk to him on a regular basis and even as I type this, there is a lipstick print on his fishbowl from where he swims up to get kisses from me. I'm sure on some level, I've entirely redefined "pathetic" but to hell with it.
I've been giving him his special medicine for a week but the water seems suddenly very cloudy today. According to the medicine instructions, I'm scheduled to change his water out tomorrow anyway and then settle into "the waiting game" to see if his fins will grow back or if time will finally take its toll.
I feel like the most humiliatingly childish excuse of a pathetic loser because, while most girls my age are dragging themselves home from bars and sorting through piles of phone numbers from hot guys, I'm at home in fuzzy monkey print pajama pants and a hoodie whispering to a fishbowl and crying because his tail fin drags when he swims and right now he only has use of his two, very small side fins and I wonder if there's something I did to cause him to get sick andhave his fins start to atrophy and more than anything, I wonder if he's in pain.
Maybe he doesn't care because he's a fish. Maybe he can't even feel pain and this is all a waste of flustered emotions.
Just 3 degrees farenheit in either direction is enough to kill him. I worry about the current weather and our nighttime lows, I worry about how much my electric bill will be when it finally arrives because we had a record freezing winter and I turned my heater on not to save me but my fish. I know it's pathetic, but I live alone and I need SOMETHING to love. Some reason to say "It actually matters if I don't come home tonight."
I woke him up and he swam aroudn for about 5 minutes and now he's back in the same spot as before.
And I just realized... he's looking at me. maybe he's sleepy.
Maybe /he/ can't sleep because he can tell I'M upset and he's worried about me too...?
When we moved to Olympia 2 years ago, he was really mad at me for about a week and a half until I put up a picture of the captiol building so he oculd see where I worked.
He's looking *right* at me right now.
I don't want to go to sleep because I have this horrible feelinghe might die.
But if he's waiting for me to fall asleep so he can go peacefully, maybe I'm just making things harder.
There's something different about his eyes. They aren't focusing on anything and they're a different color and holy crap almighty! Who the HELL stays up all ngiht blogging online about their FISH?
I'm such a loser.
I should probably just go to bed. I've already said my good-byes to him several times this week. But tonight, I'm especially scared to sleep. Maybe I've been to too many funerals and I'm paranoid about death.
Or maybe I know it so well that I can see it coming...
*sigh*
you're a loser, beck. this is why you're not married. you're in love with a fish...
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Queen of the broken
I should have been in bed hours ago.
If I were smart, I wouldn't be typing right now.
But alas, I am a slave to my art and have been cursed with incurable writer's disease.
People say a lot of things about me. One friend recently told me that reading my blogs (on another of my sites) is like reading prose. Or rather, that I only write my blogs /in/ prose. Another friend teased me about my use of old school html coding.
More than any of these, Friday night, I was hanging out with some people from work with whom I am friendly and one of them looked at me and announced to the whole room that all I ever blog about (on the other aforementioned site) is how much I "hate" guys and he called me a man-hater. Some of the people at the gathering had never met me before so this was a possibly formative statement in regard to their first impression of me.
To say I was deeply hurt would be a tragically understated response. I was pissed. Mortified. Humiliated. ... Crushed. For as much as some guys have put me through in my life, it's a miracle I want to even consider dating a logical pass time EVER. Granted, I'm not trying to currently date anyone, but that's an entirely separate story.
So I've been dealing with that wound in the midst of a sudden flurry of broken hearts among my circle of girlfriends. If I had a dollar for every time someone has asked me "Why doesn't he love me?" within the last seven days, I swear I'd have enough money to fly out to every guy's house and kick their asses. AND still have money left over to bail me out of jail for assault. ;)
Seriously though, what is happening in the universe that this centrifugal forces is pulling all these hearts into the epicenter of some sort of storm where the only survival is through tears and brokenness? What is with all these guys suddenly turning cold and uncaring? Why are so many of my friends falling victim to the backside of Love's swift hand.
Moreover, why are they coming to ME for help? ME for advice? ME to fix their problems, cheer them up, renew their faith?
I hold a guy's attention about as well as "President" Bush held the nation's popular vote his last year in office.
I should be curled up in bed with my husband and two cats while our child sleeps soundly in the next room and we wonder how we ever got so lucky. But instead, he's asleep with his new wife and the puppy and cat they got together. I should be fast asleep dreaming about sugarplum fairies and happily ever after and for some reason, I keep having this horrible recurring dream about my ex boyfriend and his new girlfriend's wedding. And I've been dreaming about this for nearly TWO WEEKS now. It's bloody ridiculous!
And yet, I get text messages, "why doesn't he love me?" emails "I love him so much. Why won't he treat me the same?" and late night visits from teary-eyed friends asking "Why isn't God listening to me? Why can't I walk away from him? Why won't he love me back?"
You are asking a CHAMPION OF FAILURE to tell you how to succeed.
Where on earth is the logic in that?
Don't get me wrong, I /love/ my friends to death and I would do anything to help them. But you can't logically ask a blind man to read to you. Therefore, what is with this standing assumption that I have any idea how to /succeed/ at affairs of the heart?
For my next magic trick, I'm going to pull a teenage of act insolence and say "I blame my parents." More specifically, my mother. See, mom taught me one-sided love. Love is a gift. When you gift a gift, you're supposed to give a gift you'd like to receive. Additionally, you should never give a gift with any expectations of receiving anything in return. You give a give "of the heart" (no pun intended) simply because it gives you joy to offer something to someone else. "
As is with heart strings, I give all the love I would want to receive from someone, I love without expecting to be loved in return and I have no regrets when my list of unrequited love affairs becomes longer than Santa's "to-do" list in November.
What makes me an expert at "advising" affairs of the heart? What makes me even seem like a logical resource?
The teary-eyed friend in my bedroom tonight shrugged and said "I dunno... you... listen. And you have really weird analogies that make me laugh."
I wonder if this sudden influx doesn't involve some not-so-hidden message that God is trying to reveal to me.
I have become the Queen of Broken Hearts. They flock to my like I can mend their wings. Like I can command gravity. Like I could get a guy for /myself/....
*sigh*
I've come to terms with my lot in life and I've decided I can still be happy, even if no one ever wants to marry me. This is the root fear of every woman. We are powerless to its effects.
But what qualifies ME?
What is it, God, that you expect of me? Why do you have me continually fail and sit in humiliation as I seek love and this guy who doesn't even KNOW me labels me an "unfair man-hater" while I sit idly by, pretending it's not hopeless to keep dreaming?
The truth is, I have every right to be a "man-hater." I have every good reason to turn inward, grow cold-hearted and turn only evil glances toward prospective lovers. None of my friends would think less of me. In fact, they'd probably say it's been a long time comin'.
But if I did that, I would have no gifts left to give anyone. Who wants to put a bow on hate? Not me. And it's not something I'd ever want to receive, despite how many times it's arrived on my doorstep.
I don't know why his stupidly flippant comment matters enough to make me cry.
But I suppose there are a lot of things I don't understand tonight.
Hey God, if you're still listening...have all my chances really passed on by? I don't want to be dreaming in vain.
If I were smart, I wouldn't be typing right now.
But alas, I am a slave to my art and have been cursed with incurable writer's disease.
