tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16438043129664983422024-03-18T21:07:07.756-07:00Shiny Things and the Random RedheadJust a place for this redhead to post her random thoughts, odd food cravings, and newest "ooh, shiny!" moments. Oh, and to rant about one particular co-worker from the Great White North.Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-32924833613872169302010-02-25T22:04:00.000-08:002010-02-25T23:14:34.593-08:00Clicky, clicky, whee!I'm trying to dust off this blog. (The keyword here being "trying".) So, in lieu of words, I'm totally going to picspam y'all with some of the photos I've taken in the last 2 years. Some of these are the most viewed (and sometimes I wonder, "why?") and some of these are just favourites of mine because ... well, because.<br /><br />Without further ado, images.<br /><br />(And, damn. I meant to pick, like, 10. Uhm, not so much.)<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3606899954/" title="Congress Created Dust Bowl by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3371/3606899954_24cf01f04f.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="Congress Created Dust Bowl" /></a><br />This image, by far, has received the most views on my Flickr stream.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/4013286135/" title="IMG_3712.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2587/4013286135_24273e24db.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="IMG_3712.CR2" /></a><br />This is a close third. (From the Nomeansno show at The Knitting Factory.)<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/4014073892/" title="IMG_3819.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3509/4014073892_4cea44d919.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="IMG_3819.CR2" /></a><br />Same show, and I think my favourite from the night.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3623271089/" title="_MG_1926.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3600/3623271089_e1440ed8a2.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_1926.CR2" /></a><br />I don't know why, but I think this? I love. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3397262167/" title="_MG_8245.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3276/3397262167_817633f25a.jpg" width="500" height="286" alt="_MG_8245.CR2" /></a><br />This one just makes me giggle, on so many levels. (You had to be there.)<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3454576519/" title="_MG_8706.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3314/3454576519_e338a2211e.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_8706.CR2" /></a><br />One of my nearest and dearest friends. I think I like this one so much because there is just so much of *her* in the eyes.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3699958525/" title="_MG_3239.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2613/3699958525_b41d0b6dd5.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_3239.CR2" /></a><br />This weekend was full of so much joy, and happiness, and tears. And it was pretty much summed up when Becca walked down the aisle, with her black parasol, and laughed. And then? Another one of my best friends, her now-husband, cried at the sight of her. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/4202620590/" title="IMG_4348.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2717/4202620590_1ac1f1139c.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="IMG_4348.CR2" /></a><br />I am happy, nay, joyful, to see that a dance troupe that I was a co-founder of is still alive and kicking. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3398145268/" title="_MG_8031.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3427/3398145268_e811ea3092.jpg" width="320" height="500" alt="_MG_8031.CR2" /></a><br />I think I love this one because G looks *so.damn.serious*. Personally, I think he was trying to not faint. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/4202608480/" title="IMG_4234.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2559/4202608480_0581fc103e.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="IMG_4234.CR2" /></a><br />Again, alive and kicking.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3606425629/" title="t[df] dancing goodbye by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3661/3606425629_99d196bbfe.jpg" width="500" height="349" alt="t[df] dancing goodbye" /></a><br />This one I like, and makes me tear-up every time, because the night this photo was taken was at a very sad event. But I caught Sarah and her partner in a moment of pure bliss, and love. Dancing. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3545167324/" title="_MG_1481.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2440/3545167324_f206b72e3f.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_1481.CR2" /></a><br />Another one of my nearest and dearest friends. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3397372191/" title="_MG_8069.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3456/3397372191_c49b6daa15.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_8069.CR2" /></a><br />What can I say? I'm a fan of blue.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3538346052/" title="_MG_1257.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3396/3538346052_4f2abd71a7.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_1257.CR2" /></a><br />The colours! The light! (And, dude, he's just purdy.)<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/4202598692/" title="IMG_4114.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2772/4202598692_bde9fdbf8d.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="IMG_4114.CR2" /></a><br />High-flying ass. (Both the shot, and the man. MUAH Mish. Love you, mean it.)<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3653025214/" title="_MG_2614.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3304/3653025214_444044e901.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_2614.CR2" /></a><br />I love reflections. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3397206105/" title="_MG_8097.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3583/3397206105_2af7a05614.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_8097.CR2" /></a><br />Mmm, candles.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3484812675/" title="_MG_9968.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3378/3484812675_1428c5a2f5.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_9968.CR2" /></a><br />I love the sand. How you can create something right there, in the moment, and then erase it. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3544626837/" title="_MG_1909 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2446/3544626837_e18e92134b.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="_MG_1909" /></a><br />The hair!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3417858602/" title="_MG_8379.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3639/3417858602_e6a3df5372.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_8379.CR2" /></a><br />Random bits of jewelry, on a box. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3653613750/" title="_MG_2634.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3648/3653613750_a7c56f3c88.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_2634.CR2" /></a><br />Yeah. I do the same thing. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3653022908/" title="_MG_2483.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3309/3653022908_9252e27468.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_2483.CR2" /></a><br />Flying hair!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3447105814/" title="_MG_8628.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3563/3447105814_fff9134db2.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_8628.CR2" /></a><br />I r not amuzed. Feedz me, beeotch.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3500562794/" title="_MG_1322 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3348/3500562794_de3f89afe6.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="_MG_1322" /></a><br />YAY! Blue!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3484944651/" title="IMG_0090 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3405/3484944651_4c2b2bf4a2.jpg" width="500" height="333" alt="IMG_0090" /></a><br />Dancing feet ... <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3706834876/" title="_MG_3088.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2605/3706834876_5e0866573b.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="_MG_3088.CR2" /></a><br />I guess I love black and white. (And it is also forgiving of many mistakes.)<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/4265579244/" title="IMG_5292.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2691/4265579244_027229d484.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="IMG_5292.CR2" /></a><br />What can I say? I like cemeteries. <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/4230943390/" title="IMG_4655.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2797/4230943390_03b84371ea.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="IMG_4655.CR2" /></a><br />Red, White, and ... BLUE!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3972979743/" title="IMG_4746 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2635/3972979743_1fca443ace.jpg" width="398" height="500" alt="IMG_4746" /></a><br />Walking, walking, walking ...<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/4014034810/" title="IMG_3591.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2523/4014034810_cd01979cf4.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="IMG_3591.CR2" /></a><br />More hair!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/4264825111/" title="IMG_5243.CR2 by AnniThyme, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4019/4264825111_196ef3346d.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="IMG_5243.CR2" /></a>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-44064058394841879862010-02-23T18:46:00.000-08:002010-02-23T18:49:22.694-08:00Pitter patter, pitter patter<p>Drip, drip, drip.<br /> I hear it, once again.<br /><br /> In each falling drop.<br /> It is felt.<br /><br /><em>“Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain …”<br /></em><br /> Drip, drip, drip.<br /> Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.<br /><br /> Drip, plop. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.<br /> ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Plop, drip.<br /> ______________________________<br /><br /><em>“ … let me be alone again …”</em><br /> ______________________________<br /><br /> “Do you want more rice, or more beans?”<br /><br /> One year, three years, ten years, later … <br /><br /> … that is the question that Dad asks me. <br /><br /> Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle.<br /> ______________________________<br /><br /> The flank steak juices fall.<br /> Drip, drip, fzzz.<br /><br /> “Do you want more rice, or more beans?”<br /><em><span> </span><br /> “ … but little does she know that when she left that day, she took my heart …” </em><br /> ______________________________</p> <p>Stepping out of my room I smell it again.<br /><br /> Fat, rendering. Juicy, on the grill.<br /><br /> Drip, drip, drip.<br /> Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle.<br /><br /> A broken man, flipping sustenance on the grill for his broken girl.<br /> ______________________________<br /><br /> The smell tempts me.<br /><br /> I think it tempts you too … <br /> ______________________________<br /><span> </span><br /> “Ann Marie, you need to eat.” (<em>I think he is telling me I need to live.)</em><br /><br /> “Yeah, I guess I am hungry.” <em>(I try to tell him the same</em>.) <br /> ______________________________<br /><br /> Bleary eyed, and sad, you turn to me, facing away from the grill. <br /><br /> “Would you like seconds?” (<em>I think you are trying to say, “I love you”.</em>)<br /><br /> “Yes. I would. Thank you.” (<em>I think I am trying to say, “I love you” back.</em>) <br /><br /> We look at each other, hiding emotions. Eyes and hearts hidden. You scrape the grill, I scrape the plate. And we continue on, silent in our suffering. Forks scraping our plates, saying what we cannot say to each other. <br /> _________________________________________<br /><br /> Over the weekend, we listen to music, forgetting our unspoken “grill” conversation. <br /><br /> You turn up the volume dial on the radio. <br /><em><br /> “ … looking for a brand new start …”<br /><br /></em>Each of us smile, finally making eye contact. And then go back to our plates, knives and forks digging in.<br /> _________________________________________</p> <p><em>Drip, drip, drip.<br /> Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.<br /></em><br /> I sit, alone, in my room. As you do, in your own. <br /><br /><em>“ … rain, please tell me now, does that seem fair …”<br /></em><br /> Listening. Listening to the “drip-drip” of the rain.<br /><br /> Stepping out of my room, I flash back.<br /> Dinners cooked.<br /><br /> Stepping out of your room, you flash back.<br /> Dinners cooked.<br /><br /> Our eyes meet, and we turn back … heads bowed down. <br /> _________________________________________<br /><br /> “ <em>… pitter-patter, pitter-patter …”</em><br /><br /> The pitter is the patter of steak, and fat … <br /><br /> … falling to the coals.<br /> _________________________________________</p> <p>Pitter … the scrape of a knife on the plate.<br /><br /> Patter … the throwing of that same knife on a plate.<br /><br /> Pitter-patter … the sound of loss, and anger, being thrown at each other across dinner.<br /><br /> Silent, in our stares. Silent … <br /><br /> … in our silence.<br /><br /> In our blame.<br /> _________________________________________<br /><br /> Pitter … <br /><br /> Patter …<br /><br /> _________________________________________<br /><br /> I step out of my room, in 2010, and … <br /><br /> I flash back.<br /><br /> Flash back to dinner.<br /><br /> Drip, drip, drip.<br /> _________________________________________<br /><br /> The smell of water.<br /> The hiss of meat in the oven.<br /><br /> The sound of rain.<br /> The feeling of drops on the roof.<br /><br /> Both say, <br /> “Hiss, hiss, hiss.”<br /><br /> Both carry with them a smell.<br /> A memory.<br /> _________________________________________</p> <p><br /> Pitter … <br /><br /><em>Cutlery, falling …<br /></em><br /> Patter … <br /><br /><em>Tears, falling … <br /></em>_________________________________________<br /><br /> Pitter … <br /><br /><em>Tears, falling … <br /></em>_________________________________________</p> <p>Patter …<br /><br /><em>Cutlery, falling …<br /></em><br /> _________________________________________</p> <p>Pitter, patter.<br /><br /><em>Pitter, patter.<br /></em>_________________________________________</p> <p><br /> Tears and cutlery have been tossed aside.<br /><br /><em>Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain.<br /></em><br /> For many years, all I felt was sadness. But now? I get it.<br /><br /> A parent, and even a child, can feel the same pain. The same loss.</p> <p>_________________________________________<br /><br /> What is it telling you?<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQstQST1GiM">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQstQST1GiM</a></p> <p> </p>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-79324414869745922582009-11-06T01:46:00.000-08:002009-11-06T01:47:48.085-08:00Searching for our song<p><em><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >You terrify me.<br />(Please don't break my heart.)<br /><br />There is so much more I could show you; that I could give you.<br />(Please don't break my heart.)<br /><br />But ...<br />... I am afraid.</span></em></p> <p><em><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >Afraid of showing that much to you. Of <strong>giving</strong> that much to you. I want to. I do.<br />(And if I do? Please, don't break my heart.)<br /><br />When I roll over and show you my most vulnerable parts, will you embrace them, or eviscerate them?<br />(Please don't break my heart.)<br /><br />But ...<br />... I am afraid.</span></em></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >____________________________________</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >I wrote the above because I am feeling raw, and vulnerable. And that vulnerability draws me to write really bad poetry. (If you need an example, please read the above.)<br /><br />Tonight I curled up on my bed with So You Think You Can Dance, Chinese food delivery, and IM conversations. Any one of the preceding would make me do a wigglesome dance of joy normally, but tonight? Even the combination of all three made me feel unsated. So … the show is over, food has been consumed, and conversations shut down. I still feel restless. What to do?<br /><br />Oh, I know! Break out the notebook of a dead woman! Let’s see what she has to say …<br />____________________________________</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >So … here I sit, in a house that <strong><em>you</em></strong> helped buy, flipping through yellowed paper that was written on before the concept of <em>this</em> house was even realized, reading words that smell of thirty-year old smoke, written by a woman I can only hope to know. But never will.<br /><br />Even though I am part her, and she is part me, I can only guess to her meaning.<br /><br />All I have left are these faded words tossed on slips of paper (maybe haphazard, maybe intentional), saved in a chocolate covered, purse-sized notebook. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >All I know is that those words, <em>these</em> words held in my hand, written a generation ago, and maybe written before I was even a thought, or a spark, speak to me.<br />____________________________________</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ><br /><span> </span>“Though I must fight some battles alone,<br />I cannot live alone –<br />I am no longer a separate entity – </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ><span> </span><span> </span>For I have come to know the joy of another.”</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >And … </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ><span> </span>“The most valuable gift we have to give is ourself. [sic]<br /><span> </span><span> </span>And it is within the constant giving of ourself [sic] that happiness</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ><span> </span><span> </span>as we desire it</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ><span> </span><span> </span>evolves and becomes real.”</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >____________________________________</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ><br />These are words, written down by a (now) dead woman. I <em>think</em> they are her own, but I cannot be sure. All I do know is that they touch me, deeply and movingly. And it makes me want her all the more, if just to vent to her. To babble at her. To reach out and touch her; to touch her arm or face or even hand. To grab that hand and bring her in to hug her to myself. To ask her what she meant, and what she was feeling, when she wrote those words down.<br /><br />Since I can’t do that, I can only imagine, and construct, make-believe conversations. Conversations where I re-create puberty and do the whole, “but Moooooooooom! He said, and then I said, and then he said, and then SHE said, and then THEY said, and … *sob sob* … what does it mean?” (Insert the teenage angsty-voice of your choice here.)<br />____________________________________</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ><br />And, since this is <strong><em>my</em></strong> fantasy, I pick up that chocolate notebook, brush off that asshole pubescent girl, and flip through the pages to figure out which question I am asking.<br /><br />And then she answers with, </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ><span> </span>“As we listen to the music,<br /> we learn and grow wiser<span><br /> </span>while searching for our own song<br /> and the message it will sing.”</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >And then my (now no longer teenaged self) says, “Huh? What the hell are you talking about?” As I throw myself across that twin bed and beat my feet against that horrible flowered comforter, I will scream out, “you just don’t get it! You don’t understand!”<br /><br />(My unknown question is still unknown. It’s just a feeling. And I still kinda hate that pubescent girl that I once was, once upon a time.)<br /><br />As my teenaged self yells that invective, “you DON’T UNDERSTAND!” my adult self goes, “oh, shut it! I get it now.”<br /><br />My adult self says, over the screaming meemies of my teenaged self, to my Mom, “oh, okay. I understand. I get it. You are telling me to listen to the music. Take what I hear and make it my own. March to the beat of my own drummer, right?”</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >The ghost mom tells the alive me, “yes, exactly.”<br /><br />The ghost of the teenaged me says, “what the fuck are you talking about?”<br /><br />But then ghost mom says, “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kPioSdlIERg">if you see yourself as a rock, no one will touch you</a>.”</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >The adult me just nods and grins, leaving the teenaged me rolling her eyes. And still kicking her heels in frustration. (Mom and I just giggle. I still kick my heels though.)<br />____________________________________</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ><br />At some point Mom wrote down in that chocolate notebook, </span></p> <p style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >“We feel, therefore we are.”<br /><br />And to <strong><em>that</em></strong>? I say yes.<br /><br />Nothing more than “yes” can I say in response.<br /><br />Yes.<br /><br />It took me a long time to acknowledge feeling. And to even <em>accept</em> feeling. And to believe that feeling is … okay.<br /><br />So. If we feel? (That is okay.)<br /><br />If we feel, we are. (And that acceptance I’m still learning to embrace.) </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >____________________________________</span></p> <p style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >“We are where love has come to live.”</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >Mom and Dad are both gone. When I grieve either one, without the other – when I miss Mom, without missing Dad; when I miss Dad, without missing Mom … – I feel guilt. I feel guilt that, at <em>that</em> moment; I am placing one above the other. But I’m not. Only now am I learning that I am grieving the passing of them <em>both</em>. The passing of them as Mom, as Dad. As a couple. And as my parents. And as individuals. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >And through this weird fucked up process we call grief am I learning love. Learning love of family. Love of others. Love of this weird thing we call life. Most mostly?<br /><br />I love Mom. I love Dad. Through them love has found a home within me; their love of each other, their love of me, and their love of … love.<br /><br />Love lives within me, and therefore?</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >I love myself.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >Otherwise known as “Love of self”.<br />____________________________________</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >The very first part that I wrote of, of terror … well, it could apply to friendships. Or to love. Or to my parents. Or yours. Or to yourself. </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >Actually, it applies to all. And to none.<br /><br />Love can be terror. </span></p> <p style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >“Reflection is the insight of tomorrow.”</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >When we reflect, mostly upon ourselves, we view the past. We fear the tomorrow. I say tear down the fear. Tear down the terror. Embrace the tomorrow, and all the weird reflection that comes of it.<br /><br />As Mom would say … </span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ><span> </span>“Life beats on”</span></p> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >“Live in the happiness with the knowledge that the world will grow a little better with you there.”<span> </span></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >____________________________________</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >I say, <em>“You terrify me.”<br /><br /></em>I think,<em> “There is so much more I could show you; that I could give you.”<br /></em></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >I say, think, and live<em>, “But ... ... I am afraid.”</em></span><em><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ><br /><br /></span></em><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >Taking a page from Mom and Dad, I say to myself, “deal”.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >I answer, “<em>But ... ... I am afraid.”</em></span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >____________________________________</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >I embody not just Mom and Dad, but also Me, and I say this, and question this …<br /></span></p> <p style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >“What shall I do to love?<span><br /></span> Believe.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" ><span> </span> What shall I do to belive?<br /><span> </span>Love”<br />____________________________________</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >For once in my life I will listen to my parents. I <strong><em>will</em></strong> believe. And I <strong><em>will</em></strong> love.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" >I hope you can do the same.</span></p> <p><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:11;" > </span></p>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-87690154927925176162009-09-21T01:38:00.000-07:002009-09-21T01:42:43.116-07:00A snapshot. Full of pee. Signifying nothing.<p><strong><em>So … </em></strong></p> <p>I love my boys. I really do. Just over 2 years ago (<em>has it really been that long?</em>) a friend of mine calls me up saying that there were some youngins that were found behind a dumpster, starving and close to death. </p> <p>She knew I was itching to fill the void that Ms. Liza left when she was unceremoniously a) attacked by a raccoon, b) fought a coyote, or c) lost a fight to a Toyota. (The jury is still pending on cause of death.) I mean, there I was – in my childhood home, sans cat, with only my (soon-to-be-ex, heretofore known as STBE), his dog, and another stray dog. The “guy” level was overwhelming, and the estrogen, after Liza left, was decidedly lacking.<br /><br />I was a cat, living in a dog world. That shit had to change.<br />______________________</p> <p><strong><em>The call … </em></strong></p> <p>“Hey, I know this may be a bit too soon, since it’s only been a few months, but this lady at my shop found some kittens … ”<br /><br />“Ohhhh, I’m not sure. I mean, so much is going on right now, I mean with the house, and the dogs, and the STBE … ”<br /><br />“But they are SO cute! Here, listen.” (She holds the phone up to some really pathetic meows. My redheaded Virgo partner in crime? She fights dirty.)<br /><br />“*sigh*. Fine. Let me put on my bra. And some pants. I’ll be there in an hour.”<br />______________________<br /><br /><strong><em>The meeting … </em></strong></p> <p>After fighting Southern California heat, and traffic, in a roller-skate of a car with no air conditioning, I arrive in Riverside. Even if I didn’t bring home an orphan today, I was thankful to finally be out of my car, with some blessedly cool air drying the gallons of sweat dripping off my body.<br /><br />“Finally! Come here, come here, come here! Just lookit doze cute widdle faces!”<br /><br />Before I really had a chance to savor not being stuck on the 91, and before I could really grok that it wasn’t eleventy-thousand degrees, I was face to face with this:</p> <p> <img id="cid_292303" src="http://www.blogger.com/files/asmo_as_a__boy1250492113.jpg" alt="Asmo. He's a pisser!" width="285" hspace="5" /></p> <p>And then? This:<br /><br /><img id="cid_292304" src="http://www.blogger.com/files/argus_as_a_boy1250492141.jpg" alt="Argus? He's a pisser too!" width="285" hspace="5" /></p> <p>I was helpless. HELPLESS! How could I say no? (God, I'm a sucker.)</p> <p>Needless to say, these two little shitheads came home with me that day.<br />______________________<br /><br /><em><strong>The ride …</strong></em> </p> <p>These two little no-longer-orphans were now tucked away in a cat carrier on my passenger seat. I had both windows rolled down in my roller-skate, but it was still eleventy-billion degrees out. Their plaintive mews kept cutting into my heart.<br /><br />“Oh, I know babies. It’s hot out. And you’re scared and trapped in a little box. I’m so sorry. Soon we’ll be home, where you’ll feel the ocean breeze. Kind of. So … tell me … what are your names?”<br /><br />The bastards played coy with me, and didn’t tell me their names for a full week and a half.<br /><br />They mewed, and I responded. Even though we bonded during that hellacious drive, they still refused to tell me their names. The whitish one? Just kept staring – he had these huge eyes, that took in everything. The grey one? Well, he stared as well, but it looked like he was plotting at the same time.<br />______________________<br /><br /><em><strong>Ah, home … </strong></em><br /><br />We arrived home and the poor dogs were beside themselves. Kasha was just so excited to have new additions to the home that she just wanted to play. Her form of playing, though, was sniffing the little fuzzballs, bouncing their butts on her nose, and then rolling them around the house. And Teddy? Oh, poor guy … he took one sniff and hid. I guess he remembered some past experience with cats where his nose was decimated. (Can’t really say I blame the guy.)</p> <p>So, after a week and a half, they deigned to tell me their names. </p> <p>Argus and Asmo (short for Asmoedus). </p> <p><em>They really do live up to their namesakes.</em><br />______________________</p> <p><em><strong>And then the fun began … </strong></em><br /><br />Apparently we bonded TOO well on the drive. By this time the STBE was taking turns sleeping on the couch, and in the bed. Soon, the couch was a better option. Why was this? Because the two teensy-tiny hellions were jealous. When he would sleep in bed, they would invariably pee on his head. And on his pillow. Pretty much anything that he touched while in bed? Yep. They peed on it.<br /><br />One night? They even peed on my hair. (Hand to god. They PEED. ON. MY. HAIR.)<br />______________________</p> <p><em><strong>Payback … </strong></em></p> <p>They have never really understood the concept that only one thing can occupy one location at one time. Many times, I have gone to sit in “my” place on the couch, only to find it filled with a cat. And though I do lower myself slowly, in the hopes that they will realize their impending doom, they never move.<br /><br />(I guess my ass isn’t as terrifying as I thought it was.)<br /><br />Tonight, again, I almost sat on one of the cats.<br /><br />This time it was different. It may have been the fact that I was really distracted. It may have been the fact that I didn’t pay attention to my surroundings. Or it may have been the fact that I really had to pee.<br /><br />It wasn't until I felt fur on my rear that I realized one of the cats was drinking out of the toilet.<br /><br />Thankfully, I was able to reverse course. But if I had peed on Argus' head? I probably would have felt bad.<br /><br />Just a little. But it did give a whole new meaning to “wet pussy”.<br />______________________</p> <p>Hmm, maybe I should have. I mean, turn about is fair play, no? </p>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-3158203735281303432009-09-18T20:18:00.000-07:002009-09-18T20:23:58.592-07:00Apart from? Or a part of?<p>I’ve been <em>in</em>, but not <strong>of</strong>, life.</p> <p>Too much time spent on the hamster wheel … </p> <p>… spinning … </p> <p>… spinning … </p> <p>… <em>spinning </em>… but never moving forward. </p> <p>Static. </p> <p><a href="http://www.imeem.com/artists/joni_mitchell/music/UCGMqdTo/joni-mitchell-the-circle-game-lp-version/%20">Circular.</a> <br /> _______________________</p> <p>I’ve been dreaming. </p> <p>Wanting to shake up my dream tree. I've been shaking it, but nothing falls. </p> <p>Dreaming of <a href="http://dreammoods.com/cgibin/dreamdictionarysearch.pl?method=exact&header=dreamsymbol&search=zombie%20">murderous mafia-zombies</a>. <br /><br /> But sadly not dreaming of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VeC97mcAREg">being an architect</a>. </p> <p>_______________________</p> <p>I am in the world … <br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3652212433/"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3628/3652212433_e5577a95a9.jpg" alt="_MG_2420.CR2" width="485" height="323" /></a></p> <p>… apart from it, but not a part of it. </p> <p>_______________________</p> <p>Too much time spent behind a book, or a lens. Experiencing life only through words on a screen or via second-hand phone conversations. Never first hand, except for momentary grasps. And stolen kisses. <br /><br /> Hiding behind closed doors, because my house is no longer my home. No longer my safe haven. </p> <p>Living, but only through another’s view. </p> <p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3653025214/"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3304/3653025214_444044e901.jpg" alt="_MG_2614.CR2" width="485" height="323" /></a></p> <p>_______________________</p> <p>Maybe what I am trying to say to myself is this …</p> <p><strong>Self</strong>? Stop being a passive observer, and become an active participant in your own damn life.</p> <p><strong>Self</strong>? Stop doing a Phoenix impersonation and use that tinder to build something, <a href="http://www.imeem.com/thmorrigan/music/_wuKN-5H/deb-talan-ashes-on-your-eyes/">instead of burning it down</a>. </p> <p><strong>Self</strong>? Remember. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bh7MKO4xYLU">Remember that it really isn’t so bad</a>. There is joy in the ordinary. </p> <p><strong>Self</strong>? Don’t be so afraid of just reaching out and grabbing that hand. Screw your own internal censor.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3652824471/"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3618/3652824471_afbdb21c21.jpg" alt="_MG_2650.CR2" width="333" height="500" /></a></p> <p>(I mean, seriously? <strong>Self</strong>? Get off the wheel. It could be worse – you could have bifurcated paws.) </p> <p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3652220287/"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3410/3652220287_faa89bb96f.jpg" alt="_MG_2429.CR2" width="485" height="323" /></a> <br /><strong>Self</strong>?<br /><br />Get out there. And <em>live</em>. <br />_______________________</p> <p>(And here's a video. Just because it's been in my head for a few days. This song turned me onto the Buena Vista Social Club. The documentary is fantastic too ... rent it. Buy the CD.)</p> <div><object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" width="425" height="344"><param name="width" value="425" /><param name="height" value="344" /><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="src" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6rRJP8rVg-4&hl=en&fs=1&" /><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="344" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6rRJP8rVg-4&hl=en&fs=1&"></embed></object></div> <p> </p> <p> </p>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-47122707995989774922009-06-23T02:19:00.000-07:002009-06-23T02:27:03.248-07:00Fathers Day - 2009<p>As a woman I was always made to feel that Mother’s Day should be my focus. It wasn’t.<br /><br />Allow me to amend that. It WAS … until I was 5.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3513876725/"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3651/3513876725_79ba8f0427.jpg" alt="Mom and me" width="485" height="402" /></a></p> <p>After that, though?<br /><br />It was Father’s Day. THAT was my focus.<br />________________________________________________________</p> <p><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3362380480/"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3575/3362380480_86bfaef23b.jpg" alt="Dad wearing tutu" width="485" height="433" /></a> <em>From then on, it was just you and me kid.<br /></em><br />When I was 7, I gave you your first Mother’s Day card. It was one of the few, very few, times that my grandmother never second-guessed me. There are times that I wish(ed) she would have been that open in other instances …<br /><br />At first you were confused. But the confusion turned to a smile once you saw what my second grade handwriting said. And then that smile turned to a grimace, a happy grimace nonetheless, as you tried to hide the tears.<br /><br />Every year thereafter not only did I celebrate you on Father’s Day, you were also lauded on the day reserved for Mother’s. Because that’s what <strong>you</strong> were to <em>me</em>. Most people didn’t understand … “Uhm, yeah, okay … why are you getting a <em>Mother’s</em> Day card for your <strong>Dad</strong>?”<br /><br />“<em>Because</em>.” And really?<br /><br />That’s all I could say.<br /><br /><strong>Because.<br /></strong><br />You either got it, or you didn’t.<br /><br />Many years after Mom died, I realized that not only were you “Dad”, you also had to fill the role of “Mom”. A small part of me understood that when I first unintentionally got you that first Mother’s Day card. I didn’t know what I was doing then, but later I did. And once I realized that? My heart opened, and then broke. And then? You kept receiving cards. It was no longer “Mother’s” cards, or “Father’s” cards … you got cards. Just because. Because, yes, you were my Father. But you were also my Mother. But most of all? You were my parent.</p> <p>You were Pops.</p> <p>________________________________________________________<br /><br />There you were, a young, handsome, and virile man. Left floating, seemingly alone, by the death of your “one”. Adrift, with a small child clinging to you. A needy, artistic, and needy child clinging to you for dear life, when all YOU wanted was to be left to do that … float adrift. Drift away.<br /><br />Thinking back upon that now, as an adult, I must admit this … </p> <p>I honestly don’t know how you did it.<br />________________________________________________________</p> <p>You started off as this carefree surfer.