People say a lot of things about me. One friend recently told me that reading my blogs (on another of my sites) is like reading prose. Or rather, that I only write my blogs /in/ prose. Another friend teased me about my use of old school html coding.
More than any of these, Friday night, I was hanging out with some people from work with whom I am friendly and one of them looked at me and announced to the whole room that all I ever blog about (on the other aforementioned site) is how much I "hate" guys and he called me a man-hater. Some of the people at the gathering had never met me before so this was a possibly formative statement in regard to their first impression of me.
To say I was deeply hurt would be a tragically understated response. I was pissed. Mortified. Humiliated. ... Crushed. For as much as some guys have put me through in my life, it's a miracle I want to even consider dating a logical pass time EVER. Granted, I'm not trying to currently date anyone, but that's an entirely separate story.
So I've been dealing with that wound in the midst of a sudden flurry of broken hearts among my circle of girlfriends. If I had a dollar for every time someone has asked me "Why doesn't he love me?" within the last seven days, I swear I'd have enough money to fly out to every guy's house and kick their asses. AND still have money left over to bail me out of jail for assault. ;)
Seriously though, what is happening in the universe that this centrifugal forces is pulling all these hearts into the epicenter of some sort of storm where the only survival is through tears and brokenness? What is with all these guys suddenly turning cold and uncaring? Why are so many of my friends falling victim to the backside of Love's swift hand.
Moreover, why are they coming to ME for help? ME for advice? ME to fix their problems, cheer them up, renew their faith?
I hold a guy's attention about as well as "President" Bush held the nation's popular vote his last year in office.
I should be curled up in bed with my husband and two cats while our child sleeps soundly in the next room and we wonder how we ever got so lucky. But instead, he's asleep with his new wife and the puppy and cat they got together. I should be fast asleep dreaming about sugarplum fairies and happily ever after and for some reason, I keep having this horrible recurring dream about my ex boyfriend and his new girlfriend's wedding. And I've been dreaming about this for nearly TWO WEEKS now. It's bloody ridiculous!
And yet, I get text messages, "why doesn't he love me?" emails "I love him so much. Why won't he treat me the same?" and late night visits from teary-eyed friends asking "Why isn't God listening to me? Why can't I walk away from him? Why won't he love me back?"
You are asking a CHAMPION OF FAILURE to tell you how to succeed.
Where on earth is the logic in that?
Don't get me wrong, I /love/ my friends to death and I would do anything to help them. But you can't logically ask a blind man to read to you. Therefore, what is with this standing assumption that I have any idea how to /succeed/ at affairs of the heart?
For my next magic trick, I'm going to pull a teenage of act insolence and say "I blame my parents." More specifically, my mother. See, mom taught me one-sided love. Love is a gift. When you gift a gift, you're supposed to give a gift you'd like to receive. Additionally, you should never give a gift with any expectations of receiving anything in return. You give a give "of the heart" (no pun intended) simply because it gives you joy to offer something to someone else. "
As is with heart strings, I give all the love I would want to receive from someone, I love without expecting to be loved in return and I have no regrets when my list of unrequited love affairs becomes longer than Santa's "to-do" list in November.
What makes me an expert at "advising" affairs of the heart? What makes me even seem like a logical resource?
The teary-eyed friend in my bedroom tonight shrugged and said "I dunno... you... listen. And you have really weird analogies that make me laugh."
I wonder if this sudden influx doesn't involve some not-so-hidden message that God is trying to reveal to me.
I have become the Queen of Broken Hearts. They flock to my like I can mend their wings. Like I can command gravity. Like I could get a guy for /myself/....
*sigh*
I've come to terms with my lot in life and I've decided I can still be happy, even if no one ever wants to marry me. This is the root fear of every woman. We are powerless to its effects.
But what qualifies ME?
What is it, God, that you expect of me? Why do you have me continually fail and sit in humiliation as I seek love and this guy who doesn't even KNOW me labels me an "unfair man-hater" while I sit idly by, pretending it's not hopeless to keep dreaming?
The truth is, I have every right to be a "man-hater." I have every good reason to turn inward, grow cold-hearted and turn only evil glances toward prospective lovers. None of my friends would think less of me. In fact, they'd probably say it's been a long time comin'.
But if I did that, I would have no gifts left to give anyone. Who wants to put a bow on hate? Not me. And it's not something I'd ever want to receive, despite how many times it's arrived on my doorstep.
I don't know why his stupidly flippant comment matters enough to make me cry.
But I suppose there are a lot of things I don't understand tonight.
Hey God, if you're still listening...have all my chances really passed on by? I don't want to be dreaming in vain.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Lay Me Down
A song can supposedly "take you back" in time...
Tonight it had suddenly and unexpectedly taken me back to 2001.
I didn't think it was that big of a deal. But the last three minutes have been the longest and most uncomfortable I've felt in a very long time.
My stomach is churning. Like when you drink a glass of cold milk in the summertime and then go outside to play.
You're fine for a minute or two and then you realize you probably made a very bad mistake.
Sometimes I'm amazed at the power songs can have on our lives.
Although I suppose there could be worse things in life... like actually /being/ back in 2001.
*sigh*
There are some moments I think I will spend the rest of my life anticipating. Not all of them are happy.
People think I stand so tall and brave. And yet, all it takes is one mistaken identity of a stranger on a street and I crumble to dust. I have mastered the "Happy" poker face in all possible emergency situations. I'm not brave. I'm just a fabulous actress. ;)
They say these things fade with time.
But they never say how much...
Tonight it had suddenly and unexpectedly taken me back to 2001.
I didn't think it was that big of a deal. But the last three minutes have been the longest and most uncomfortable I've felt in a very long time.
My stomach is churning. Like when you drink a glass of cold milk in the summertime and then go outside to play.
You're fine for a minute or two and then you realize you probably made a very bad mistake.
Sometimes I'm amazed at the power songs can have on our lives.
Although I suppose there could be worse things in life... like actually /being/ back in 2001.
*sigh*
There are some moments I think I will spend the rest of my life anticipating. Not all of them are happy.
People think I stand so tall and brave. And yet, all it takes is one mistaken identity of a stranger on a street and I crumble to dust. I have mastered the "Happy" poker face in all possible emergency situations. I'm not brave. I'm just a fabulous actress. ;)
They say these things fade with time.
But they never say how much...
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Wistful Spinster
"Beauty is not caused. It is."
-Emily Dickinson
It's these damned insomniac nights that keep me awake all lovelorn and pathetic.
These cold winter nights with too-quiet re-run tv shows streaming online, reminding me of when I was young enough to dream of being beautiful and foolish enough to hope for fairytale romances.
I spent decades waiting to be beautiful. This morning, I left the house wishing I could be invisible. And of course, everyone I didn't want to see saw me. But then again, I suppose that was bound to happen if I didn't want anyone to see me anyway....
Beauty is so ridiculous. Though not as much as love. Tonight I threw away a bottle of perfume from someone I once loved. Someone who swore they'd devote their life to my joy, their days to mine, someone who told me he loved me so much he couldn't be without me.
It almost makes me wonder where he is tonight...
It's just perfume. A logical part of my brain said "There are starving children in Africa and you're throwing away perfectly usable perfume." Meanwhile the sensible part of my brain said "Why would you possibly want a reminder of something that stopped making you smile years ago?"