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3638480280/"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3628/3638480280_fd108590bf.jpg" alt="Dad after surfing" width="485" height="308" /></a> </p> <p><br />And then Vietnam …<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3638480350/"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3347/3638480350_48a5a652e8.jpg" alt="VIETNAM 4" width="451" height="500" /></a></p> <p><br />You admitted that there was another love before Mom. You told me that when you felt I could actually hear it. And I did. Yes, I was hurt. That hurt came from a child’s understanding, a child’s outlook. (“What do you mean? There was ANOTHER woman before Mom?) The child hurt, but the adult understood. The adult <em>felt</em>.<br /><br />However, the child (and adult) still twinges a bit when she looks upon this photo …<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3638501250/"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2464/3638501250_183b7f7c8b.jpg" alt="FAMILY 549" width="485" height="447" /></a><br />(<em>Am I a horrible person to say that I am so glad that she ISN'T my mom?</em>)<br /><br />But this adult (and child) is ecstatically happy to realize that she broke your heart. (No, shush. I am NOT happy she broke your heart. But I AM happy to realize that she broke you just enough so that you could meet Mom. And so that you and Mom could meet as partners.)<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3637688471/"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2440/3637688471_07903de7d6.jpg" alt="ANNIE 483" width="485" height="496" /></a><br /><br />________________________________________________________</p> <p><br />Your side of the family (my family), says that there are two of you – the pre-Vietnam Chris, and the after-Vietnam Chris.<br /><br />As much as I would have loved to have known you <em>pre</em>, you wouldn’t be “Dad” to me if you weren’t also the <em>after</em>. I mean … that’s all I knew.<br /><br />The “pre-Chris” loved his family, and looked after his sister. Yes, he was a bit free, and a bit naive. Always searching for the next wave.<br /><br />The “after-Chris” was mostly the same but with harder, and sharper, edges. (Still searching for that ever elusive wave, though.) The pre would have tried to talk sense into his brother-in-law, for being too hard on his sister. The after was the one who went searching for the same brother-in-law, gun in hand, for <strong>abusing</strong> his baby sister. (Thankfully, the <em>after</em> never found him. Otherwise, I would never be here.)<br /><br />You know what though? I kinda like the “after” …<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3637649457/"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3319/3637649457_80006f5240.jpg" alt="ANNIE 497" width="429" height="500" /></a><br /><br />________________________________________________________</p> <p><br />I saw the sadness, and desperation, in your eyes. Not only was it seen, it was felt.<br /><br />From you I have learned how to love. I’m not talking about loving family just because they are blood, or loving friends just because they are there… yes, you taught me that. You also showed me what it was to open yourself up fully. To splay yourself, your emotions, your <strong>core</strong>. To open yourself up to the unknown. You have shown me that you CAN do that.<br /><br />And you showed me that you can reap those benefits. The benefits being that you reap what you sow ...<br /><br />... Mom loved you so much ...<br /><br />... So did I. So <em><strong>do </strong></em>I ...<br /><br />You have also shown me that when you do that, you leave yourself open to heartache. It’s a heartache I never want to experience. <strong><em>Ever</em></strong>. At least, not in the way that you did.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/annithyme/3514716840/"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3641/3514716840_a6d7249655.jpg" alt="Headstone" width="485" height="363" /></a><br />________________________________________________________<br /><br />Until I became headstrong in my teenage years, we were tight. <strong><em>Tight</em></strong>.<br /><br />Once we gained some space, some distance, only then could we become friends again. For me being an asshole teenager … I apologize. I know you understood, but still. I am sorry. I KNOW you did much worse than I ever did (hell, you even told me of some of your exploits!) But still?<br /><br />I am sorry.<br />________________________________________________________<br /><br />If there ever comes a day when I do have kids (a day which I hope for, but feel will never happen), I can only hope to be like you. Yes, I do want to be like Mom, juts a little. But mostly?<br /><br />If I had to choose the parent to emulate, it would be you.</p> <p>YOU.<br />________________________________________________________<br /><br />After Mom died, I know you were lost. And I understood that you would have gone away as well … if it wasn’t for me. (And, no, that’s not ego speaking – maybe I was just a responsibility at first, because of grief. But later? After the initial heartbreak? “It was just you and me, kid”.)<br /><br />But still? Helllloooooooooooo Catholic Guilt ™!<br /><br />After though… you morphed from Dad into Pops. And I turned from “god damnit! Ann Marie!” into “Bubba”. Or “Bub”. </p> <p>When you were alive, I never actually liked, or understood, The Beatles. But after you went? I really did try to understand why you loved them so. It took me a while, though. And now?<br /><br />Now I get it. (Strawberry Fields still flips me the <strong><em>fuck</em></strong> out. I doubt that will ever change. <a href="http://shinyrandomredhead.blogspot.com/2008/07/emo-barf.html">I still sit at that same table, in the same kitchen, and Strawberry Fields still strikes in that same visceral way.</a> Yes, I “get” it now. It still makes me uneasy. And now? Okay … *shrug*) </p> <p>You and I … we do share genetics. But now, we also share a love of the Fab Four.</p> <p>When someone says yesterday … I understand it on <em>my </em>level. But I also understand it on <em><strong>yours</strong></em>. And I really do think that is the legacy you left to me. There ARE shadows … </p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">And if you <u>were </u>still here? I would say this to you: the shadows are really the dark parts. Know them. Appreciate them. Roll in them. But please, don’t live in them. Instead, allow them to serve as contrast. As a foil, to the light that you lived.<br /><br />A light you had so much of.<br /><br />A light that burned too bright. And too fast. A light that was extinguished too soon. </p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">________________________________________________________<br /><br />I can believe in yesterday … and now? I CAN move on to tomorrow.<br /><br />But only because of you.<br />________________________________________________________</p> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" width="425" height="344"><param name="width" value="425"><param name="height" value="344"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="src" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ONXp-vpE9eU&hl=en&fs=1&"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ONXp-vpE9eU&hl=en&fs=1&" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></div> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I love you, Dad. Granted, I may be away this weekend following my own passion, but I think that you may, just may, understand that. You will never be far from my mind. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">This Sunday I will raise my camera, and a glass, and wish you nothing but a slipper tail lobster, some 7&7, and know (hope) that Mom is by your side to share it with you. (And then? In my mind she will make fun of you. With some inside joke that only the two of you know the punchline to.) When the two of you are laughing ... I hope I catch just the faintest whiff of scent ... Shalomar and Cinnamon for her, with just a touch of Old Spice for you. Even though I know you hated it.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">And then? Then I will smile. And laugh. And then I will cry through my own inside joke. Damn the rest!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Happy Fathers Day Pops ... wherever you may be. </span>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-6045698594686555102009-06-23T02:18:00.001-07:002009-06-23T02:18:58.914-07:00I chase the light<p><em>I chase the light. </em></p> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in">The sun through the window shows her face in a way only I know; full of joy, love, and the weight of a world only she knows. And I want to capture it. Gather it to me for always. And then, show that understanding back to the world. </p> <p><em>I chase the light.</em></p> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in">The music is captured on his face, with eyes half closed, and the beginning of a grin. His toes tap and fingers drum on the almost empty pint of cider, half forgotten. I can see the beginning of a story there. </p> <p><em>I chase the light. </em></p> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in">A tear leaks from her eye, and it races to catch the smile now unleashed. We all cry, laugh, and scream as they say, “I do”. </p> <p><em>I chase the light. </em></p> <p><span> </span>The first time your fingers met mine, I could barely breathe. </p> <p><em>I chase the light. <span> </span></em></p> <p><span> </span>How can you capture a scent? </p> <p>___________________________________________ </p> <p>My friends, my family, my lovers … they aren’t seen as <em>just</em> (or only) human in my eye. They are bits of experience – a scent, a touch, a feeling, a tune, an image. <br /><br /> All fleeting – amorphous moments in time. </p> <p>But together? <br /><br /> <em> Joy.<br /><br /> Life. <br /><br /> Anger. </em></p> <p><em> Hate.</em><br /><br /> But overwhelmingly?<br /><br /> <em><strong> Love. </strong></em></p> <p>___________________________________________ </p> <p>I wish I had embraced photography and writing sooner than I did. Maybe some of the moments of my life could be tangibly touched or read again. And shared.<br /><br /> But now? Instead of dwelling on “if only”, I will work towards “and then”.</p> <p><em><span> </span>And then? After this photo? After this paragraph? What happened? </em></p> <p>___________________________________________ </p> <span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: 'Times New Roman'">Well … you will just have to stay tuned.</span>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-49652096566118911062009-06-10T19:16:00.000-07:002009-06-10T19:34:58.651-07:00Chicken Piccata<p>Each time I make this, it turns out a bit different. Sometimes the sauce is thinner and other times, like tonight, it turns out thick. What can ya do? The prep time seems to take longer than the actual cook time. Here’s what you’ll need:</p> <ul style="margin-top: 0in;"><li>Chicken (The “real” recipe says 4 skinless/boneless breast halves. I prefer to pick up a pack of chicken tenders – already thin, and easier to control the portion that way.) </li><li>Butter (About 3 tablespoons, give or take. Make sure it’s room temperature – don’t try to shortcut this by softening it in the microwave. Just my preference.)</li><li>Flour (Measurements to come.)</li><li>Olive oil (2-4 tablespoons.)</li><li>Lemon juice, fresh squeezed. Use that crap that comes in the plastic faux lemon and I will never speak to you again. (Now, I’m all for lemon – during the summer I would eat one, or maybe 3, lemons per day. Loves me some lemon! That being said, the recipe calls for 1/4 cup but I would cut down on this and use more wine, or more broth.)</li><li>Chicken broth. (Approximately 1/4 cup, depending on if you use this to cut the lemon with.) </li><li>WINE! Dry and white. (About 1/3 cup, but I always wind up using more. My preference is sauvignon blanc. Use your favourite, just make sure it’s dry.) Buy two bottles – one for cooking, and one for drinking. </li><li>Capers (drained) and parsley (1/4 of each. Typically I’ll use mostly fresh parsley and some dried, but use what you have.) </li><li>Salt and pepper, to taste. (I prefer kosher or sea salt. And some white pepper mixed with the black.) </li></ul> <p>Typically this is served over angel hair pasta, but tonight I used jasmine rice. Choose whatever side you prefer. </p> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span>1)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span>In a small bowl, take 1 tablespoon of the (room temperature!) butter and mix it with 1 1/2 tablespoons of flour. Mix together until it’s smooth. Set aside.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/rrfVq3zB8cdS2cai13eUjQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_6xdWGboWEjA/SZ-lTEHFXpI/AAAAAAAADBQ/cy8YN7J5kn4/s400/_MG_7719.jpg" /></a><br /></div> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span>2)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span>Flour the chicken. (Dump some flour in a deep plate or shallow pan.) If you use breast halves, you’ll want to pound them down. I hate to beat my meat (no comments, Peanut Gallery!) which is why I use the already semi-thin tenders. You can either dust the chicken with salt and pepper before drenching in the flour, or you can do what I do – mix the salt and pepper in with the flour. Set aside. Wash the caked flour off your hands. (This is the part I hate – icky chicken and flour under my nails. Bleh.) </p> <div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/BPvVdbYQY5T6_M81BgPIuQ?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_6xdWGboWEjA/SZ-mBg2CtaI/AAAAAAAADCA/5Bk0bsDFXGU/s400/_MG_7725.CR2.jpg" /></a><br /></div> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span>3)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span>Take a drink. You may drink the wine, I’ll stick with beer.</p> <div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/kF5VI9ISWPzWMFuQg39Vgw?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_6xdWGboWEjA/SZ-mENisWoI/AAAAAAAADCQ/NxAvb9NtYio/s400/_MG_7730.CR2.jpg" /></a><br /></div> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span>4)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span>Start with 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Dump into the pan and heat (hot, but not smoking.)</p> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span>5)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span>Add chicken and cook until golden-ish. About 3-5 minutes per side, or until cooked through. Salmonella is BAD! Depending on your pan size, and amount of chicken, this may have to happen in two batches. If you have to cook the chicken in more than one fell swoop, this is when the extra oil comes in. Add a touch more to the pan, and cook away. Set cooked chicken on a plate and tent with foil. </p> <div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/5ls-9N4uD9vdi7QF3_66dg?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_6xdWGboWEjA/SZ-mCNCEdVI/AAAAAAAADCI/fv_m1Rd1haw/s400/_MG_7728.CR2.jpg" /></a><br /></div> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span>6)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span>In the same pan, add the wine, broth, and lemon to boil. (Heat is about medium-high, to medium.) </p> <div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/elPkFpSSb2fOcbZ0EVXG0A?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_6xdWGboWEjA/SZ-mAToUGZI/AAAAAAAADB4/L9rAiCKB3zo/s400/_MG_7721.CR2.jpg" /></a><br /></div> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span>7)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span>After the wine/broth/lemon is boiling, stir in the butter/flour mixture from earlier. Boil. (This may take a bit of whisking to get it to blend together. Be patient. It will come.)</p> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span>8)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span>Once the butter/flour is introduced, throw in the capers, parsley, and last 2 tablespoons of butter. Stir. Take a taste. If you want to add more salt or pepper, do so. If you want to add more wine, broth, or lemon juice, now is the time to do so (if the sauce is too thick, definitely add more liquid). </p> <div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/7ATas95pkyblKptaECdfsw?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_6xdWGboWEjA/SZ-mEaIA_WI/AAAAAAAADCc/Sx-_e756pNk/s400/_MG_7732.CR2.jpg" /></a><br /></div> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span>9)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span>Place pasta or rice on a plate. Put chicken over that. Over THAT, spoon some sauce. Viola! </p> <div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/1tfZqZIp87Vsz-Z2nLK7-Q?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_6xdWGboWEjA/SZ-mE_UEEXI/AAAAAAAADCk/8pZ0x4FxIiE/s400/_MG_7733.CR2.jpg" /></a><br /></div> <p style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span>10)<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 7pt; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"> </span></span>Crack open the wine (or beer, or water, or what-have-you) and enjoy over some candlelight. Or pop in a movie and curl up on the couch. Or … open up some <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6YnNQef7etk" mce_href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6YnNQef7etk">Scottish Sock Puppet</a> youtube clips and enjoy. </p> <p>This one is a hit at my house. Unfortunately, <b>these </b>guys get nothing. NOTHING! (Okay, they get some kibble. And love. Lots of love. But that’s it.)</p> <p> <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/ubp_Vyq-b6ohXXnb3dcN5w?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_6xdWGboWEjA/SZ-l_Cl7KAI/AAAAAAAADBw/a8Qq38B3Gls/s400/_MG_7702.CR2.jpg" /></a> <br /><i>Whaddya mean I don't get the leftovers?! </i></p> <p> <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/DGKkcXJ-y2qc3nYEr25JGw?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_6xdWGboWEjA/SZ-lwevn9_I/AAAAAAAADBg/F4HgUry-CCs/s400/_MG_7739.CR2.jpg" /></a><br /><i>This is my patented stink-eye. When asked why he was giving the stink-eye, </i><i>Senor BooBoo</i><i> was quoted as saying, "You get this because you are not sharing the chicky-chicky with me. I might just eat your head."<br /></i></p> <p> <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/wngptPa1yIxxAjFwvDFzFg?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_6xdWGboWEjA/SZ-lqGopADI/AAAAAAAADBY/J_ewm-frgMg/s400/_MG_7687.jpg" /></a> <br /><i>Teddy says, "Phbtphbt!" </i></p> <p> <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/lh/photo/p8fzHlleDNNRyBWeEduDkw?feat=embedwebsite"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_6xdWGboWEjA/SZ-lwkRksJI/AAAAAAAADBo/PLcyUR6jbec/s400/_MG_7740.CR2.jpg" /></a><br /><i>I think Argus is contemplating peeing on my head. It was later found out that he did, indeed, say, "If I don't get some chicken love, I will pee on your pillow. Don't push me, woman!" </i></p> <p>Asmo was unavailable for comment at this time, but his agent said that he would get back to me. Riiiiiiiight. </p>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-77240887220966793852009-06-10T04:01:00.000-07:002009-06-10T04:03:03.191-07:00And then I said, "Blah blah. Wah wah, wah-wah-wah-what?"<p>“You just don’t flirt with members of the opposite sex when you’re in a relationship.”</p> <p>Okay, you know what? That may be true for you. But for me? I flirt. I love it. Does it mean anything? </p> <p>No.</p> <p>Dictionary.com describes in part “flirt” as: “to court triflingly or act amorously <strong><em>without serious intentions</em></strong>”.</p> <p>Without serious intentions. Do you see how I highlighted that?<br /><strong><em><u><br /> Without serious intentions.<br /><br /></u></em></strong>Maybe, just maybe, your life experience has taught you that flirting is more serious. My experience has shown me that this is not so. That flirting is NOT serious. <br /><br /> We have just gone round and round about this. And yet you persist in the unyielding view that flirting equals intent. For you? Maybe it’s true. For me? It is not.</p> <p>Honestly, the men I actively flirt with are the ones whom I have no ulterior motives about; the ones that I have absolutely no interest in. This is because they are safe. <em>They</em> know this, and <em>I</em> know this. Apparently, <em>you</em> don’t. </p> <p>When I say I’m going out to dinner with a friend I mean just that – a friend. We have known each other for neigh on 17 years. I am sorry that you may feel that we are “on a date”, when in reality we met for pot stickers so that he could talk about his ex moving to some god forsaken state to live with her producer. And how that affected him.<br /><br /> If that is a “date”, then I’m dating every single person that I know who needs some time to just vent. To just talk. </p> <p>_____________________________</p> <p>You asked me to give specifics of when you put words in my mouth. I wish I could give them to you right now. I wish I could say that every time you accused me in surreptitious ways of still being in love with my ex, that I could shake you by the shoulders and say, “no. I am NOT in love with him. Yes, I <strong><em>did</em></strong> I spend my years between 16 and 29 either wanting, or being with, him. However, he cheated on me. He literally destroyed my childhood home, and then sold items of my fathers that were never his to sell! How does this not parse with you?” </p> <p>How does me saying, “we were done months ago, but I just couldn’t tell you that because I wanted to make sure it was true, and not just fear speaking” … how does that say I was lying to you? Does this not show you that I wanted to MAKE SURE that I was making the right, and hard, decision about us? How does me, trying to work through some feelings so that I know that they are real, equate a lie? Yes, it IS true that I didn’t bring up these thoughts and fears to you. For that, I apologize. I fucked up, and I am sorry.<br /><br /> It is also true that I didn’t bring them up because I was afraid, yes, <em>afraid</em>, that you would take them very much to heart and then squash everything that you were feeling.</p> <p>Those feelings? Those emotions? Those are what made me fall in love with you in the first place. And, you know what? Those feelings are still there. I loved you then, and I love you now. But … </p> <p>… but … </p> <p>But now I realize that, even though I DO love you, you aren’t “the one” for me. And I’m sorry I cannot give you some pat answer that will make it all be okay.</p> <p>We are human.</p> <p>We are fallible. </p> <p> I am fallible. </p> <p>And as fallible humans, we fuck up. We fuck up because of fear. Because of fear we don’t communicate in the moment, when we should. And for that, I am truly sorry. Mentally, I am groveling on my knees. (Physically, I am embracing my outer Ice Queen.) <br /><br /> I wish I could have verbalized my uncertainty about us earlier. But … but … I was terrified. TERR-I-FIED. Terrified that I would come home to find you gone. Not just gone, as in your stuff is no longer where I thought it would be, but gone as in, “I keep shaking him but he’s not waking up. No, I SWEAR I can see him breathing. I don’t care that his body is cold, he really isn’t gone” … <br /><br /> And yet you say that if I had only just talked to you, we could have worked things out. That you could have, or would have, changed.</p> <p>And I don’t want that. <br /> _____________________________<br /><br /> I want someone who I can love, withOUT the change. Someone that I can honestly embrace and welcome, warts and all. Your “warts” were also mine. And because of that, I realized that yes, there can be someone who accepts me. But at the same time … no … no, I cannot have your warts mix with mine. Because if they did? I would take too many steps backwards. <br /><br /> Did you understand and accept that? Yes. Yes you did. And for that? I love(d) you. <br /><br /> But now? Now it is not okay.<br /><br /> Because of the acceptance you showed me, I have truly realized that there honestly IS beauty in the flaws. And because of that, I have learned that my flaws <strong>cannot</strong> also be yours. Because if that is the case, my (and our) flaws create cracks. And those cracks create chasms. And those chasms create the deep dark places that I have already lived through, and cannot visit again. CAN-NOT. </p> <p>You said you would be willing to change.<br /><br /> I don’t want that.</p> <p>_____________________________</p> <p>I want to love someone, warts and all, and be okay with it. And I want them to love me for the same reason. Down to my soul, down to his soul. <br /><br /> I want their crevices to balance out my peaks. And vice versa. <br /><br /> What I <em>don’t</em> want is for them to change solely for me. If they want to change for themselves, sure. Have at. If they want to change because it is something <em>they</em> want, and because of that, they know I will support them, please … knock yourself out.<br /><br /> But to say you would change because it makes *me* uncomfortable? Because by changing it would make things easier? No. No, no, no. <br /><br /> He was, and IS, a wonderful, kind, and caring man. Sadly, he wasn’t the wonderful, kind, and caring man for ME.</p> <p>Could I have been more communicative about that? Yes. Of course. Did fear constrict my throat? Of course it did. Did I learn what to do, and more importantly, what <strong>not</strong> to do, in the future? You bet your ass I did. </p> <p>If you read this, please know that I DO love you. But please realize that no matter how much you say that you aren’t my ex, that you aren’t the people in my past … please realize that those people still colour my present. And no matter how vehement your protestations are, those experiences I will still bring to the table. Is it fair to you, or to me? No, not really.<br /><br /> But it is all I know. <br /> _____________________________</p> <p>Am I running away?</p> <p>Maybe I am. </p> <p>But, if I stopped running, would I be settling? </p> <p>Survey says … yes.</p> <p>I am learning that sticking up for myself is hard. Damn hard.</p> <p>And that when sticking up for yourself, you will never have the cut and dry answers that the other person wants.</p> <p>...</p> <p>Oh jeez. Fuck it. <br /><br /> To live a cliché, “It’s not you, it’s me. I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”</p> <p>_____________________________</p> <p><span>Thus Spake Zarathustra.</span></p> <div style="width: 300px"> <div><object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" width="300" height="110"><param name="width" value="300" /><param name="height" value="110" /><param name="wmode" value="transparent" /><param name="src" value="http://media.imeem.com/m/raovpxLJqu/aus=false/" /><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="300" height="110" wmode="transparent" src="http://media.imeem.com/m/raovpxLJqu/aus=false/"></embed></object></div> <div style="padding: 1px; background-color: #e6e6e6"> <div style="padding: 4px 4px 0pt 0pt; float: left"><a href="http://www.imeem.com/"><img src="http://www.imeem.com/embedsearch/E6E6E6/" alt="" /><span> </span>/></a></div> <div style="padding-top: 3px"> <a href="http://www.imeem.com/ads/banneradclick.ashx?ep=0&ek=raovpxLJqu"><img src="http://www.imeem.com/ads/bannerad/152/10/" alt="" /></a><a href="http://www.imeem.com/ads/banneradclick.ashx?ep=1&ek=raovpxLJqu"><img src="http://www.imeem.com/ads/bannerad/153/10/" alt="" /></a><a href="http://www.imeem.com/ads/banneradclick.ashx?ep=2&ek=raovpxLJqu"><img src="http://www.imeem.com/ads/bannerad/154/10/" alt="" /></a><a href="http://www.imeem.com/ads/banneradclick.ashx?ep=3&ek=raovpxLJqu"><img src="http://www.imeem.com/ads/bannerad/155/10/raovpxLJqu/" alt="" /></a> </div> </div> </div> <br /><a href="http://www.imeem.com/people/fLrovLT/music/ymK_Zu4T/ani-difranco-asking-too-much/">Asking Too Much - Ani DiFranco</a> <br /><br />Maybe I <em><strong>am </strong></em>asking too much. But I don't think so. <br /><br /><div style="width: 300px"> <div><object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" width="300" height="110"><param name="width" value="300" /><param name="height" value="110" /><param name="wmode" value="transparent" /><param name="src" value="http://media.imeem.com/m/DYFI27Ld0F/aus=false/" /><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="300" height="110" wmode="transparent" src="http://media.imeem.com/m/DYFI27Ld0F/aus=false/"></embed></object></div> <div style="padding: 1px; background-color: #e6e6e6"> <div style="padding: 4px 4px 0pt 0pt; float: left"><a href="http://www.imeem.com/"><img src="http://www.imeem.com/embedsearch/E6E6E6/" alt="" /></a></div> <div style="padding-top: 3px"> <a href="http://www.imeem.com/ads/banneradclick.ashx?ep=0&ek=DYFI27Ld0F"><img src="http://www.imeem.com/ads/bannerad/152/10/" alt="" /></a><a href="http://www.imeem.com/ads/banneradclick.ashx?ep=1&ek=DYFI27Ld0F"><img src="http://www.imeem.com/ads/bannerad/153/10/" alt="" /></a><a href="http://www.imeem.com/ads/banneradclick.ashx?ep=2&ek=DYFI27Ld0F"><img src="http://www.imeem.com/ads/bannerad/154/10/" alt="" /></a><a href="http://www.imeem.com/ads/banneradclick.ashx?ep=3&ek=DYFI27Ld0F"><img src="http://www.imeem.com/ads/bannerad/155/10/DYFI27Ld0F/" alt="" /></a> </div> </div> </div> <br /><a href="http://www.imeem.com/people/bhFcWx/music/-rN7Ehed/ani-difranco-joyful-girl/">Joyful Girl - Ani DiFranco</a> <p> <em> 'cuz the bathroom mirror has not budged<br /> <span> </span> and the woman who lives there can tell<br /> <span> </span> the truth from the stuff that they say<br /> <span> </span> and she looks me in the eye<br /> <span> </span> and says would you prefer the easy way?<br /> <span> </span> no, well o.k. then<br /> <span> </span> don't cry</em><br /><br /> It’s taken a while to look in the mirror. And now? Finally, I can look myself in the eye. The easy way really isn’t all that it is cracked up to be.</p> <p>And I won’t cry.</p> <p>(Much.)<br /><br />So ... how're you? ;) </p> <p> </p>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-92020613131233904492009-05-31T02:24:00.001-07:002009-05-31T02:24:40.281-07:00I may be rough, but I am still precious<p>I will never apologize about my past. No, nay, never.<br /><br /> No, nay, never. <strong><em>NO MORE</em></strong>. <br /><br /> Even if it makes <em>you </em>feel better.<br /><br /> Everything I have ever done, every mistake I have ever made, every encounter I have lived through ...<br /><br /> ... all of those occurrences have made me the person that I am, today. This moment. This here and now. <br /><br /> This person that you have loved? This person that you still love? This person standing in front of you? <br /> ____________________________________________________ <br /><br /> I AM the sum of my parts. Ain't nothin' will change that. And no longer will I apologize for my past. Instead ...<br /><br /> Instead?<br /><br /> I will revel in it. I will bathe in it. I will let my fingers rummage through each experience, each jewel, and I will let them slide through my fingers. I will grab handfuls of them, great big fistfuls, and I will bring them to my face, let my lips taste and kiss every one of them, and then... ?<br /><br /> ... then I will inhale each and every one. I will smile at the remembrance. I will throw myself down in the plunder of my past. And I will roll in it. I will laugh in it. I will be positively GIDDY in it. <br /><br /> These gems make my mosaic. This one here, this blue one? It shows learning.This crack here, this red facet? It shows experience. This scar, the green one that catches the light just so? It shows a lesson. This one here, the amber one with all of its flecks? The one that seems like it will break with the slightest breath? <strong>This </strong>one is my cornerstone. The one I hold most dear. <br /> ____________________________________________________ <br /><br /> Individually the tiles, the gems and jewels - they may be marred, they may be scarred, they may be broken, but on the whole?<br /><br /> They are beautiful. <br /><br /> And you know what? So am I. <br /><br /> Sometimes all you can see is the whole. And you forget that it's the small details, the small cracks, that make the whole gorgeous. <br /><br /> Don't you dare forget that. Because? Because even if you do? Even if YOU forget? <br /><br /> I won't. <br /><br /> I REFUSE. <br /> ____________________________________________________ <br /><br /> Some of my imperfections, some of my flaws, some of my light that is reflected out, you may not like. Well, you know what? Too bad for you. I like them. I may not love them, but I like them just fine. And if you don't? If you can't handle them? If you can't embrace them? Well ... <br /><br /> ... that's <strong>your </strong>loss. Not mine. I have fought too long and too hard to hate myself because of them. I have earned each and every one of these oddities.<br /> ____________________________________________________ <br /><br /><br /> THIS ... this is my face. Suck it. <br /><br /> (And this stone? This one right here, that you can't seem to look away from? That one is a diamond. And that diamond is <em><strong>me</strong></em>.) <br /></p> <div><object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" width="425" height="344"><param name="width" value="425" /><param name="height" value="344" /><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="src" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/uG9rsTV9eAo&hl=en&fs=1" /><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="344" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/uG9rsTV9eAo&hl=en&fs=1"></embed></object></div> <p> </p>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-15893263605807948082009-03-28T00:54:00.000-07:002009-03-28T00:57:41.667-07:00Hooray for boobies! And by boobies, I mean words.Words and perception – the definition of “hell” to one person, that same word can mean something completely different to another.<br /><br />Growing up there were some words I wouldn’t say. Not that I couldn’t, I just wouldn’t. Take the word “just” – it was something I would steer away from in spoken conversation. I would write it, just like I wrote jam, shit, Shannon, and chicken – all of those words were verbally verboten to me.<br /><br />No, it wasn’t that I wasn’t allowed to say them, but somehow between my brain and my tongue, the ch, sh, and juh sounds come out somewhat jumbly and slurry. It gets tiring to write out my spoken words, when I was trying to say something innocuous as “Jim ate jelly”. Beginning then, I learned a work-around in my spoken vocabulary. It’s why I don’t say “shit” out loud a lot, even though it was my first word.<br /><br />*******<br /><br />Raised in Orange County, I always thought that all women wanted big boobs and blonde hair – it’s what my friends and peers talked about when we reached puberty. “D’ya think they’re real, or does she stuff?” “I dunno. Do you want me to go ask her for a tissue and see where she reaches for it?” When I finally did get my own set of boobs, I wanted them to be bigger, better, faster.<br /><br />Well, that’s not really true …<br /><br />For a long time, I didn’t want boobs. Did not want them. No, no, no. It meant I would be a woman. It meant that I could no longer go and hide in trees, or at the bottom of the pool. It meant that I would be noticed. Being noticed was tantamount to my own personal second circle of hell.<br /><br />Driving home from school one afternoon, my grandmother said that it was time for me to get a training bra. Of course, anything my grandmother said I needed, or what she thought I wanted, I did everything within my power to do the exact opposite. I really didn’t need a training bra at the time, but apparently I had reached some magical, mystical age that meant, to her, that I did. From that day forward, I slouched. No amount of love taps on my back from the ruler-wielding nuns would make me sit up straight. <span> </span><br /><br />Well, that’s not really true either…<br /><br />In dance class I always had perfect posture. (Is it odd that I was more afraid of my jazz teacher than the nuns?)<br /><br />The uniform blouses that we were forced to wear at school aided and abetted in trying to hide my growing buds, but the leotards? Every flaw, real or perceived, was there for all to see, much to my shame. (Did I mention that I really didn’t want boobs?)<br /><br />It was only when my dance teacher said that I might need some support that I finally caved and let my grandmother get me a training bra. I’m still traumatized from that shopping experience. Did she not realize that clutching a bra, then holding it to my chest, and exclaiming for the entire store to hear, “No, this one is too big!” would scar me for years?<br /><br />The summer between 8th grade and my freshman year, the beige satin trainer began to pinch and I had to resort to stealing my grandmother’s C-cup bra. That, too, pinched in time.<br /><br />“I don’t know where your bra went – maybe it has gone to play with the socks in the Dryer In The Sky?” After that one and only shopping trip, I was still too emotionally raw to experience another one and so I lied. That was the time that I realized that some small white lies are good. So, I lied about stealing her bra and I hid it under my mattress.<br /><br />Again I found myself slouching.<br /><br />*******<br /><br />Once I realized that my boobs garnered attention from the cute surfer boys (Sal Belmonte? I’m looking at you), I started to embrace my boobs. To see them not as a hindrance, but as something to be used; used so that I could get what I want. If I wore a low cut top, leaned against the counter, and placed my arms just so, I created cleavage and the attendant at the Arco would sell me cigarettes – at age 14. Since his eyes didn’t get much further up than my clavicle, I was never carded.<br /><br />Fast forward to age 21. Tanya was complaining about herself, saying she felt fat, that she looked fat. I, of course, told her, “You aren’t fat, you’ve just got huge tits.”<br /><br />That went over like a lead balloon.<br /><br />Actually, a lead balloon would have gone over better.<br /><br />I’ve learned a lot since then.<br /><br />*******<br /><br />Words are a cozy blanket on a rainy day – I roll in them, they cover me, and give me warmth. Sometimes how others perceive my words? It is more like a big bucket of ice water splashed in their face.<br /><br />Actions speak louder than words at times – I think Tanya saw that. My actions belied the stupid words I had said.<br /><br />When I saw the look on her face after I made that comment about her boobs, I realized that I really stepped in it. Another case of foot-in-mouth-itis. After a long conversation, I realized the hurt that my words caused, and she saw that I was trying to compliment her. (That whole concept of “big tits = beauty” was what my Orange County and raised by a male experience taught me. It’s all perspective, no?)<br /><br />*******<br /><br />Almost 12 years later, that moment is what comes to mind when someone asks my opinion. That moment, and her face. “Are my words being filtered through my own life, my own perspective? How will the asker receive my words? Will they understand what I am saying at the core, or will the words cut?”