And the "me" side of me said "Oh for FUCK'S sake just throw the damn thing away already and stop reverting to childhood packrat psychological defects!"
I know it's just perfume. It wasn't ever one I really loved anyway. And yet, for some reason it still matters. Long after he did. Funny how that works.
My mom keeps referring to me as being 30. She's only off by 2 years and four months. But it might as well be the same thing, I suppose. lol
I spent the last four days sick in bed with nothing to do but watch movies. I never realized how embarrassingly romantic-comedytastic my movie collection is. I like mushy love stories. I'll never admit it with pride, but they get all the lives I'll never live.
Me? I stay up past midnight every night, writing poetry writing in journals, writing in blogs... I burn candles that remind me of a boy I once dated. Probably the one thing I loved the very most about his was that he always had candles by his bed. He used to read to me by candlelight and I remember thinking I was greatly missing out on one of the best things in life.
I had dozens of candles. I was just too chicken to ever burn them because if I did, I might not have any left, should the opportunity arise whereupon I could read by candlelight and someone would think me beautiful and romantic.
What the hell is so important about romance anyway? I wonder sometimes if God created it to enrich us or drive us all mad! ;)
the man int the too-quiet tv show is talking above the darkness of this night.
"I've had The Great Romance of my life... and I've had the pain the pain that comes when you lose it. I'm not anxious to go through that again."
I wonder if Emily Dickinson would agree or if she would think it worse to be a lovelorn spinster.
I'll likely never see again the boy for whom I burn so many candles. I doubt, in the times I cross his mind, that it would ever ocurr to him I still write about him. He never bought me perfume, he wasn't the great romance and it was pretty much doomed to fail from the start.
But he was beauty, in every way.
How he stood, how he talked, how he breathed, how he looked into my eyes and filled my chest with a thousand spastic butterflies, desperate to make their escape. He is without a doubt the most beautiful person I've ever known.
And just like the seasons, I will never see an autmn like him again.
Well, my lungs feel like my long-absent asthma is creeping back in and I'm just rambling.
It's about time this poor candle got some rest and my mind drifted elsewhere for a while.
"If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain."
-Dickinson
-Emily Dickinson
It's these damned insomniac nights that keep me awake all lovelorn and pathetic.
These cold winter nights with too-quiet re-run tv shows streaming online, reminding me of when I was young enough to dream of being beautiful and foolish enough to hope for fairytale romances.
I spent decades waiting to be beautiful. This morning, I left the house wishing I could be invisible. And of course, everyone I didn't want to see saw me. But then again, I suppose that was bound to happen if I didn't want anyone to see me anyway....
Beauty is so ridiculous. Though not as much as love. Tonight I threw away a bottle of perfume from someone I once loved. Someone who swore they'd devote their life to my joy, their days to mine, someone who told me he loved me so much he couldn't be without me.
It almost makes me wonder where he is tonight...
It's just perfume. A logical part of my brain said "There are starving children in Africa and you're throwing away perfectly usable perfume." Meanwhile the sensible part of my brain said "Why would you possibly want a reminder of something that stopped making you smile years ago?"
And the "me" side of me said "Oh for FUCK'S sake just throw the damn thing away already and stop reverting to childhood packrat psychological defects!"
I know it's just perfume. It wasn't ever one I really loved anyway. And yet, for some reason it still matters. Long after he did. Funny how that works.
My mom keeps referring to me as being 30. She's only off by 2 years and four months. But it might as well be the same thing, I suppose. lol
I spent the last four days sick in bed with nothing to do but watch movies. I never realized how embarrassingly romantic-comedytastic my movie collection is. I like mushy love stories. I'll never admit it with pride, but they get all the lives I'll never live.
Me? I stay up past midnight every night, writing poetry writing in journals, writing in blogs... I burn candles that remind me of a boy I once dated. Probably the one thing I loved the very most about his was that he always had candles by his bed. He used to read to me by candlelight and I remember thinking I was greatly missing out on one of the best things in life.
I had dozens of candles. I was just too chicken to ever burn them because if I did, I might not have any left, should the opportunity arise whereupon I could read by candlelight and someone would think me beautiful and romantic.
What the hell is so important about romance anyway? I wonder sometimes if God created it to enrich us or drive us all mad! ;)
the man int the too-quiet tv show is talking above the darkness of this night.
"I've had The Great Romance of my life... and I've had the pain the pain that comes when you lose it. I'm not anxious to go through that again."
I wonder if Emily Dickinson would agree or if she would think it worse to be a lovelorn spinster.
I'll likely never see again the boy for whom I burn so many candles. I doubt, in the times I cross his mind, that it would ever ocurr to him I still write about him. He never bought me perfume, he wasn't the great romance and it was pretty much doomed to fail from the start.
But he was beauty, in every way.
How he stood, how he talked, how he breathed, how he looked into my eyes and filled my chest with a thousand spastic butterflies, desperate to make their escape. He is without a doubt the most beautiful person I've ever known.
And just like the seasons, I will never see an autmn like him again.
Well, my lungs feel like my long-absent asthma is creeping back in and I'm just rambling.
It's about time this poor candle got some rest and my mind drifted elsewhere for a while.
"If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain."
-Dickinson
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
The truth is,
You're not something I need.
You're not something I want.
You're not something I miss.
One of these statements is a lie.
I'm working on it...
In the meantime, there's something powerfully therapeutic about ripping apart once beautiful dresses that never fit you right and sewing them back together until you would think it was only ever created with you in mind.
I'd like to take credit and say I'm a masterful seamstress but that would probably be a load of crap.
I can only attribute my successes to the fact that I know what all the rules are and I know exactly how to bend and break them to my good favor.
I used to work in television but being beautiful professionally was too hard.
I wait until no one is looking. Until there are no witnesses, no photos, no documented proof that I could be every bit as graceful as Audrey Hepburn, and then I let go.
I dance like no one's watching, sing like I'm the opening act for the Superbowl half-time, cook like I'm better than the perfect integration of wholesome Donna Reed and powerful Martha Stewart.
I spend all day speaking simple language, trying to mask my thoughts, my daydreams, my aspirations.
I go to work, spend the day pushing my glasses up my nose and coming up with ridiculous analogies as to why you CAN'T just shove a knife into the cd drive slot of your laptop (seriously???) and all my customers laugh and ask me how long it took me to memorize the training manual's many informative analogies because I had it perfected. I always feel slightly ashamed and a tiny bit proud when I tell them I came up with all those silly stories on my own.
Someone asked me on the phone yesterday how I even thought to come up with these stories and I told him simply "In high school, there were some tough guys who didn't understand poetry. My English teacher asked me to help them and somehow I was able to relate John Donne to an intake manifold and they all passed the class." I'm sure my English teacher had no idea what kind of impact he would come to have on my life.
It seems of all my teachers, the ones I had for English have left the deepest impacts in my daily life. Larry was probably by far, my favorite. He was my English 102 professor. I used to bring my poetry and song lyrics to him after class and he would always ask me "what do you plan to do with this?"
Writing for the sake of writing leaves no goal to accomplish and therefore gives you nothing to focus on or rate your level of success.
My purpose for this blog is to see if anyone hears me without my having to make noise.