<br /><br />I have learned to love my boobs, just as they are. They, like my words, are me, I am them, I embrace them, but they no longer define me (nor do they make me slouch). Sometimes, like my words, I use them. But more often than not, I let them be. If others want to judge me by them, that is their perogative; their perception.<br /><br />Yes, I still speak honestly, but not quite off the cuff any more. I allow myself pauses, and deep breaths, before I speak. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. And sometimes I still slouch. But always, it is heartfelt.<br /><br />Sometimes, it is all I can do.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzjKc9C0mcxZvRBBN55k1Qqiy6bMtWrX5CebU2quV0DD1MUzWKXZnUxLlQ4ALM7CZboDWYM_Xqzyl8vOq4IYzJOFLMVblDSNEMJauJ8trdDRm4Vl4jPZrv6a7Oj93EysMnWsTRpTepWc/s1600-h/boobies.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 218px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwzjKc9C0mcxZvRBBN55k1Qqiy6bMtWrX5CebU2quV0DD1MUzWKXZnUxLlQ4ALM7CZboDWYM_Xqzyl8vOq4IYzJOFLMVblDSNEMJauJ8trdDRm4Vl4jPZrv6a7Oj93EysMnWsTRpTepWc/s320/boobies.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318144367428606098" border="0" /></a><br /></p> <p><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-79547083223965021752009-03-20T22:35:00.000-07:002009-03-20T23:02:39.591-07:00Oh Dave. Goodbye, my friend. Goodbye.<p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">I hate this. My nose is so plugged up I can’t breathe, my eyes are so teary I can’t see. My heart is so sore, that I can’t feel. (Or I feel too much.)<br /><br /> Oh, Dave. Dave, Dave, Dave! (For the “Dead Like Me” fans out there, the intonation is the same as when George says, “Mason, Mason, Mason”.)<br /><br /> ******* </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Where to start?</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">You are a storyteller.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">A rescuer of stuffed animals. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">A kind man. And I DO mean that – there aren’t many people that I describe as “kind”. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Nice? Yes. Caring? Yes. Sweet? Yes. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">But kind? To me, that word sums up all that is <strong><em>good</em></strong>, and <strong><em>right</em></strong>. Not many people can embody both of those words. Some live one word, some the other. But both? Only you. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">You work with developmentally disabled and abused kids. You act as an advocate; a counselor; a teacher; a safe port. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">A friend.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Throughout my life I have been blessed (not just blessed, but lucky, <strong><em>lucky</em></strong>) to know many people who work with the downtrodden, the so-called less desirable, the broken, the “unfixable”. Granted, they all work and embody caring, embody love, and embody aplomb. But you? </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">You …</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">YOU are KIND. Down to your marrow, you are kind. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">*******</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Before I <em>officially</em> met you, we played. Without ever knowing the other persons name, we saw each other on an early Saturday morning – you seeing me, me seeing you, and we both made eye contact.<br /><br /> Blue to green-hazel.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Green-hazel, to deep blue.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Our eyes met. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Of course, I was confused. But I went with it. You? You were going out on a limb. <br /><br /> (At the time I was 16, and you were close to 30. But then, as now, I couldn’t, I can not, resist a game. I think you sensed that in me. Then, as now, you always saw to the core of a person.) <br /><br /> Blue to green-hazel.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Green-hazel to blue – our eyes told the story before any word was ever spoken.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">You ducked behind a tree. After a second of confusion, I see your eye, then the rest of your face, and that sly, joking smile, emerge from behind that tree; seeing me standing there, very confused. Just as quickly as you popped out, you popped back in again. And then? Then I knew what you were about. I joined in, my lip curled in understanding. My head ducked in a quick nod. A nod that said, “yes, I see what you are about. I see your ante, and raise it”. <br /><br /> The game was afoot. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">I, too, found a nearby tree, and for a few moments, we played a game of peek-a-boo, much to the amusement of the various passersby. Once our trees tired of us, and shook us off like tired leaves, we moved on.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">A slow, yet fast moving, game of statues followed. A visual Marco Polo, a game of “red-light, green-light” if you will, wherein each of us pretended to not see the other. Again, the passersby were confused, yet they still walked away with a smile. I?<br /><br /> I walked away with a song in my heart. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">I think it was at the end of that weekend when we actually, and officially, met. (As soon as you hid behind that tree, and I followed suit, we “truly” met. Everything else was just semantics.) </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">“Hi, I’m Dave. Thank you for playing with me yesterday.”</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">“Hey Dave. I’m Anni. Thank you for allowing me to play with you.” <br /><br /> “Thank you for joining in. It’s not really about you and me, is it? It’s about the world.”<br /><br /> “True ‘dat. See you next Saturday?”</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">“I’ll be behind the tree. See you then.”</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">******* <br /> After a few years of talking, we became friends. We each saw through the others wall, but neither said so. It worked for us.<br /><br /> Goddamnit! You were supposed to marry my cousin, and show her that not all men are self-centered jerks. You and I knew that, though it was never spoken aloud. It was always danced around, and winked over, on your part and hers. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">“Hey, how’s Dave? Have you talked to him recently?” </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">“Yes. I have. He says hello.”</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">“Hey there redhead. How’s your gorgeous cousin?”</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">“She’s fine. She says hello.”<br /><br /> All the unspoken subtext between the two of you was never verbalized, but it was felt. Always was it felt. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">If there was ever a match made in heaven and all of the afterlife’s, you two embodied it. Sadly, you were both circling the same tree, but never met on the same side. It was a game of tag, with no one being “it”. <br /><br /> Circles. Both of you searching for the same end, but both …</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Running in circles. <br /><br /> Circles … around each other. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">******* <br /><br /> Thinking back to that first of many games of hide and pseudo-seek, and peek-a-boo, what I see most, what I remember most, are your eyes. God. Your eyes! </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">They are so, so, SO incredibly blue. Paul Newman had nothing (<strong><em>nothing</em></strong>) on your peepers. <br /><br /> You know that blue of the </span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Caribbean</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial"> ocean? Where the really light part meets the really dark part? That small sliver of colour in between the dark, and the light? With a touch, just a touch, of the setting sun indigo? THAT is the colour I remember. <br /><br /> That is the colour, and the smile, that looked out at me that very first time. <br /><br /> That shade embodied everything in and of you. It was deep. It was light. It was fun. It was sad. It was a fan-fucking-tastic mix. A mix of this, that, the other, and everything in between. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Your eyes? They are open. And loving. And, yes, mischievous. There is that gleam. Always that chuckling gleam. God, how I miss that look. The concept of the eyes being the window to the soul? In your case, there was never any doubt. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Your panes were never smeary, or smudged. Clear. Open. Clean. <br /><br /> I envy that, yanno? </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">******* <br /><br /> One of the first <em>honest</em>, and no holds-barred conversations we had revolved around the developmentally disabled, and abused, kids. Somehow the conversation was hijacked from the light and fluffy into something more real, and tangible. And felt. How we got there, I don’t remember. Somehow … <br /><br /> … I spoke of creating theatre on a semester time-frame with these kids; you spoke of creating a connection with them, on a day-to-day basis. <br /><br /> We both taught each other during that conversation. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">You admitted that many of their stories, their life trials, their experiences, made you <strong>want</strong> to quit, you <em>knew</em> you had to stick with it. “Who else is willing to just sit and LISTEN to them? And then get up and play with them?” <br /><br /> And then you did. You sat. You listened. And then? Then you played. <br /><br /> Then … then I spoke of volunteering at a certain facility in San Francisco … you responded with the fact that you worked, day in and day out, with those same kids at that same location. The heartache and love you expressed, not just through your words, but through your body language, spoke volumes. <br /><br /> Although I loved you the moment you started to teach me to play years before, behind that tree, THAT moment solidified that feeling. And then some. <br /><br /> You make me want to volunteer again. <br /><br /> ******* </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Your smile and humour – it is open. It is wide. At times, it is guarded. Subtle. VERY subtle. <br /><br /> Only those who knew you could see that subtlety. And the walls you hid behind, calling them “subtlety”. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Not a mean, vicious, or even snarky, bone resides in your body. <br /><br /> Sarcastic? Yes. <br /><br /> Biting? Wellllll, at times. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">But overall? So damn joyful; life affirming. <br /><br /> Joie de vivre? You should have been the spokesman for that concept. <br /><br /> ******* <br /><br /> You know, I have never realized until THIS moment … this exact, <u>very</u> moment … that you, YOU, were an underlying component in my new-found optimism. <br /><br /> It’s all so clear now. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial"><br /> ******* <br /><br /> The difference between child-like, and childish? You taught me that.<br /><br /> For the longest time, I gave up the fun, because I thought it was “childish”. Until you, I never realized that child<strong><em>like</em></strong> does not equal child<strong><em>ish</em></strong>. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">There is a difference. Truly. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">And you taught me that. You did. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Thank you. Thank you for teaching me to love the swings again, without feeling self conscious.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Thank you. Thank you for showing me that to play inane games with a toddler doesn’t equate to me being “an idiot”.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Thank you. Thank you for showing me the joy of living, and experiencing, through another’s eyes, and lens. <br /><br /> Thank you. Thank you for teaching me that stopping to smell the roses doesn’t slow you down from your walk through life. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Thank you. Thank you for teaching me to embrace. Embrace life. Embrace friends. Embrace children. And? Embrace the moment. Embrace “the now”.<br /><br /> The now only happens once. <br /><br /> When the hell <strong><em><u>is</u></em></strong> the now? Well … it is … NOW. The now turns into “the then” and also “the future”. <br /><br /> “The then” can only be appreciated if you experience the now.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">“The future” is only, truly, lived if you embrace the now … now. <br /><br /> Future and past … the cannot be measured without “the now”. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">As much as I loathe to say this … thank you. Thank YOU for showing me what an uptight ass I was; thank you for opening the door, again, to child-like (but not childish) wonder. <br /><br /> And joy.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">On Saturday, when I am able to visit my friends’ kids, I will play with them until they fall down from exhaustion. Until they fall asleep on their feet. Until they pee from laughter. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">*******<br /><br /> I can’t call or text the cousin to tell her – it’s too late, and she <strong>needs</strong> her rest. After Dad died, she became the caretaker, and warden, of Nana. If I tell her right now, this will kill her. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">It’s better to wait until daylight. <br /><br /> It amazes me that after 9 years, each of you still asks about the other. That is telling, no? </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">You, Mr. Dave, have touched people. Some of them you KNEW you touched. For others, others like me who prefer to keep their emotions and feelings locked up, you touched, without you knowing. <br /><br /> You never knew that touched people, though I suspect that you had an inkling.Your fingerprint lies on them (and me, and us), all the same.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">******* <br /><br /> Another storyteller I met at 16 was Mykie Dave. Larger than life, he was; literally and figuratively. (He was also a redhead, so he got untold bonus points for that fuck-up in genetics. What can I say? Like attracts like. And you and he were friends, not just with me, but with each other, so … )</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">He was the first person that I thought of to officiate my wedding. (Though you were a close, a <strong><em>very</em></strong> close, second.) </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Your storytelling, and his, were very similar: both of you told tales of love thought lost, but then found … and realized. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">The only difference between your stories was this: Mykie Dave always said that, “funny doesn’t have to be nice” – he sometimes beat you over the head. Whereas you … you were always nice. (Mykie Dave used a 2x4, and you used a ruler – both were tools to beat people over the head. The difference was in the bruises left the next day.) <br /><br /> ******* </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">I should have called. I FELT it. I FELT that I should have called.<br /><br /> But I didn’t. <br /><br /> For me, time doesn’t hold a lot of sway. (I think you knew that.) <br /><br /> Sadly, for the last two years, I think you not only heard, but <em>felt</em>, each moment count down. <br /><br /> Tonight … that clock ticked its final second. <br /><br /> Tick, tick, tick, tick, BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!<br /><br /> (GodDAMN those egg timers!)</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">******* </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">That friend or that family member that you have, for no known reason, been thinking about lately?</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Call them.<br /><br /> Send them an e-mail.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Give them a hug.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Reach out. <br /><br /> If only "just because".<br /><br /> *******<br /> Before I completely lost my shit tonight, my old roommate Ken randomly IMed me. He offered me a much needed break from my own head, and emotions. When I was on the verge of a breakdown, on the verge of an “ugly cry”, he brought me some laughter. <br /><br /> So did some of the goofy and off the wall blog posts tonight. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">If you can’t laugh through your tears, what else can you do?<br /><br /> *******<br /><br /> Shit. Say it ain’t so. Please. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Say it isn’t so.<br /><br /> This news is still just a few hours old. I wish I could plug my ears with my fingers, close my eyes, rock back and forth and repeat, “la la la la la, waterfalls, waterfalls” over and over, and over again, and when I opened my eyes, the world would still have you in it. <br /><br /> *******<br /><br /> Although <strong>you</strong> were not my safe harbor, you were still part of the shoal, and you played that role (of safe harbor) for many kids. <br /><br /> What the fuck are they (and I? and us?) going to do without you?</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">I have lived through this before – I have lost someone, some people, I love too soon. However, *I* had a support system in place. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">Many of the kids you touched don’t have that. They never experienced the haven of acceptance and peace until you came along. <br /><br /> ******* </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">I hope I can do you justice. <br /><br /> Each day, I try to find my own tree with which I can hide behind and invite others to come play hide-and-seek. Although I do live the mischievous, I am still trying to find those who will <em>get</em>, and play <em>with</em>, me. <br /><br /> It’s a long road, but such a fulfilling one. (Thank you for showing me the alternate route.) <br /><br /> And although I am pretty much over the concept of praying … I PRAY that this weekend, when I am playing with the bazillion kids of my friends, that I can channel you.<br /><br /> That I can offer them some hope. Some laughter. Some mystical twinkle. Some safe bubble.</span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">*******<br /><br /> Death is what gives this thing we call life a frame. To quote Rumi, <br /><br /> Dance when you're broken open. <br /> Dance if you've torn the bandage off. <br /> Dance in the middle of the fighting. <br /> Dance in your blood. <br /> Dance when you're perfectly free.<br /><br /> *******<br /><br /> Goddamnit Dave! We weren’t done telling stories. (YOU weren’t done telling stories. I was just learning how.)<br /><br /> Why did you have to up and die tonight? <br /><br /> You may be gone, from this physical plane, but I will dance. I will dance in my blood. </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">I will dance for me, for you, and for YOU, YOU who are reading this incoherent babble. <br /><br /> I will dance to embrace life: mine, yours, yours, and YOURS, and ours. <br /><br /> ******* </span></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">I have heard, and experienced, better storytelling. However, here is a link to a story that Dave recorded just 8 short months ago.<br /><br /> Dave? You know that you can do better than this, I have seen, heard, and experienced you do better than this … you <em>KNOW </em>this. However, I will embrace what is below, and remember all of our conversations to the best of my ability. <br /><br /> I will miss you. It's only been a few hours, but already I miss you. (You hated to make me cry, but damn … you are doing it now. But you are doing it in such a happy, yet sad way … you can’t yell at me for this. DON'T YELL AT ME! Stop smiling at me, and laughing with me, whilst I cry. It defeats the entire purpose.)<br /><br /> The beauty that was, that IS you, I will try to pass along. I will try to live.<br /><br /> No. Scratch that. I WILL live. And love. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 12pt"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">My friend? I love you. And I wish you nothing but peace, love, happiness, and a pain-free, cancer-free, existence. </span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 12pt"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial"><object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" width="441" height="268"><param name="width" value="441" /><param name="height" value="268" /><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="src" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/nwPqR2lmcpc&hl=en&fs=1" /><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="441" height="268" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/nwPqR2lmcpc&hl=en&fs=1"></embed></object><br /><br /> ******* </span></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">David is a graduate of the Dominican University Storytelling Credential Program and holds a Bachelor's Degree in theater. He is a member of the San Francisco Asian Art Museum Storytelling Corps, and has served as a member of the Board of directors for the Storytelling Association of Alta California for six years. David is the recipient of three Marin Arts Council grants. His Storytelling CD, <span style="color: #9900cc">Anything Can Happen</span>, is the winner of a Parents' Choice award.</span></strong></p> <strong>______</strong> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">David Ponkey serves as a storytelling therapist for Sunny Hills/Children's Garden group homes, and is a member of the San Francisco Asian Art Museum Storytelling Corps. David served as a member of the Board of Directors for the Storytelling Association of Alta California for six years, and is the recipient of three Marin Arts Council grants for storytelling with special needs students. His storytelling tape, <em>Anything Can Happen</em> is the winner of a Parents Choice award.</span></strong></p> <p><strong><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial"> </span></strong></p> <p><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial">*******Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-91647187565200905052009-03-09T04:13:00.001-07:002009-03-09T04:13:36.082-07:00I love you.I stopped saying “I love you” when I was 5, shortly after she died. I thought that those three simple, monosyllabic, words could kill someone. That <strong>I</strong> had <em><strong>that</strong> </em>kind of power.<br /><br />“I love you Mom” ...<br /><br />BOOM! Gone.<br /><br />Brrrring! Brrrrring! The telephone was sqealing, screaming, yelling.<br /><br />"Uhh, hello? Oh, god, no. No. No. NO! Ann!!! Ann!!! Katie is dead. SHE'S DEAD! Katie is gone."<br /><br />Does it matter that Katie's daughter, YOUR granddaughter, was sleeping next to you in your bed (because of nightmares), and could hear your voice? The voice that was yelling out to Katie's mom, my grandmother, she (I) could also hear?<br /><br />You were gripping the bedroom doorframe, gathering strength for yourself. Was there any compassion for Ga, for me? Were you grabbing that wooden frame for yourself, or for us?<br /><br />All that little girl (your granddaughter) knew, at that moment, was that the last person she said "I love you" to was gone. Forever.<br /><br />And there you were ... bellowing that she was dead. Tsk, tsk.<br /><br />No compassion.<br /><br />I guess that is what they describe as a wake up call ... literally.<br /><br />******* <br /><br />It took a decade and a half for me to say those same words out loud again. When I first said them, I cringed; I thought that a lightening bolt from on high would come down and smite him; my first boyfriend, the one to whom I said them. <span> </span> The <em>feeling</em> of love? I was full of it. The <em>words</em>? I meant. Never the twain shall meet. At the time, I was terrified to combine the two – the addition of feeling and words I just couldn’t do. Couldn’t handle. It was too terrifying. My soul felt like it was going to be torn. When I said them out loud to him, I thought quietly to myself, “I hate you”. It was akin to not stepping on a crack to keep mother’s back intact. I was trying to balance the feelings. The words. The intent. It was to save your life (or so I thought).<br /><br /><a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LnlvdXR1YmUuY29tL3dhdGNoP3Y9UXNsMk8ySDdnMWM=">My aching heart? It would bleed.</a> <br /><br />******* <br /><br />Almost 3 decades later, I still have a hard time saying those three simple syllables. Instead of light and happiness, there is still fear, darkness, and loss tied into those words; more specifically the order in which they are said. <br /><br />Many times (too many to count) I <strong><u>wished</u></strong> I had said <strike>those </strike>these words: <br /><br />I <br /><br />LOVE <br /><br />YOU <br /><br />Say them with me.<br /><br />I. LOVE. YOU.<br /><br />Just saying them out loud – separately – it’s not so hard, right? Said separately, they are easy – like reading off a grocery list. They are words that we use every day, in many different contexts. <br /><br />Stating, saying, and feeling those simple words, in that SPECIFIC order … that can, and is, terrifying. <br /><br />Still ... <br /><br />******* <br /><br />Why the fuck are we so scared of how our love will be taken. Perceived? <br /><br />Why can we not tell someone we love someone, without fearing how THEY will take it? Are our emotions only true, dependent, and <strong>worth</strong> something on how the other person <strike>sees </strike>feels those emotions? <br /><br />Can I/you/we not love someone? Whether or not they love me/you/us back? Does it HAVE to be a two-way street? <br /><br />It <strong>is </strong>comfortable when the one way turns into two-way; in fact … it’s easier. That pent up breath that you didn’t know you were holding? It finally comes bursting out. "I love you."<br /><br />"I love you too." PHEW! Why the hell are we so afraid to voice what we feel? Why can’t we allow our heart to speak the truth? Damn the consequences! <br /><br />******* <br /><br />Thinking back, I remember a couple (maybe two, maybe six, maybe four) times that I <strong>actually</strong> told Dad (out loud) that I loved him. <u>Out loud</u>. There were only a couple of times that the words “love”, “I”, and “you” came out in the correct, and in the right, order. <br /><br />The <em>correct </em>order. That was felt. All at once. That small handful … said out loud … well, the amount of times I said it? It makes me feel like a shithead. <br /><br />The terror I felt, from trying to voice those three words, would always tie up my throat. (I mean, I told Mom numerous times that I loved her. And Dad. And a random assortment of family. But then? Then she died. Were my words enough to kill? I didn’t want to take chances, so those simple words were stricken from my spoken lexicon. Nobody heard those words for a long, long time.) <br /><br />I know, <strong>know</strong> down to my heart and marrow, that Dad knew that I loved him. But there are times … <br /><br />… <br /><br />... there are times that I wish I could have overcome my own self-imposed fear. Not only for him, but also for me. <br /><br />They are just words, right? Just sounds that are made – starting at the lungs with an inhale, exhale. Let it out. Let it go through the vocal chords and zenith over the tongue and through the mouth. How hard is that?<br /><br />*inhale* <br /><br />I <br /><br />LOVE <br /><br />YOU<br /><br />*exhale* <br /><br />Three syllables. Three breaths. Three short sounds to make. <br /><br />******* <br /><br />Just saying “I love you” was hard enough. Words can be insubstantial. The wind can catch, and take away, anything said. The words out of your mouth are ever changing – a dust mote caught in the sunlight. Never permanent. It twists, and can be twisted. It can be carried away. <br /><br />Written down though? Said AND felt?<br /><br />Those words can haunt you.<br /><br />They are palpable. <br /><br />******* <br /><br />Tanya, one of my nearest and dearest friends, taught me the power and sanctuary of saying, and <em><strong>feeling</strong></em>, those three words. Those words said, and felt, in the correct order. Many times she said them to me. I kept pushing her away. She didn’t care – she was saying her own truth. Finally, finally, I accepted them. She taught me how to love myself. Not in any perceptible way. There was no “a-ha!” moment; her words, and feelings, wriggled themselves into my psyche. She created a chink in my emotional wall that went both ways. I opened myself up to love from the outside, and it penetrated my own inside workings. <br /><br />She loved and accepted me – warts and all. By doing that, by feeling that, and by stating that vocally … she allowed me to open up just enough to love myself. <br /><br />Many friends and family did the same thing, and they all created the cracks. Each and every one of them had a hand in breaking down my walls. But Tanya was the one who was the most persistent and adamant in her feelings. And one of the most vocal. <br /><br />******* <br /><br />There was a time that I was used to, but not yet comfortable with, saying “I love you”; the next step was actually writing down those words. <br /><br />It was easier to stop cutting my wrists than it was to actually put pen to paper and permanently etch those feelings. The act of writing was more permanent – it was not as ethereal as just saying something What if the object of my love died? Or didn’t reciprocate those feelings? Did that mean that my words, and heart, killed them?<br /><br />That was my experience – my words killed. <br /><br />It wasn’t until later that I finally realized that my words, my feelings, were just a victim of circumstance. That by saying “I love you” – it didn’t mean an automatic death sentence. It actually meant growth. And life. <br /><br />Withholding my <strong>true </strong>feelings not only hurt(s) friends and family, it also hurt(s) myself. I know that Dad would have liked to hear me actually tell him that I loved him more often than I actually did.<br /><br />But I also know that he just <strong>knew </strong>I did. <br /><br />******* <br /><br />“I love you Bubba.” <br /><br />“You too.” <br /><br />Even though <strong>I</strong> couldn’t say it, <strong>he</strong> still felt it.<br /><br />He, however, was able to say (and feel) it.<br /><br />Learning ... I'm learning.<br /><br />******* <br /><br />Superglue is one of the greatest inventions – it allows you to put back together pieces to where it’s almost whole again ... <br /><br />In that vein, I’m mostly put back together.<br /><br />The breaks, the chinks, the cracks, they are all still visible. But by showing them, I’m also showing that I have been used, and loved. I am not perfect, but I am still adored. <br /><br />“I love you” is no longer something to fear. It is no longer an invective. They are now words that I embrace. They are words that I live. They are words that I feel. <br /><br />They are words I now say.<br /><br />And <strong>feel</strong>.<br /><br />Now? Down to my marrow, my soul, I feel and live them. <br /><br />******* <br /><br />I wish I could have said those words aloud in life, instead of waiting until we were both broken: me, grasping the flag to my chest – he, being lowered into the ground. <br /><br />At <strong>that</strong> moment, he was complete – laid to rest with Mom. His pain finally subsided. <br /><br />I was the one still broken. <br /><br />******* <br /><br />To those who are reading these black words on a white page? I say this to YOU, without fear …without reprisal ... <em><strong><br /><br />I love you.</strong></em>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-2641861964589076352009-03-08T22:13:00.001-07:002009-03-08T22:15:26.139-07:00Photo's from PhridayBrain fried.<br /><br />Feet sore.<br /><br />Skin? Burned.<br /><br />In lieu of words, photos from Friday.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3335162768/"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3326/3335162768_59f658a7a3.jpg" alt="_MG_7847.CR2" width="485" height="323" /></a> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3335171024/"><br /></a></p> <p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3335171024/"><br /><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3591/3335171024_3f266d2419.jpg" alt="Copy of _MG_7766.CR2" width="485" height="323" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3334342211/"><br /><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3613/3334342211_a5ee33e240.jpg" alt="Copy of _MG_7786.CR2" width="485" height="323" /></a> </p> <p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3334345735/"><br /><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3127/3334345735_04863a4704.jpg" alt="Copy of _MG_7776.CR2" width="485" height="308" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3334339907/"><br /><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3545/3334339907_b1c6c29083.jpg" alt="Copy of _MG_7777.CR2" width="485" height="323" /></a> </p> <p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3334338929/"><br /><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3623/3334338929_24f9abaf1c.jpg" alt="Copy of _MG_7775.CR2" width="485" height="323" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3334354923/"><br /><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3657/3334354923_fe342f46ec.jpg" alt="Copy of _MG_7834.CR2" width="485" height="323" /></a> </p> <p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3334353005/"><br /><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3567/3334353005_2cdb0173a8.jpg" alt="Copy of _MG_7844.CR2" width="485" height="318" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3335168486/"><br /><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3652/3335168486_15231b1a7e.jpg" alt="Copy of _MG_7772.CR2" width="485" height="323" /></a> </p> <p> </p> <p><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3335166552/"><br /><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3373/3335166552_bd8d98b1b4.jpg" alt="_MG_7855.CR2" width="485" height="323" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3335190252/"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3576/3335190252_204d1b9774.jpg" alt="Copy of _MG_7830.CR2" width="396" height="500" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3334331209/"><br /><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3297/3334331209_3c617da9aa.jpg" alt="_MG_7851.CR2" width="474" height="500" /></a> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/25433058@N04/3335190252/"><br /><br /><br /></a></p>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-32475220603800214652009-03-03T02:33:00.000-08:002009-03-03T02:36:44.957-08:00On life ... make your own adventure ...The past, the present, and the future are all tied together; a sweaty lovers embrace. Twisted like some perverse Gordian Knot. <div style="border-style: none none solid; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color windowtext; border-width: medium medium 1.5pt; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;"> </div> <p>The past was painful. Death. Love lost. Attempted suicide(s). Rape. Hope.</p> <p style="text-align: right; text-indent: 0.5in;" align="right"><em>The glass is half empty. On its way to being drained. I should just<br /><br />give up...<br /><br /></em></p> <p>The present is the same - <strong>painful</strong>. However, instead of seeing death and loss, I see a life lived. And love. That is what I choose to see now - lots of love. Granted, the present is <strong>still</strong> coloured with shades of the past; but that old sepia hue lends itself to some amazing tints of the <em>now</em>. <span> </span></p> <p style="text-align: right;" align="right"><em>The glass is half empty. On its way to being filled. Maybe, </em>maybe<em>, I should stick around. </em></p> <p>The future is unknown. I cannot say what I will see, or what I will live, or who I will love, or what I will live. I can only give safe harbor to the hope that I <strong>will</strong> experience each to its fullness. Whatever they may be.<br /><br />Yesterday taints our today, and our tomorrow ...<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ONXp-vpE9eU"> sometimes, you just want to hide away</a>. </p> <div style="border-style: none none solid; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color windowtext; border-width: medium medium 1.5pt; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;"> <p style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in; text-align: right;" align="right"><em>The glass is half full. On its way to overflowing. What’s next? Who cares? I can’t wait!</em></p> <p style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in;">Past, present, and future: not only a knot, but also a circle. <em><br /></em></p> </div> <p>Sometimes, when this thing we call life gets to be too much …when it feels like there is just <strong>too </strong>much ... </p> <p>… <strong>too </strong>much responsibility</p> <p>… <strong>too </strong>much worry</p> <p>… <strong>too </strong>much, “oh fuck, what next?”<br /><br />… <strong>too</strong> much, “honestly, I really need just 5 more minutes”<br /><br />… <strong>too</strong> much, “I wish I didn’t have to do this but … your time with us has come …” </p> <p>… <strong>too </strong>much, “where will the money come from?”<br /><br />… <strong>too</strong> much, “I can’t take any more”<br /><br />… <strong>too</strong> much, “I’m too fat. I’ll never find love”<br /><br />… <strong>too</strong> much, “This world is going to hell, and I’m holding the hand basket”<br /><br />… <strong>too</strong> much, “I’m too broken. And so are you.” </p> <p>… <strong>too</strong> much … too much …<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z4bib4PBqGA">Sometimes you have to just let it be, and let it shine</a>. </p> <p>It is times like these that you just need to take a break. Be selfish.<br /><br />Go play. </p> <div style="border-style: solid none; border-color: windowtext -moz-use-text-color; border-width: 1.5pt medium; padding: 1pt 0in;"> <p style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in;">Take a moment and go pump your legs on the swings. Go relive your daredevil days on the monkey bars. Release all the cares of the <strong>now</strong>, and just ... be.