But more than that, I have a blog for my personal bullshit. I have a blog for my silly anecdotes to entertain my friends. I have a blog that I can visit when I just need to escape.
But at the end of the day, there's still sometimes a bit leftover that doesn't fit into any of the rest.
A jaded dreamer, too stubborn to give up but too weak to keep caring. I am tied to my dreams as much as I am to my faith in people. I want to give up. I want to walk away. Lately, I've even wanted to walk away from God. I've come to understand all too well what some of my friends consider "those Christian people" to be. I've had enough of the condescending "I'm praying for you" form strangers who don't know me or anything about me, I'm done with the "It's all in God's time" cookie fortune and I'm done believing in things that I will likely never see.
Which is not to say I am unappreciative of love or happiness. Heaven knows I'm just about the most hopeless romantic that ever existed. But in the midst of it all, I've surrendered the fantasy that someone will fall madly in love with me, tell me they can't live without me in their life, get down on one knee and ask me to give them a chance to love me for the rest of my life.
I will probably come to own a lot of cats in my life.
And maybe I was only ever meant to write about love, not dwell in it myself.
I suppose I could handle that.... with some degree of annoyance. lol
I'm incapable of surviving on little girl dreams anymore.
I want something real and something lasting or I want nothing at all.
And who knows, maybe I'll meet someone in six months and have to eat crow on this post. But if happiness is punishment that's quite alright with me.
In the meantime, I sew beautiful dresses to dance in while I cook dinner for one and hope that someday it will matter.
My heart is a garden of beauty and secrets.
The problem lies in convincing you a dandelion is not a weed.
You're not something I want.
You're not something I miss.
One of these statements is a lie.
I'm working on it...
In the meantime, there's something powerfully therapeutic about ripping apart once beautiful dresses that never fit you right and sewing them back together until you would think it was only ever created with you in mind.
I'd like to take credit and say I'm a masterful seamstress but that would probably be a load of crap.
I can only attribute my successes to the fact that I know what all the rules are and I know exactly how to bend and break them to my good favor.
I used to work in television but being beautiful professionally was too hard.
I wait until no one is looking. Until there are no witnesses, no photos, no documented proof that I could be every bit as graceful as Audrey Hepburn, and then I let go.
I dance like no one's watching, sing like I'm the opening act for the Superbowl half-time, cook like I'm better than the perfect integration of wholesome Donna Reed and powerful Martha Stewart.
I spend all day speaking simple language, trying to mask my thoughts, my daydreams, my aspirations.
I go to work, spend the day pushing my glasses up my nose and coming up with ridiculous analogies as to why you CAN'T just shove a knife into the cd drive slot of your laptop (seriously???) and all my customers laugh and ask me how long it took me to memorize the training manual's many informative analogies because I had it perfected. I always feel slightly ashamed and a tiny bit proud when I tell them I came up with all those silly stories on my own.
Someone asked me on the phone yesterday how I even thought to come up with these stories and I told him simply "In high school, there were some tough guys who didn't understand poetry. My English teacher asked me to help them and somehow I was able to relate John Donne to an intake manifold and they all passed the class." I'm sure my English teacher had no idea what kind of impact he would come to have on my life.
It seems of all my teachers, the ones I had for English have left the deepest impacts in my daily life. Larry was probably by far, my favorite. He was my English 102 professor. I used to bring my poetry and song lyrics to him after class and he would always ask me "what do you plan to do with this?"
Writing for the sake of writing leaves no goal to accomplish and therefore gives you nothing to focus on or rate your level of success.
My purpose for this blog is to see if anyone hears me without my having to make noise.
But more than that, I have a blog for my personal bullshit. I have a blog for my silly anecdotes to entertain my friends. I have a blog that I can visit when I just need to escape.
But at the end of the day, there's still sometimes a bit leftover that doesn't fit into any of the rest.
A jaded dreamer, too stubborn to give up but too weak to keep caring. I am tied to my dreams as much as I am to my faith in people. I want to give up. I want to walk away. Lately, I've even wanted to walk away from God. I've come to understand all too well what some of my friends consider "those Christian people" to be. I've had enough of the condescending "I'm praying for you" form strangers who don't know me or anything about me, I'm done with the "It's all in God's time" cookie fortune and I'm done believing in things that I will likely never see.
Which is not to say I am unappreciative of love or happiness. Heaven knows I'm just about the most hopeless romantic that ever existed. But in the midst of it all, I've surrendered the fantasy that someone will fall madly in love with me, tell me they can't live without me in their life, get down on one knee and ask me to give them a chance to love me for the rest of my life.
I will probably come to own a lot of cats in my life.
And maybe I was only ever meant to write about love, not dwell in it myself.
I suppose I could handle that.... with some degree of annoyance. lol
I'm incapable of surviving on little girl dreams anymore.
I want something real and something lasting or I want nothing at all.
And who knows, maybe I'll meet someone in six months and have to eat crow on this post. But if happiness is punishment that's quite alright with me.
In the meantime, I sew beautiful dresses to dance in while I cook dinner for one and hope that someday it will matter.
My heart is a garden of beauty and secrets.
The problem lies in convincing you a dandelion is not a weed.
Midnight Confessions
Fine, I admit it.
I didn't by earth-friendly toilet bowl cleaner.
I've struggled with this decision for two days now and here's the thing: if I'm going to be dealing with germs in the most vile and disgusting fixture in my house, I want the germs dead... not smelling like organic coconut and tea tree oil. Yes, I'm sure it is better for Mother Nature but it doesn't kill germs. And it's not like I'm bleaching everything in my house or using only harsh chemicals to clean. I use oxyclean and grew up on simple green to the point that the smell of it instantly causes flashbacks to Southern California in the mid-eighties.
I grew up in a family that valued recycling, we crushed eggshells and mixed them with coffee grounds and used it to fertilize plants. I've been good for nearly 28 years. My mom raised me well.
But she also said bleach is the only thing that really kills germs and well, this is pretty much the most important seat in the house to keep clean. I spent 45 minutes on the phone with my mom a few months back while she googled the main ingredients as I tried to determine which eco-conscious dishwasher detergent I should buy and it had been 2 year since I'd even run OUT of dishwasher soap. I'm not flippant about natural resources.
Sometimes I can't sleep at night because I know people around the world aren't recycling.
I called my best friend en route to Hawai'i to ask her if it was wrong of me to buy a 50-bag box of trash bags or a 45-bag box at the same price, but made from 65% post-consumer products. In the end, I realized five bags was being selfish and I went with the recycled ones... and then had a lovely conversation with a fairly cute boy who was looking for eco-friendly paper towels and we had a brief but pleasant chat about how the recycled brand toilet paper was potentially not really as good as it seemed because it was 1-ply and therefore would probably be used up faster by the average American and thus, buying the 24 pack of MD that was on sale might not be recycled materials but you would use less than the other one.
I have the weirdest conversations with strangers.
I discussed my toilet cleaning dilemma with my grocery checker (whose line I wind up in every time for the last 3+ years... she's awesome)
and she said I should focus more on the fact that I was buying trash bags for the first time in THREE years. I told her I'd been surviving off a 90-bag supply that my friends (the previous tenants) had left behind but they had already been using the supply for a few months before I moved in. She said I should still be proud of myself because that meant I was recycling enough that I didn't need to take out as much trash.
Even still, I felt bad about the cleaner so I crunched a few numbers on the trash side and figured, say there were 80 bags when I moved in. Over three years, that averages out to filling approximately 2.2 trash bags per month. Which is really about as often as I take out my trash. Not because I am lazy, but because it generally takes that long to fill it. And I don't take out the trash if the bag is only half full.
So I suppose on judgement day, God might be able to overlook the fact that I had a germ-free toilet and show grace and mercy upon my other attempts to keep his planet clean.
besides, isn't cleanliness supposed to be next to godliness? ;)
I made acorn squash tonight and when only a thin rind was left I felt bad about throwing it away and once again wished I had some sort of compost container. They might have one at the University up the street. You know, I just realized at this very moment that I live immediately across from the University's recycling center.
I wonder if that subconsciously adds to my concern. lol
These are the thoughts that keep me up at night...
I didn't by earth-friendly toilet bowl cleaner.
I've struggled with this decision for two days now and here's the thing: if I'm going to be dealing with germs in the most vile and disgusting fixture in my house, I want the germs dead... not smelling like organic coconut and tea tree oil. Yes, I'm sure it is better for Mother Nature but it doesn't kill germs. And it's not like I'm bleaching everything in my house or using only harsh chemicals to clean. I use oxyclean and grew up on simple green to the point that the smell of it instantly causes flashbacks to Southern California in the mid-eighties.
I grew up in a family that valued recycling, we crushed eggshells and mixed them with coffee grounds and used it to fertilize plants. I've been good for nearly 28 years. My mom raised me well.
But she also said bleach is the only thing that really kills germs and well, this is pretty much the most important seat in the house to keep clean. I spent 45 minutes on the phone with my mom a few months back while she googled the main ingredients as I tried to determine which eco-conscious dishwasher detergent I should buy and it had been 2 year since I'd even run OUT of dishwasher soap. I'm not flippant about natural resources.
Sometimes I can't sleep at night because I know people around the world aren't recycling.
I called my best friend en route to Hawai'i to ask her if it was wrong of me to buy a 50-bag box of trash bags or a 45-bag box at the same price, but made from 65% post-consumer products. In the end, I realized five bags was being selfish and I went with the recycled ones... and then had a lovely conversation with a fairly cute boy who was looking for eco-friendly paper towels and we had a brief but pleasant chat about how the recycled brand toilet paper was potentially not really as good as it seemed because it was 1-ply and therefore would probably be used up faster by the average American and thus, buying the 24 pack of MD that was on sale might not be recycled materials but you would use less than the other one.
I have the weirdest conversations with strangers.
I discussed my toilet cleaning dilemma with my grocery checker (whose line I wind up in every time for the last 3+ years... she's awesome)
and she said I should focus more on the fact that I was buying trash bags for the first time in THREE years. I told her I'd been surviving off a 90-bag supply that my friends (the previous tenants) had left behind but they had already been using the supply for a few months before I moved in. She said I should still be proud of myself because that meant I was recycling enough that I didn't need to take out as much trash.
Even still, I felt bad about the cleaner so I crunched a few numbers on the trash side and figured, say there were 80 bags when I moved in. Over three years, that averages out to filling approximately 2.2 trash bags per month. Which is really about as often as I take out my trash. Not because I am lazy, but because it generally takes that long to fill it. And I don't take out the trash if the bag is only half full.
So I suppose on judgement day, God might be able to overlook the fact that I had a germ-free toilet and show grace and mercy upon my other attempts to keep his planet clean.
besides, isn't cleanliness supposed to be next to godliness? ;)
I made acorn squash tonight and when only a thin rind was left I felt bad about throwing it away and once again wished I had some sort of compost container. They might have one at the University up the street. You know, I just realized at this very moment that I live immediately across from the University's recycling center.
I wonder if that subconsciously adds to my concern. lol
These are the thoughts that keep me up at night...
Sunday, January 4, 2009
You are not invincible.
There comes a time in life when we must all face our downfalls. Admit to ourselves the fact that we will get shut off notices from the electric company, the love of our life loves someone else and a college degree really only takes up space on the shelf as we spent cold winter Sundays wondering where we went wrong on the yellow brick road to happily ever after.
But the most crushing of all humiliating blows is this:
No matter how many years go by, no matter how smart you are, how strong you grow, how wise you become or how tough you think you might be
there is no expiration upon which hot pink towels will stop bleeding into your whites in the washing machine.
Fortunately I have an eccentric enough of a wardrobe that people probably won't even notice.
Nevertheless, I admit defeat. Life can be so unfair.
*tragic sigh*
But the most crushing of all humiliating blows is this:
No matter how many years go by, no matter how smart you are, how strong you grow, how wise you become or how tough you think you might be
there is no expiration upon which hot pink towels will stop bleeding into your whites in the washing machine.
Fortunately I have an eccentric enough of a wardrobe that people probably won't even notice.
Nevertheless, I admit defeat. Life can be so unfair.
*tragic sigh*
Take a Chance on Me...
The abridged version:
I told my hairstylist one of my "New Year's Resolutions" was to let her do absolutely anything to my hair that she wanted. Any cut, any style, any color. Well, okay not quite. No baldies and no mohawks. She said "dammit!" to the mohawk. Going bald isn't even considering getting a haircut in my book, though. It's more of a cop out; hair to no hair. You can't do anything with nothing and no hair is definitely not something that can be worked with.
As for the mokawk, I'm pretty sure I'd get in a lot of trouble at work, even though all my work is done with customers over the phone. But still, I'd rather not rock the boat there any more than I do just by existing and being different. *rolls eyes*
So anyway, I went in Friday afternoon, January 2nd and said "let's do it."
There's a long explanation as to why I chose this adventure but I'm tired of retelling it so we'll skip it for now and get to the happy ending.
I literally had a crowd of people watching me the entire time, whispering and making sarcastic comments in attempt to scare me about the fate of my hair. Unfortunately for them, I love my stylist and trust her implicitly so even when I felt massive chunks of hair falling from my head I could only think "wow. I can't WAIT to see what she's doing!" Because the deal was, if I were to trust her with this, I couldn't peek or see anything until she was completely done. Surprisingly, it was a lot easier to keep my eyes closed for an hour and a half than I expected. lol
And of course, I loved the end result. However, I didn't expect quite the reaction I got from my friends.
I posted the photos on two of my other blogs and to say they were "ecstatic" would be a severe understatement. Most responded with "HOLY SHIT!" and it eventually downgraded to a string of repeated "WOW!" and eventually ending with "that's SO YOU!"
What strikes me as the most amusing is that I had nothing to do with the process or results. I thought it was hilarious that, without knowing it, my stylist, Jen, picked a shade of red almost identical to how I had my hair back in college when I lived in Arizona. some people have never seen the color on me and found it radically different, while other saw it as a bit of "return to self."
One of the latter friends made a comment that stuck with me all last night and has left me full of thought this morning.
"You're like my own personal Madonna! I love the before AND after! I love how you are always changing your look but it is always so you!"
On surface value, nothing she said is entirely significant beyond complimentary admiration. Deeper than that, though, I've noticed a commonality in my friends over the last two years commenting on the "versatility" of my physical identity. And I say "identity" rather than "appearance" because I seem to have achieved a "look" that I am apparently known for, and yet, it's a look that seems ever-evolving.