<br /><br />Welcome the sun on your face. Revel in the wind through your hair. Kiss the sky, and the one you love. </p> </div> <p>When the weight of the world is resting on your shoulders, and you are feeling Atlas-like, aren’t there times when you want to shove off that massive globe and just … <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7FeIu_pf-_E">run around, fly kites, wrestle, jump and play? Even when those waves crash into you? Reminding you of your misery? </a><br /><br />When the sounds of silence don’t quite clamor <strong>enough</strong>… when your words and arms just don’t reach <strong>enough</strong> … those are the times to revel in silence. The silence that is your, and our, own. Accept that your silence is sometimes acceptable, and okay. When just being there, without words, without judgment, is … enough.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9hUy9ePyo6Q">Revel in those moments. Revel in that silence</a>.</p>Revel! Revel in the spaces between.<br /><br />Tears can be those of happiness or sadness.<br /><br />Laughter can be that of joy or pain.<br /><br />Lies at times, can be a fine line between happiness and pain.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YvkX3t5LgVI">Live in the grey. Live straddling the black and white. Live in those spaces between</a>.<br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YvkX3t5LgVI"></a><br /><div style="border-style: none none solid; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color windowtext; border-width: medium medium 1.5pt; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;"> </div> <p>My wish, my <strong>hope</strong>, is that everyone is able to steal just 5 minutes (five small minutes) a week, and re-live a mere 300 seconds (seconds!) of pure, and in the moment, <strong>fun</strong>. </p> <p>300 seconds of laughter. </p> <p>300 seconds of remembering bruised shins, and knees. </p> <p>A mere 300 seconds of … </p> <p><em><u><strong>JOY</strong></u></em>.</p> <div style="border-style: none none solid; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color windowtext; border-width: medium medium 1.5pt; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;"> <p style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in;">In those 300 seconds, there <strong>IS </strong>no what if, or what next, or what now ... it is only ... what next?</p> </div> <p style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in;">There is <u>only </u>300 seconds of <u>un<strong>adult</strong></u>erated laughter. <br /><br />You can spare that, can’t you? </p> <div style="border-style: none none solid; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color windowtext; border-width: medium medium 1.5pt; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;"> </div> <p>Come on. You <strong>ARE </strong>beautiful. C'mon ... greet this brand new day. </p> <p>Look around … find those spaces in between …</p> <p style="border: medium none ; padding: 0in;"> (It took me a long time to find beauty … but I <u>have</u> found it. And I am still searching. And I won’t let it go ... even if it’s dressed in rags.) </p> <div style="border-style: none none solid; border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color windowtext; border-width: medium medium 1.5pt; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;"> </div> <p>There are still times that I long for yesterday ... but I am living in the now. I force myself to do so ... </p> <p>So, there are these monkey bars near my house … any one <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMk8GIOQHvY">want to come out to play? </a></p> <p> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3pvlHE3mHUhKFJIBJM34BfwyYU2h8jtw_ZO0gTh-XRfd_ylZ9eKgFnXWQOfQPt18XjFyFj0nSVm-ZC6dyHfObn5Xi-AsEZbBGr5CYdseOOt607asOOaDfAaVdbSX8roVEivMZNiqcDeA/s1600-h/Bars.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3pvlHE3mHUhKFJIBJM34BfwyYU2h8jtw_ZO0gTh-XRfd_ylZ9eKgFnXWQOfQPt18XjFyFj0nSVm-ZC6dyHfObn5Xi-AsEZbBGr5CYdseOOt607asOOaDfAaVdbSX8roVEivMZNiqcDeA/s320/Bars.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308908397908623042" border="0" /></a></p> <p> </p>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-86438149038670371772009-02-13T23:54:00.000-08:002009-02-13T23:56:29.444-08:00In BrugesHoly hell ... <br /><br />I'm TRYING to watch the movie, to listen to the dialogue, to follow the story ... <br /><br />But I can't.<br /><br />All I can do is bite my lip, and imagine that Colin Farrell is doing the same (to me).<br /><br />(Damn those accents!)Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-50015390194736542342009-02-07T21:03:00.000-08:002009-02-07T21:04:35.917-08:00Effluvia<p>I suffer from ADD/OCD/SAD/ED/<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8bHic6go28">BBD</a>/attention span of a gnat/shiny-thing/or whatever-alphabet-soup-you’d-like-to-call-it brain, so here’s my mental dump of the night. </p> <p>For the most part, I’ve treated this whole “25 things” the same way I do my alarm clock – I just keep hitting snooze. Maybe it’s the procrastinator coming out in me. </p> <p>Apparently I’ve hit the “no, five more minutes” button too many times, and have too many people tagging me, so I guess it’s my turn. (Otherwise known as, “alright already! I get it! Here’s my list. Are you happy now? Sheesh.”) </p> <p>Granted, I DO post a lot of "emo-me-me-me" shit, but someone asking me to actually pinpoint 25 things?</p> <p>I choke. Then I procrastinate. Then I find something else shiny to take up my attention.</p> <p>Always shocked when I log into one of the eleventythousand networking sites that I’ve signed up for and BLAM! “So-and-so has tagged you in their ’25 Things’ note.” 99.9% of the time I assume that they picked me because they were running out of <strike>friends to torture </strike>options. <br /><br />(If you don’t want to read, that’s fine. But there are some links, so it won’t be a total time suck. Well, maybe it will be just a touch of a time suck.) <br /><br />1) Some friends hide from me when I pop onto g-chat. Many are looking for the pithy conversation that can only come from the quick back-and-forth banter that you can only get from one line conversations. Sadly, I interject into most of these conversations (can you call them that?) random food cravings. Tanya says I have Food Tourette’s. To her I say, “bacon”. <br /><br />2) I've found that when I listen to the Deb Talan station on <a href="http://pandora.com/%20">Pandora </a>I get all touchy-feely. I lay the onus of all of my more emotional writings (or vomit, you can choose whatever description you feel is most appropriate) on her.<br /><br />3) There are some <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dUsWur3EqUE%20">songs </a>that make me close my eyes and live in the moment – and I don’t mean re-live a past moment, or live in a moment yet to come.<strike> (Wentworth Miller, I’m looking at you – our moment will come. And come. And come again.) Ahem, where was I? Oh yes, bacon. </strike>What I mean is that I close my eyes and live in that exact moment. There is nothing next, and nothing then – there is only the ever changing void (and voice) of now. There is no exhale, because I am living in and experiencing <strong>this</strong> inhale. <br /><br />I need a moment after that song.<br /><br />And maybe a towel. <br /><br />Whew. <br /><br />Sorry, where were we? Oh, yes … <br /><br />*Exhale* <br /><br />4) For the longest time, my “Live In The Now” song (now known as LINT – what? I had temporary dyslexia, and LINT comes much more trippingly off the tongue than LITN) was <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAsV5-Hv-7U">American Pie</a>. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7csvgL-G3E%20">Nothing</a> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RSMXMv0noY4&feature=related">else</a> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cCrJ2jwIaeo%20">mattered</a> when "American Pie" was on. Unfortunately, I can no longer listen to Mr. McLean in my car, not even to “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dipFMJckZOM">Vincent</a>”, because every time I do the only thing I have to show for my <strike>LINT </strike>unholy love of 70’s music is a speeding ticket, or more accurately, tickets. Every single ticket I’ve ever had <strike>the joy of receiving </strike>happened when I listened to “American Pie”. EVERY.DAMN.ONE. It was so bad that when I radio-whore through the stations to this day, and that song comes on, my Pavlovian response is to take the metal coffee cup and bash the radio. (Sadly, the cost of replacing the stereos is still less than my combined moving violation fines.) <br /><br />5) <a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Mushrooms-Stroganoff-2212%20">Portobello Stroganoff</a>. (Add more garlic. And substitute in portobello's.) It could also use some more cowbell. <br /><br />6) Procrastination I have mastered. (Which is why I’m finally doing this stupid list months after it was popular.) <br /><br />7) I love ears. (Hmm. Maybe this is why I love Van Gogh?) There is just something about grabbing an earlobe between my index and middle fingers and then rubbing the meaty part with my thumb that I find comforting. As a young child, I would sneak into my parent’s bed and curl up between them, with each of my hands mauling one of their ears. It’s something I still do to this day. (I actually stopped dating someone because they hated having their ears touched.) <br /><br />8) Speaking of ears, I <strong>loathe</strong> having wet ears. I can clean my body, my hair, my face, my EVERYTHING, but if I don’t q-tip my ears, I still feel … dirty … <br /><br />9) I've had a love-affair with owls since before I can remember. Never did I have a blankie, but I did have this one particular stuffed owl. To tie in with the ear fetish … this owl had the PERFECT nose that I could rub. It was just the right amount of silky and firm. After I massaged the second owl’s nose into oblivion, my parents went out and stocked up on them. Somewhere out in the world, there are at least 5 poor, mauled, and noseless stuffed owls. There’s still one left, up in the attic somewhere. <br /><br />10) Even though I hated living on the road, I truly do miss it more often than not. Odd, that. <br /><br />11) Inwardly, I gave up Catholicism the day my mother died. Outwardly? I held onto it until my grandmother died. (Until she died, I wasn’t <strong>allowed</strong> to let go.) <br /><br />12) Mmmm. <a href="http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Shrimp-Scampi-Pasta-234258">Scampi</a>. (Not as good as the family recipe, but close enough.) <br /><br />13) The same grandmother, whom I had a love/hate relationship with, honestly (and unknowingly) taught me how to embrace and love “me”; all the while she was trying to recreate me as a sad clone of <strike>my dead mother </strike>her dead daughter. <br /><br />14) Sleeping is my best friend, and my worst enemy. I adore sleeping, yet I hate actually <strong>going</strong> to sleep. For some reason I feel that I will miss out on something. This is brought home to me, more and more often, when I go to sleep as the sun rises, and I wake up completely rested and ready to take on my “day” after 8 hours of sleep. No alarm clock needed. However, when I go to bed at a “reasonable” time, and be it 5 hours or 10 hours later, I <strong>still</strong> wake up exhausted. (There is a reason I need 3 alarm clocks.) There’s something to be said about circadian rhythms, no? <br /><br />15) All at once, jumbled up together, I love and hate smoking, and being a smoker. When people offer unsolicited advice about smoking, I really do want to smash them in the face. I wonder, would they offer that same advice to a junkie, alkie, or overeater? I do hear you, I DO, but please let me quit when <strong>I </strong>am ready. Intervention really only works for those who are ready for it. <br /><br />16) Dancing is my sanity, my sanctuary, and my meditation. It’s the only time that my brain will actually shut up. <br /><br />17) Friends call me “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sFVzBYapTG4">shiny girl</a>”, because (even though the connection makes <strong>so</strong> much sense in my head) I always make unseemingly random statements out loud. <br /><br />18) The best beer I ever had was found at an ABC store in Saugus, MA. It tasted like smoked sausage. <br /><br />19) I just saw a commercial for "GUYS Gone Wild". My brain will go to the corner now, and quietly rock back and forth. Pass the bleach. Please. <br /><br />20) The one and only time I went tubing was on the Medina in Texas. I got stuck in an eddy (are there eddy's in the river, or is that just the ocean?) Not only did I get smashed against a fallen tree, but three other people were smashed against me. The one who was smashed against my ass? My former father-in-law. I'm still traumatized. <br /><br />21) You know those moments? The ones where you are terrified that you won't make it to the bathroom in time? But then you do? That moment, when the last drop hits the water, is one of the <strong>best</strong> feelings in the world. Ahhhh. <br /><br />22) Once I was in a year long, monogamous relationship, and we never had sex. However, he did introduce me to the music of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c2Tn8w1w2_Y">Tom Waits</a>, so I guess it balances out. <br /><br />23) <a href="http://www.imeem.com/itzdatdude/music/bDjuvBbd/three_dog_night_one_is_the_lonliest_number/">One may be the loneliest number</a>, but 23 has always been my favourite. Followed closely by 42. <br /><br />24) Until I lived in San Francisco, I never knew how much power there was in the simple, and physical, act of human touch. <br /><br />25) "The Name of the Rose" is a book I read over and over. The copy I have is now held together with a rubber band.<br /><br />Good lord. That was full of ego and tripe. <br /><br />Forget about me – here’s my current LINT song from <a href="http://www.imeem.com/thmorrigan/music/_wuKN-5H/deb_talan_ashes_on_your_eyes/">Deb Talan</a>. <br /><br />(Ohhh, look! A shiny thing! Mmmmm. Avocado.)Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-84684701429018462042009-02-05T03:10:00.000-08:002009-02-05T03:16:57.529-08:00February ...Every week I have to drive by the telephone pole where my mom said goodbye to this world, and hello to the next. To this day, I always choose the lane furthest away from that evil piece of that 20 foot tall piece of wood. If I am forced to be in that far right-hand lane (thanks CalTrans!), I have a mini panic attack. And on those nights, I wonder what my life would be like if Mom made it to my 6th birthday.<br /><br />Would it be better? Worse? Or the same?<br /><br />Would I have younger brothers or sisters?<br /><br />Would I have tried to kill myself repeatedly at the ages of 11, 14, 16, and 18+? And did I try that because she was lacking, or because I accidentally felt my grandpa’s (her father’s) boner? Or was it because I was broken, through no fault of our own?<br /><br />Would I, and my unknown sibling(s), have been a product (or products) of a broken (or unbroken) home?<br /><br />Would Dad have died at the ripe young age of 57, if he didn’t mourn her (and Vietnam) everyday, by trying to find his salvation in a 7&7?<br /><br />Would I have been more (or less) comfortable in my own skin?<br /><br />Would I have allowed myself to enter into an unbalanced and unhealthy marriage?<br /><br />Would I be better off, or worse off?<br /><br />Would I know HER better, or worse? And what would our relationship be … now?<br /><br />Would I (still) be jealous of my family who knew her longer, and (possibly) better, than I ever had a chance to?<br /><br />(It seems that I’ve become a pseudo-anthropologist regarding her: recreating and dissecting what her life – and mine – might have been like, by piecing together her story from talking to her friends, rummaging through her old clothes and jewelry, reading her old college nursing notes, inhaling the scent of the “then”, and re-visiting photos of a past long, and sadly, gone.)<br /><br />For so, so, so long Dad and I both lived life stuck in a groove, like a scratchy .45. A refrain, or refrains, stuck on repeat, never to reach that next chorus …<br /><br />Dad: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N22T1y9bJNk">You Are the Woman <br /></a><br />Me: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZLAhjpu1qto">Just Remember I Love You</a> <br /><br />- Dad: (It's how I feel each time you're close to me)<br /><br />- Me: (When there's so much trouble that you wanna cry)<br /><br />- Dad: (It's hard to tell you all the love I'm feeling, that's just not my style … )<br /><br />- Me (The world has crumbled and you don't know why)<br /><br />- Dad: (I saw your face and that’s the last I’ve seen of my heart … )<br /><br />- Me: (When it feels like sorrow is your only friend … )<br /><br />- Us: (Just remember I love you and it'll be all right. Just remember I love you more than I can say. It'll be all right.)<br /><br />February marks the month, oh those many years ago, that my mom and my god, that his lover and his wife, left us. I know that the tears shed tonight are residual (and that those tears are actually, and truly, happy tears). No longer are they the tears of despair and loss.<br /><br />Over the last few years I realized that being stuck in a rut wasn’t healthy for him, or for me, or for us. And that by refusing to live, on both our parts, and by refusing to move on – to live in the past – that we were actually dishonouring her memory.<br /><br />Granted, the above are the questions of life that I will never know the answers to. And because I have read a shit-ton of Sci-Fi and Fantasy novels, I am no stranger to the concept of parallel universes.<br /><br />Today, THIS day, I take comfort in the fact that somewhere, in some other place, I still have Mom. And Dad. And I have a potential sibling.<br /><br />And (potentially) we all have each other.<br /><br />I understand that death is a part of life. I do. Honestly, and down to the marrow of my bones and soul, I DO understand. I understand, and embrace, that for each death that I (and we) experience, I (and we) rejoice in that life – that life lost and that life lived.<br /><br />And now? I am finally (finally) able to live that life. And I do it joyfully, and unabashedly.<br /><br />These mental and physical scars that I carry with me remind me to do so. And whenever I’m in doubt, I look down at my wrists, and I reach down into my soul and I remind myself to live my own life … joyfully.<br /><br />And unabashedly.<br /><br />(This concept of breathing? Of feeling my heart beating through the generations? There are no words for it.)<br /><p> </p> <div><object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" width="425" height="344"><param name="width" value="425" /><param name="height" value="344" /><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="src" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/k7vPLemY2gQ&hl=en&fs=1" /><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="344" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/k7vPLemY2gQ&hl=en&fs=1"></embed></object></div> <br /><br />I WILL steal the stars from the sky ... and no longer will I wonder "what if".<br /><br />I will LIVE "what next?"<br /><br /><div id="statcounter_image" style="display:inline;"><a title="hit counter for blogger" class="statcounter" href="http://www.statcounter.com/blogger/"><img src="http://c.statcounter.com/4448037/0/ebfe2eda/1/" alt="hit counter for blogger" style="border:none;"/></a></div>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-78793424342885665622009-01-25T05:32:00.000-08:002009-01-25T05:33:08.569-08:00Am I cold?Not just physically, but emotionally?<br /><br />Many of my friends are losing their parents. Or are sitting at their bedsides in the hospital. And I feel for them.<br /><br />I do.