Not that this is any attempt to focus attention on me by any means. I guess part of me is still a little surprised to hear words like "inspiring" "ever-changing" and "wild" when friends talk about me. When Megan got married a week ago, she told me my hair could be whatever I wanted for the wedding and cited her reasons that "I never know what color your hair is going to be or what you will look like when I see you and that's one of the things I love about you most."
In April, I had a layover in San Fransisco and called one of my old college buddies to see if she could meet me for a while. Her only response was "Who should I look for? I never know what your hair will look like and I might walk right past you!" And of course it was funny and I've heard the same sentiment from so many other friends but after a while, it's caused me to do a bit of self reflection.
Some people are constantly changing because they want to be someone else. Some people change because they hate what they are and some people change because that's just how they were created to be.
I'm not entirely sure who I am. I am not immune to the effects of the media in a beauty-driven society but I by no means dislike my looks or what God created me to be. It would be nice to be two inches taller, have nails that don't chip so easily, a natural tan etc etc, but it would also be nice to meet the love of my life in the organic whole foods section of the Fred Meyer, share a cup of tea and find a winning lottery ticket on the way home. But But God is not a movie producer and violins don't start playing every time I daydream about my crush of the week. *rolls eyes*
For me, it lies more in that I looked exactly the same for so many years that I became both fearful of change and incapable of recognizing an opportunity to grow. Because change /should/ be growth. I spent years in high school trying to paint myself pretty, to no avail. You can paint a house fifty different colors, but that won't change the shape of the house. But that doesn't stop you from changing the landscaping, stucco to shingles, and... I have no idea where I'm trying to go with this metaphor.
Being a teenager sucks. You'll pretty much always think you're fat and ugly no matter what you look like. But eventually you realize physical appearance is only the exterior of who you are. It can become you or you can use it to show what's inside. I spent so much of my teenage years terrified of the world that I was afraid to take chances. I had panic attacks if I couldn't find the exact brand of toothpaste I was used to. Not just brand, but it had to be the specific type with the same labels and pictures on the boxes because in my inverted universe, the wrong kind of toothpaste could someday cause time paradox that could end all human existence. Or at least my own. lol
I think my only real "personal" fear left is the possibility that I will grow complacent with myself. With my gifts, my talents, my my appearance and as an artist, my desire to create. Jen is inspired through the free will I give her whenever she does my hair and I in turn am inspired to do more with my wardrobe, make up and hairstyles. Somehow this translates to inspiration to my friends.
I don't really see how I play a factor in their inspiration but what right do I have to tell someone I don't actually make a difference to them?
Yesterday I got an email from a 20 year old girl whom I've known since she was even born. She had commented on some of my pieces of artwork and some of my activism photography and in her email, said I gave her "a whisper of courage."
I cannot take credit for whatever it is she feels through my art. I've never failed to admit I didn't choose the path of photography. God grabbed me one day and said "DETOUR!! try this instead." I had no camera, I had no talent and one day, I literally woke up as a professional in the field. It would be a sin not to create the images I see in my head.
More often than not, life inspires my art. And somehow from there, my art seems to inspire others. This is a phenomenon that never ceases to amaze me. I've had friends and old coworkers call me on the phone to excitedly tell me they saw a photo in a newspaper and they instantly knew it was mine because it had my "style" and it was that style that showed the artist before they read the byline. Honestly, I couldn't ask for a greater compliment than to have my creations recognized because they reflect me first.
I suppose in a bigger picture, you could add a spiritual twist and say God's greatest compliment is to have his created people recognized as his work without them having to say "I'm a Christian." I've thought many times about God personified as an equal artist and really, the only thought that comes to mind is "seriously, what's up with the Giraffe??"
Quite possibly one of the most awkward animals God has ever created. Perhaps that leads in to why I love them so much... I relate a little too well? lol
A whisper of courage... what would that even sound like? I have no idea what my art means to her but when I read her message I immediately thought of the Jana Stanfield song "If I were Brave"
What if we're all meant to do what we secretly dream?
I told my hairstylist one of my "New Year's Resolutions" was to let her do absolutely anything to my hair that she wanted. Any cut, any style, any color. Well, okay not quite. No baldies and no mohawks. She said "dammit!" to the mohawk. Going bald isn't even considering getting a haircut in my book, though. It's more of a cop out; hair to no hair. You can't do anything with nothing and no hair is definitely not something that can be worked with.
As for the mokawk, I'm pretty sure I'd get in a lot of trouble at work, even though all my work is done with customers over the phone. But still, I'd rather not rock the boat there any more than I do just by existing and being different. *rolls eyes*
So anyway, I went in Friday afternoon, January 2nd and said "let's do it."
There's a long explanation as to why I chose this adventure but I'm tired of retelling it so we'll skip it for now and get to the happy ending.
I literally had a crowd of people watching me the entire time, whispering and making sarcastic comments in attempt to scare me about the fate of my hair. Unfortunately for them, I love my stylist and trust her implicitly so even when I felt massive chunks of hair falling from my head I could only think "wow. I can't WAIT to see what she's doing!" Because the deal was, if I were to trust her with this, I couldn't peek or see anything until she was completely done. Surprisingly, it was a lot easier to keep my eyes closed for an hour and a half than I expected. lol
And of course, I loved the end result. However, I didn't expect quite the reaction I got from my friends.
I posted the photos on two of my other blogs and to say they were "ecstatic" would be a severe understatement. Most responded with "HOLY SHIT!" and it eventually downgraded to a string of repeated "WOW!" and eventually ending with "that's SO YOU!"
What strikes me as the most amusing is that I had nothing to do with the process or results. I thought it was hilarious that, without knowing it, my stylist, Jen, picked a shade of red almost identical to how I had my hair back in college when I lived in Arizona. some people have never seen the color on me and found it radically different, while other saw it as a bit of "return to self."
One of the latter friends made a comment that stuck with me all last night and has left me full of thought this morning.
"You're like my own personal Madonna! I love the before AND after! I love how you are always changing your look but it is always so you!"
On surface value, nothing she said is entirely significant beyond complimentary admiration. Deeper than that, though, I've noticed a commonality in my friends over the last two years commenting on the "versatility" of my physical identity. And I say "identity" rather than "appearance" because I seem to have achieved a "look" that I am apparently known for, and yet, it's a look that seems ever-evolving.
Not that this is any attempt to focus attention on me by any means. I guess part of me is still a little surprised to hear words like "inspiring" "ever-changing" and "wild" when friends talk about me. When Megan got married a week ago, she told me my hair could be whatever I wanted for the wedding and cited her reasons that "I never know what color your hair is going to be or what you will look like when I see you and that's one of the things I love about you most."
In April, I had a layover in San Fransisco and called one of my old college buddies to see if she could meet me for a while. Her only response was "Who should I look for? I never know what your hair will look like and I might walk right past you!" And of course it was funny and I've heard the same sentiment from so many other friends but after a while, it's caused me to do a bit of self reflection.
Some people are constantly changing because they want to be someone else. Some people change because they hate what they are and some people change because that's just how they were created to be.
I'm not entirely sure who I am. I am not immune to the effects of the media in a beauty-driven society but I by no means dislike my looks or what God created me to be. It would be nice to be two inches taller, have nails that don't chip so easily, a natural tan etc etc, but it would also be nice to meet the love of my life in the organic whole foods section of the Fred Meyer, share a cup of tea and find a winning lottery ticket on the way home. But But God is not a movie producer and violins don't start playing every time I daydream about my crush of the week. *rolls eyes*
For me, it lies more in that I looked exactly the same for so many years that I became both fearful of change and incapable of recognizing an opportunity to grow. Because change /should/ be growth. I spent years in high school trying to paint myself pretty, to no avail. You can paint a house fifty different colors, but that won't change the shape of the house. But that doesn't stop you from changing the landscaping, stucco to shingles, and... I have no idea where I'm trying to go with this metaphor.
Being a teenager sucks. You'll pretty much always think you're fat and ugly no matter what you look like. But eventually you realize physical appearance is only the exterior of who you are. It can become you or you can use it to show what's inside. I spent so much of my teenage years terrified of the world that I was afraid to take chances. I had panic attacks if I couldn't find the exact brand of toothpaste I was used to. Not just brand, but it had to be the specific type with the same labels and pictures on the boxes because in my inverted universe, the wrong kind of toothpaste could someday cause time paradox that could end all human existence. Or at least my own. lol
I think my only real "personal" fear left is the possibility that I will grow complacent with myself. With my gifts, my talents, my my appearance and as an artist, my desire to create. Jen is inspired through the free will I give her whenever she does my hair and I in turn am inspired to do more with my wardrobe, make up and hairstyles. Somehow this translates to inspiration to my friends.
I don't really see how I play a factor in their inspiration but what right do I have to tell someone I don't actually make a difference to them?
Yesterday I got an email from a 20 year old girl whom I've known since she was even born. She had commented on some of my pieces of artwork and some of my activism photography and in her email, said I gave her "a whisper of courage."
I cannot take credit for whatever it is she feels through my art. I've never failed to admit I didn't choose the path of photography. God grabbed me one day and said "DETOUR!! try this instead." I had no camera, I had no talent and one day, I literally woke up as a professional in the field. It would be a sin not to create the images I see in my head.
More often than not, life inspires my art. And somehow from there, my art seems to inspire others. This is a phenomenon that never ceases to amaze me. I've had friends and old coworkers call me on the phone to excitedly tell me they saw a photo in a newspaper and they instantly knew it was mine because it had my "style" and it was that style that showed the artist before they read the byline. Honestly, I couldn't ask for a greater compliment than to have my creations recognized because they reflect me first.
I suppose in a bigger picture, you could add a spiritual twist and say God's greatest compliment is to have his created people recognized as his work without them having to say "I'm a Christian." I've thought many times about God personified as an equal artist and really, the only thought that comes to mind is "seriously, what's up with the Giraffe??"
Quite possibly one of the most awkward animals God has ever created. Perhaps that leads in to why I love them so much... I relate a little too well? lol
A whisper of courage... what would that even sound like? I have no idea what my art means to her but when I read her message I immediately thought of the Jana Stanfield song "If I were Brave"
What if we're all meant to do what we secretly dream?
What would you ask, if you knew you could have anything?
Like the mighty oak sleeps, in the heart of a seed,
are there miracles in you and me?
If I were brave, I'd walk the razor's edge,
where fools and dreamers dare to tread.
I'd never lose faith, even when losing my way.
What step would I take today, if I were brave?
Particularly the first line, what if I really am supposed to live out my dreams? What if I'm meant to be as happy as I seek, to create as much beauty as I attempt to make and to love as many people as I'm afraid to admit carry weight in my heart?
What would happen if we said everything we truly felt and attempted everything we were afraid of failing? I bet we could flip this world on its head. :)
Until then, I suppose the most I can do is keep screaming my dreams through the lens of a camera and hoping people still hear me. A man in a grocery store once told me that my hair was my beauty and to cut it would destroy the best of what I am.
But he was wrong. My beauty comes from within. My face is only a momentary snapshot of million possibilities I can be.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Epic.
Three thousand nine-hundred and forty-one kids (or what felt like it) gathered around the television last night to shout the countdown from 15 seconds to the dropping of the ball.
Then as if we were in a movie, for possibly the first time in my entire life, I witnessed the entire room burst into singing Auld Lange... whatever that song is they sing at midnight. I'm too lazy to look up the spelling. Sue me.
From there, it was an exodus of bodies migrating from bedrooms and kitchens into the living room where everyone was hugging and kissing each other. Then, slowly, as lips were still parting, this quiet chant fell over the group and began to grow in strength and volume.
"19 days... 19 days.... 19 days.. NINETEEN DAYS!"
Fists shook in the air, glasses lifted and emptied into smiling mouths as it became undeniably evident that "secret voter ballots" aren't very secret at all.
More than drinking, more than celebrating the dawning of a new year full of resolutions to be nicer and lose weight, more than mourning the loss of the people you failed to properly love, pounds you couldn't shed and number of times you lit up a cigarette anyway despite previous resolutions, my politically charged friends chose to celebrate the historical changing of the guards on January 20.
It's hard not to fall in love with people so impassioned.
I finally fell asleep around 4am with tangled hair, smudged eyeliner and hopes of remembering more about 2009 than I did in 2008.
I dreamed I was in charge of making $300 worth of peach tea (brewing sun tea and mashing hundreds of peaches) for the wedding of a friend whom I undoubtedly expect to become engaged this year. I was elected to be the tea maker, florist and photographer.
I am taking this psychological mutation to imply that I have been in too many weddings recently, I work entirely too much and I work entirely too much.
In 2007, I remember shooting photos last new year's ever of bands that were performing, shooting photos for a Valentine's day theatre show and it being pointed out that I didn't have a date. I don't remember anything about March except that my roommate was supposed to move out and then decided to stay until the end of the month. April, I turned 27 and immediately took off for a week in Mexico after my premonition about my abuelo dying came true. I don't remember Ma or June, though I'm sure I have photos documenting whatever I did. I spent the 4th of July weekend working photo shoots, I spent August helping my boyfriend pack as he prepared to move to Italy, sent him off in September and I spent from then through December playing flute at football games, volleyball games, orchestral christmas company partyness and in between all that, I've been playing hockey.
Sometimes the only place I feel at peace is on the rink with a stick in my hands and a guy twice my size charging at me.
January holds a lot of dreams, hopes and fears for me. a project I've been working on since about March of last year will finally either come to fruition or fail completely. It makes me sad to think I could work so hard on something and still have my efforts fall on deaf ears again, but as my grandfather said "dress like them, talk like them, tell them your great ideas and if they don't listen, give up and leave."
This is not to sound pessimistic or passive aggressive but merely an acceptance that sometimes you can't change things drenched in apathy. I talked to my grandfather for 2 hours today and at one point, upon telling him my plans for the year he said "Are you hearing what you're saying? You're not happy. you should meet my friend at work. She's a little younger than you and
shes a lot like you... Really really intelligent, really really bright and really realy wasting her time."
I've been in this town almost seven years now. That's a frighteningly long time to stay in one place despite the 15 moves in between. And like I told him, this is a beautiful town, I love the local culture of art, I love my friends and I love everything I am able to do here but eventually you hit a plateau. I hit mine in 2006. My heart left and I never got it back. Over the last few months, my mind has been in search of my heart and it's only a matter of time now before my body finally follows.
I wouldn't mind staying longer if I were getting married and settling down with a family but let's face it, I have a better chance of winning an award for curing cancer than I do of getting a guy to marry me again. Which is not to say all is lost in the love department but I grow weary of watching prince after prince turn into frogs. If marriage and family was my only lifelong dream, I could understand parking at a roadside stand and increasing my search. But I was made for more than that.
My life is over as soon as I get that ring and stroller. Who I am as an individual ceases to exist. And that's a fine exchange for when I'm /ready/ to give that up.
Like Bridget Jones said, "I'm not willing to gamble my life on someone who's not quite sure. I'm still looking for something... more extrordinary than that."
There was a time when I was content to live with a Ring Pop proposal and a goldfish named William was enough for me to desire. All of my "someday"s drifted into a sea of what could have been and I was left with a pile of dirty laundry and dinner that always needed cooking.
In a world that's supposedly "raining men" all I seem to find is overcast skies. I know what's out there, I know what I'm capable of finding and capable of becoming. It's been five years since I saw a real honest-to-God lighting and thunderstorm. There are some things this town just can't offer me anymore. And there are some things in life I can't live without.
This year brings a lot of uncertainty on my part, but I've noticed when you follow a calling, it rarely comes with roadmaps.
And so I trek forward, sifting through my own laundry and own dinner to fill my belly. Maybe there's still a Mark Darcy out there waiting to stumble upon the diary in my nightstand drawer. Maybe the most I'll ever get is a selection of overcast skies.
Regardless, I made a promise to myself in 2003 that I'd never again settle with my dreams or self-worth. I've walked this tightrope for a year and found myself giving up more and more each day. I'd rather face failure dead-on than spend another year daydreaming about what I could do "if given the chance."
This life is my only chance.
Eleanor Roosevelt once said "Do one thing every day that scares you."
It's only day one and I'm already scared shitless.
Life is still beautiful, you jsut have to see it fromt he right angle. :)
Then as if we were in a movie, for possibly the first time in my entire life, I witnessed the entire room burst into singing Auld Lange... whatever that song is they sing at midnight. I'm too lazy to look up the spelling. Sue me.
From there, it was an exodus of bodies migrating from bedrooms and kitchens into the living room where everyone was hugging and kissing each other. Then, slowly, as lips were still parting, this quiet chant fell over the group and began to grow in strength and volume.
"19 days... 19 days.... 19 days.. NINETEEN DAYS!"
Fists shook in the air, glasses lifted and emptied into smiling mouths as it became undeniably evident that "secret voter ballots" aren't very secret at all.
More than drinking, more than celebrating the dawning of a new year full of resolutions to be nicer and lose weight, more than mourning the loss of the people you failed to properly love, pounds you couldn't shed and number of times you lit up a cigarette anyway despite previous resolutions, my politically charged friends chose to celebrate the historical changing of the guards on January 20.
It's hard not to fall in love with people so impassioned.
I finally fell asleep around 4am with tangled hair, smudged eyeliner and hopes of remembering more about 2009 than I did in 2008.
I dreamed I was in charge of making $300 worth of peach tea (brewing sun tea and mashing hundreds of peaches) for the wedding of a friend whom I undoubtedly expect to become engaged this year. I was elected to be the tea maker, florist and photographer.
I am taking this psychological mutation to imply that I have been in too many weddings recently, I work entirely too much and I work entirely too much.
In 2007, I remember shooting photos last new year's ever of bands that were performing, shooting photos for a Valentine's day theatre show and it being pointed out that I didn't have a date. I don't remember anything about March except that my roommate was supposed to move out and then decided to stay until the end of the month. April, I turned 27 and immediately took off for a week in Mexico after my premonition about my abuelo dying came true. I don't remember Ma or June, though I'm sure I have photos documenting whatever I did. I spent the 4th of July weekend working photo shoots, I spent August helping my boyfriend pack as he prepared to move to Italy, sent him off in September and I spent from then through December playing flute at football games, volleyball games, orchestral christmas company partyness and in between all that, I've been playing hockey.
Sometimes the only place I feel at peace is on the rink with a stick in my hands and a guy twice my size charging at me.
January holds a lot of dreams, hopes and fears for me. a project I've been working on since about March of last year will finally either come to fruition or fail completely. It makes me sad to think I could work so hard on something and still have my efforts fall on deaf ears again, but as my grandfather said "dress like them, talk like them, tell them your great ideas and if they don't listen, give up and leave."
This is not to sound pessimistic or passive aggressive but merely an acceptance that sometimes you can't change things drenched in apathy. I talked to my grandfather for 2 hours today and at one point, upon telling him my plans for the year he said "Are you hearing what you're saying? You're not happy. you should meet my friend at work. She's a little younger than you and
shes a lot like you... Really really intelligent, really really bright and really realy wasting her time."
I've been in this town almost seven years now. That's a frighteningly long time to stay in one place despite the 15 moves in between. And like I told him, this is a beautiful town, I love the local culture of art, I love my friends and I love everything I am able to do here but eventually you hit a plateau. I hit mine in 2006. My heart left and I never got it back. Over the last few months, my mind has been in search of my heart and it's only a matter of time now before my body finally follows.
I wouldn't mind staying longer if I were getting married and settling down with a family but let's face it, I have a better chance of winning an award for curing cancer than I do of getting a guy to marry me again. Which is not to say all is lost in the love department but I grow weary of watching prince after prince turn into frogs. If marriage and family was my only lifelong dream, I could understand parking at a roadside stand and increasing my search. But I was made for more than that.
My life is over as soon as I get that ring and stroller. Who I am as an individual ceases to exist. And that's a fine exchange for when I'm /ready/ to give that up.
Like Bridget Jones said, "I'm not willing to gamble my life on someone who's not quite sure. I'm still looking for something... more extrordinary than that."
There was a time when I was content to live with a Ring Pop proposal and a goldfish named William was enough for me to desire. All of my "someday"s drifted into a sea of what could have been and I was left with a pile of dirty laundry and dinner that always needed cooking.
In a world that's supposedly "raining men" all I seem to find is overcast skies. I know what's out there, I know what I'm capable of finding and capable of becoming. It's been five years since I saw a real honest-to-God lighting and thunderstorm. There are some things this town just can't offer me anymore. And there are some things in life I can't live without.
This year brings a lot of uncertainty on my part, but I've noticed when you follow a calling, it rarely comes with roadmaps.
And so I trek forward, sifting through my own laundry and own dinner to fill my belly. Maybe there's still a Mark Darcy out there waiting to stumble upon the diary in my nightstand drawer. Maybe the most I'll ever get is a selection of overcast skies.
Regardless, I made a promise to myself in 2003 that I'd never again settle with my dreams or self-worth. I've walked this tightrope for a year and found myself giving up more and more each day. I'd rather face failure dead-on than spend another year daydreaming about what I could do "if given the chance."
This life is my only chance.
Eleanor Roosevelt once said "Do one thing every day that scares you."
It's only day one and I'm already scared shitless.
Life is still beautiful, you jsut have to see it fromt he right angle. :)
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