<br /><br />But at the same time, I find myself at a loss for words. I mean ... I feel their loss on a visceral level. Honestly, I do. I WANT to be able to offer the words that will dry their tears, and make them see through this current darkness. I WANT to offer that. But …<br /><br />But … at the same time, I'm jealous. Very jealous.<br /><br />I'm jealous because they were able to actually have parents; they were able to experience having "mom and dad", in whatever incarnation (divorced, never divorced, etc.) into their 30's, 40's, and 50's.<br /><br />And that's why I'm jealous - they had what I could never have. They have experienced what I could never experience.<br /><br />Please don't get me wrong: Dad was amazing. He was my bulwark, he was Father and Mother combined. And for that ... I'm eternally grateful. (C'mon, he was my POPS for christsakes ... ) Even though he’s been gone for a few years, he awes me still, even to this day.<br /><br />From kindergarten through now, most (if not all) of my friends, never experienced the loss of "mom" or "dad", and I felt they always looked at me as "other". Some of them experienced divorce, and growing up in a single parent household, but in both cases, both parents were still alive and kicking. (How that played out is another thought, for another time.)<br /><br />Looking back, I realize that my feelings were misplaced. They weren't looking at me as other - they were looking at me with mixed views, they were looking at me through their own lens. Many times, their looks showed the fact that they were scared; deep-down to the marrow of their bones, scared. Scared because I was living out one of their worst phobias, scared because I embodied their terror: that of losing a parent. ("There but for the grace of god ... ")<br /><br />My self perceived "other" truly wasn’t pity on their part. Not really. It was fear. <br /><br />For many years, their fear morphed into my hate. I hated the fact that they pitied me. Hated the fact that they kept their distance, as though losing a parent to the unknowable "death" was contagious. Then?<br /><br />Well, then I blamed them. But now?<br /><br />Now, now I understand.<br /><br />As I watch so, SO many of my friends sit by their parents bedside ... I no longer feel hate.<br /><br />I feel fear.<br /><br />Fear that I can’t be there for them in the way that they need.<br /><br />Fear that I can’t be there for them in the way that they want me to be there.<br /><br />Fear that I will let them down. Because after all, I HAVE been there, and I HAVE done that.<br /><br />Then … when friends and relations said, “It’s really hard right now, but it WILL get easier …” Honestly? I thought they were full of shit. After a while, I saw their wisdom.<br /><br />Now … when I find myself repeating those same words, I feel their truth.<br /><br />And I can’t fully explain to my friends the long-term truth of those words without feeling like a hypocrite.<br /><br />I was in the same place they are. Truly, I understand what they are going through. How can I tell them that, “no, really, I AM here for you”, without mouthing some meaningless platitudes, or clichés?<br /><br />I know that death is just part of the circle of life, but knowing that doesn't erase the hurt that follows it.<br /><br />Other than showing my support through my actions, no words that I can say will help. But I know this …<br /><br />…that later, be that days, months, or years, they will get it.<br /><br />And for that? I will still be sad. Not only for them. But for myself.<br />And mostly, for all of us.<br /><br />Personally, I'm trying to move away from the concept of grief, and move towards the concept of celebration. Celebration of the life we were able to share, no matter how long or short.<br /><br />And I also know this: that my concept of celebration isn't wanted right now, but I know that it will. Someday.<br /><br />Until then, let's commemorate the life we knew. The life we know.<br /><br />And the life we hope to live.Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-76709341368239591242009-01-12T21:53:00.001-08:002009-01-12T21:53:39.953-08:00A rant: Superstars of DanceI’m a dancer, have been since I was 3. Anytime there’s any sort of dance show on, I will watch it. Currently I’m both repelled and intrigued by “Superstars of Dance”. However …<br /><br />I wish they would give more history – what to look for. What characterizes the traditional dance form for that country? The audience who has never seen Indian or African dance – what should they look for? And, most importantly, how the HELL are they judging? On technique? Choreography? What? In ballroom competitions, at least the televised ones, they give you pointers on what to look for, and what they judge on. (Oh god, did I just say something positive about ballroom competitions? I think I may be losing my mind.)<br /><br />Monday nights, the girls and I sit around and IM our ever-so-insightful thoughts on the show to each other. Here’s tonight’s apoplexy: <br /><br />What the hell, Michael Flatley? You are from Chicago! CH-I-CA-GO. (That’s in Illinois, you know – America. Just in case you forgot.) Where did you pick up an Irish accent? The west side? The east? It’s a bad accent, at that. Drop it already. Though you are partially the one who helped bring Irish Dance back into focus, but you are also the one that (horrifically) brought arms as well. Arms! Just like there is no crying in baseball, there are no arms in Irish Dance. <br /><br />I hate you. <br /><br />And camera person? This is a dance show. D-A-N-C-E. Which implies choreography, footwork, patterns, neat stuff having to do with the body. How can I see any of that when you do close-ups on faces? Or when you follow one person as they leave stage, completely ignoring the rest of the troupe still dancing? <br /><br />Lick me where I pee. <br /><br />South African judge (I refuse to allow you your name, you are pompous and don’t deserve it). Oh, Jesus’ balls. Are you the undiscovered love child of Prince and Lou Diamond Phillips? Stop trying to impress the Australian judge. Smarmy git. <br /><br />Piss off. <br /><br />Ireland please, for the love of all that’s holy, just stop with the arms. Do I need to channel Susan Powter? “Stop the insanity!” This is all just skips, with some rallies thrown in for sound. (Which I think they are dubbing in.) Arms? Again? Oh, look! A leap. Just one though. And when did chaînés turns come into this? Bah! And you’re the world champions? I’ve seen better dancing in the 7 year old category at my local feis. <br /><br />Póg ma thoin.<br /><br />Australian judge – I love you for giving Ireland a lower score. I still think you’re a harpy though. But South Africa? Stop trying to impress her. We all know you are just leading her on. <br /><br />Russian ballerina – you have the crazy eyes, but oh so beautiful feet (and stop dropping your damn left elbow during your turns). <br /><br />America, America … don’t get me wrong, I love popping as much as the next person, but this is just … double-jointedness. Throw in something else. Anything else, please. Ohhh, you can contort your chest, but again – not dance. (Talent, yes.) Your face while “dancing” continually looks like you are trying not to shit your pants. <br /><br />And for a commercial break - Billy Mays. My night is now officially in the 7th circle of hell. All that’s needed is the ShamWOW! guy to make an appearance. <br /><br />Oh Africa! Gorgeous dancing men. I will withhold my snark. Besides, I can’t type through drool. (I’m a pig.) And how could that dance score LOWER than the popper? Pfft. <br /><br />Argentina – your judge is so very sweet. How did she ever make it in the dance world? Is there a hidden Lydia Grant in there (Debbie Allen’s character from “Fame”)? I keep expecting Miss Tango’s boobs to pop out of that dress, which makes it very hard to concentrate on the actual dance. (Psst, cameraguy? Stop showing her tits!) <br /><br />India – I love all things Bollywood. Gorgeous, although simple. I’d love to learn more about/how to do traditional Indian dance, but I might feel like an imposter. Maybe if I dipped myself in henna … <br /><br />Australia – I’m sad that I couldn’t see your first group performance (damn you, cameraman!) But if the solo was indicative, holy schmit Dingoman! His feet! If you score lower than Poppingboy, I will have to shake my fist at the television. He can father my children, or at least practice the art of procreation with me. We could populate the world with freakish arches! (South Africa judge can suck it with his “holier-than-thou” commentary.) <br /><br />The popper won over Australia? I poop on you judges! <br /><br />I can’t watch anymore. I think I need a drink. Maybe Billy Mays will mix me a concoction with some Oxi-Clean thrown in for flavor. At least it will clean out my brain. And possibly the bad taste in my mouth. <br /><br />Screw it, maybe it will just kill me so that I won’t tune in next week.Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-34986833051114723062009-01-09T21:55:00.000-08:002009-01-09T22:01:30.021-08:00Growing Pains (no, NOT the tv show)I may have been born in Utah, but I was raised in California; Southern California to be precise; Orange County to be exact. <br /><br />Growing up in the land of blondes and BMW’s, I never quite fit in during the day and that made for some angsty nights. Because Orange County was so ill-fitting to me, I moved away from it the day after I turned 18. Where I landed, where I called home (and still call “home”, fit me like a long lost and favourite glove – San Francisco.<br /><br />Even saying those two words makes my eyes misty and my throat catch. Baghdad by the Bay taught me so, so, SO much and in recompense, I gave to it my soul; it (my soul that is, what little of it there is left) still resides there. <br /><br />Because of that beautiful city, and of the gorgeous souls I met there, I was able to embrace myself, in all my grandeur and in all my (many) faults. It also taught me that it isn’t so much the place, as the person.<br /><br />And that is a lesson I’m still trying to remember, and teach myself, on a daily basis where I find myself back in the land of milk, honey, and boob jobs. <br /><br />*******<br /><br />Tonight is just an achingly beautiful night, a soul-gripping night. The Santa Ana’s are in full gale: all the smog, the dirt, the corruption, the pain, and the anger – all of it is swept away. Today I could see the surrounding mountains and hills resting under a crystal blue sky. (It truly is a relief from the typical smudgy, smoggy brown that is typical.) I could smell the ocean, and the earth. The chit-chit-chittering of the leaves blowing across the asphalt was a perfect soundtrack to this day. Tonight, I can see the (almost) full moon lighting up everything, and the stars. Oh my god, the stars! Pinpoints of perfect. <br /><br />Don’t get me wrong, we have our share of political scandals and redheaded step-children (Mike Corona, I’m looking at you), but today I didn’t think of that. The wind whipped through me and took away all negativity, all self. <br /><br />Growing up, it was days like today that made me whole-heartedly embrace this region. Smile. Spread out my arms. Let my hair “flop about like a besotted salmon”. And just … <br /><br />… be. <br /><br />*******<br /><br />There’s just something so … vital … so life affirming … about wind. Before the fires start I mean. <br /><br />But this is the night, the exact type of night, where I am proud to say I grew up here. <br /><br />And I want to go howl at the moon. <br /><br />Maybe it’s because it’s my folks anniversary today, and I’m sadly happy that they are able to spend it together again at Good Shepherd Cemetery. They raised me in this neck of the woods where I’ve always had a love/hate relationship, and for the first time in my life I can say this – I’m happy to be home. <br /><br />And I’m happy to be ALIVE.Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-8983975420572207662008-12-22T00:17:00.000-08:002008-12-22T00:20:45.293-08:00Brain still broken<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3B331Sv2bxNk8vyZgxNRGIBlUmxSMCLmpBGdeiafNUkxt7upbFiz8vANbG9-VmtlS2EMx4y33Gf9yGQLwflDeh1rb6Rx4HRvZhn3w2Uoh_xAme0YgaJVOlSL4T6fCu43QMb9_Zuv7CY4/s1600-h/Tree.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3B331Sv2bxNk8vyZgxNRGIBlUmxSMCLmpBGdeiafNUkxt7upbFiz8vANbG9-VmtlS2EMx4y33Gf9yGQLwflDeh1rb6Rx4HRvZhn3w2Uoh_xAme0YgaJVOlSL4T6fCu43QMb9_Zuv7CY4/s320/Tree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282526247213160594" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz55Fgiz0yHP22j2QLKQfEtXWPzvLH0KPg3CU_RHIqou8DkqJL2zj311dL5X9IJOU_yFplXNM_pgbyCE5Qev3o18mU-rnsBxrKQ5kXgk1wDas1CaGJKpGr47TU3xV8y7-rvsA-2gI61l8/s1600-h/Gnome+Nun+and+Nessie.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz55Fgiz0yHP22j2QLKQfEtXWPzvLH0KPg3CU_RHIqou8DkqJL2zj311dL5X9IJOU_yFplXNM_pgbyCE5Qev3o18mU-rnsBxrKQ5kXgk1wDas1CaGJKpGr47TU3xV8y7-rvsA-2gI61l8/s320/Gnome+Nun+and+Nessie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282526243547651986" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Fq4VJD8NRMT-cj1RhIU5RQswPPdrrGCGTgPft1miMn-mRHRTE8XL4TDCaa510PVkNIrO-_xOFn489wOHnjjI-ebf7da3tEwrtQF3uvatPAXSC_rQ65wJWFYrR3ZEo-KWPEAcdz5v3bI/s1600-h/Adam.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Fq4VJD8NRMT-cj1RhIU5RQswPPdrrGCGTgPft1miMn-mRHRTE8XL4TDCaa510PVkNIrO-_xOFn489wOHnjjI-ebf7da3tEwrtQF3uvatPAXSC_rQ65wJWFYrR3ZEo-KWPEAcdz5v3bI/s320/Adam.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5282526239002822514" /></a>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-68315189834357972082008-12-16T20:38:00.000-08:002008-12-16T20:55:34.369-08:00I can't find my wordsI think my brain is broken. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXvVUHNh6XfNEG2akWKZiVILbdu2EssRjEZrcWG6Rcp02RuHgYEaB7AGvrbWH-dJBe_KT3z_eaUlPJ7SB6tNKKgH524lVD_cQps-BpsxHAyrngvEFTNIzSiz4pWsHc82ouyDpYimDmR4/s1600-h/Wine+glasses.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqXvVUHNh6XfNEG2akWKZiVILbdu2EssRjEZrcWG6Rcp02RuHgYEaB7AGvrbWH-dJBe_KT3z_eaUlPJ7SB6tNKKgH524lVD_cQps-BpsxHAyrngvEFTNIzSiz4pWsHc82ouyDpYimDmR4/s320/Wine+glasses.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280617903970435682" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhle_Q645l56Fm8Va1-zbkbvIylAbJo_iB_u8Awspeu4BJFRJBGbnXcmOmA7weBoJjNTmHbz3yDMw0dCdf8kz09qyowP5ZXR0I_LGqeCr9drgonpaKwgdifHTvqTbEvNHvbuczikUXgroA/s1600-h/Sun+xmas+tree.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhle_Q645l56Fm8Va1-zbkbvIylAbJo_iB_u8Awspeu4BJFRJBGbnXcmOmA7weBoJjNTmHbz3yDMw0dCdf8kz09qyowP5ZXR0I_LGqeCr9drgonpaKwgdifHTvqTbEvNHvbuczikUXgroA/s320/Sun+xmas+tree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280617898725998162" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOdSBRJRExS1CmZQxTYm-gisw6jvuCrLL81u-b7J3zBhDG5k0WMrBeKUUasl7z_KuTmDr0lGV73uUuv4r9ctSKuxhh8cOadsD-f9WZK0STbmqUDw_G99YSsm4o8Tb-ifCjr3OGbs0A-Is/s1600-h/The+shoulders.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOdSBRJRExS1CmZQxTYm-gisw6jvuCrLL81u-b7J3zBhDG5k0WMrBeKUUasl7z_KuTmDr0lGV73uUuv4r9ctSKuxhh8cOadsD-f9WZK0STbmqUDw_G99YSsm4o8Tb-ifCjr3OGbs0A-Is/s320/The+shoulders.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280617887715437586" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNqiI4CZB9CjwJrhuHT20Mj28e3D6TwcsO_guDWzyc-Vud-PvZzWhKf2RMzx-_ndQRs5WJL34MEEboYsVfNLE9uCmc-GNOlrgXZGT6ijWq7e7QM3exPAZRAHfOL1Nmd1d3M2G2mHP2Tc/s1600-h/Boots+1st+THEN+corset.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGNqiI4CZB9CjwJrhuHT20Mj28e3D6TwcsO_guDWzyc-Vud-PvZzWhKf2RMzx-_ndQRs5WJL34MEEboYsVfNLE9uCmc-GNOlrgXZGT6ijWq7e7QM3exPAZRAHfOL1Nmd1d3M2G2mHP2Tc/s320/Boots+1st+THEN+corset.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280617876824082994" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFBczK3vzSDsdAH1ZsztY4T761-NMNZ2VdjRpeDt-RmHt8-J6gXkCySl9cui4BIKLaqaUSoYJnHIxqYS-ipQOQEVoZ_szILXgjIxKWzs1BqDtMatxwA96oHL57jdjdEk518Grw6lDnww/s1600-h/Mask+1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxFBczK3vzSDsdAH1ZsztY4T761-NMNZ2VdjRpeDt-RmHt8-J6gXkCySl9cui4BIKLaqaUSoYJnHIxqYS-ipQOQEVoZ_szILXgjIxKWzs1BqDtMatxwA96oHL57jdjdEk518Grw6lDnww/s320/Mask+1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280615824133691442" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyOivVuu_ARnVDWX8JKzZXVcyz7ikL17vj6M0ysoO_2ATsNP45s7n_3-fvOeu1G1Dq2YIC3jn_A01HsbROYOPy2cWuwj1tVBLYfweLqiZtvdKRnO5HNYPWE3EVeeBjBHiCOBDW6aeMDOQ/s1600-h/Hatpin.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyOivVuu_ARnVDWX8JKzZXVcyz7ikL17vj6M0ysoO_2ATsNP45s7n_3-fvOeu1G1Dq2YIC3jn_A01HsbROYOPy2cWuwj1tVBLYfweLqiZtvdKRnO5HNYPWE3EVeeBjBHiCOBDW6aeMDOQ/s320/Hatpin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280615822845097426" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnA6wpazBfJC2k641UZCwX1gSxpv5jelN0RWPLB7X_IG0O_Qt4SPYYvrxJwlh4mIjKyhue7lhLQT5YED8MLJRCwbDUEK5TGHxvQXAFdh344YaviqCQlTroI1wWN-Fiy1mll1LqTsqMSMY/s1600-h/Foot.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnA6wpazBfJC2k641UZCwX1gSxpv5jelN0RWPLB7X_IG0O_Qt4SPYYvrxJwlh4mIjKyhue7lhLQT5YED8MLJRCwbDUEK5TGHxvQXAFdh344YaviqCQlTroI1wWN-Fiy1mll1LqTsqMSMY/s320/Foot.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280615810636933746" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizuVhqpZVw5r1hZg3S0ThQlRcHq1EZx9_w6KYviETKmzzsv9noz2jllQ1k57aM3VpoLWDhzqIcRAoAI6HvBVIG9UGvN_qCHYDsQh2yHQxyr8c_TJepzCb4KmOHL-yH1HO0IjKs4O01zvs/s1600-h/Bells+small.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizuVhqpZVw5r1hZg3S0ThQlRcHq1EZx9_w6KYviETKmzzsv9noz2jllQ1k57aM3VpoLWDhzqIcRAoAI6HvBVIG9UGvN_qCHYDsQh2yHQxyr8c_TJepzCb4KmOHL-yH1HO0IjKs4O01zvs/s320/Bells+small.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280615805781707618" /></a>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-4995545108774546892008-11-18T21:32:00.001-08:002008-11-18T21:38:27.714-08:00Photos from out and aboutBecause my brain is broken, here are some photos from when I was out and about a few weeks ago. Wheeee! <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2K9wSPcqI5qioZX9ZE6JDpualPmbbodkHxbuw2bUu0RY4pZorZ228zqRTj7gZ7uYat66m2_OGoaXYYwd9bAuENDeW9cLl3G0p6Yd3ThS53x3f8t30zD7pLzVq1f3ObqWSpxX7iKGPE8/s1600-h/Through+the+chink.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX2K9wSPcqI5qioZX9ZE6JDpualPmbbodkHxbuw2bUu0RY4pZorZ228zqRTj7gZ7uYat66m2_OGoaXYYwd9bAuENDeW9cLl3G0p6Yd3ThS53x3f8t30zD7pLzVq1f3ObqWSpxX7iKGPE8/s320/Through+the+chink.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270238315080271746" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Rn0mle4L9TapxCZ6pZcO2FxPUPXNjICN60-27wwiCRxPQokI2K4NfGjdXvjuqTkRlK8YL9sq9nN0DG4gLG40RJJNC85nebzyeDoT9XUUQGpEIvH2Yq2KX0Dj0adAaYnCUfIV-7nqIps/s1600-h/Test+ride.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Rn0mle4L9TapxCZ6pZcO2FxPUPXNjICN60-27wwiCRxPQokI2K4NfGjdXvjuqTkRlK8YL9sq9nN0DG4gLG40RJJNC85nebzyeDoT9XUUQGpEIvH2Yq2KX0Dj0adAaYnCUfIV-7nqIps/s320/Test+ride.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270238310156020578" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN297V4_bI8JjPVMKyArMxja6igtNXZ5Z8fG96bzYt3jXMHXbJZTfABRVkAIrvuxmDDnq8W1rlBnoHDhQ1aNwiqAVSKZg-N2sZt7g4fwP4USTdhQWZJ-7OpVt2poiBNc-0otzUH96BKiw/s1600-h/Slow+child+2.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN297V4_bI8JjPVMKyArMxja6igtNXZ5Z8fG96bzYt3jXMHXbJZTfABRVkAIrvuxmDDnq8W1rlBnoHDhQ1aNwiqAVSKZg-N2sZt7g4fwP4USTdhQWZJ-7OpVt2poiBNc-0otzUH96BKiw/s320/Slow+child+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270238301817285842" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj2cipk3WxmPi0AjnjPRMx3M8m-Ipb7Q1mNYp6CLA7XUt4Ei_g0mcodjq1X01wawXfrryIN5l01nlIZYvx1t-c9t9Li2-YoNCCwPLlg-D9Lg2nGmkBnsev00t6V913eK2btmPUh9Up5ZU/s1600-h/Slow+ride.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 313px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj2cipk3WxmPi0AjnjPRMx3M8m-Ipb7Q1mNYp6CLA7XUt4Ei_g0mcodjq1X01wawXfrryIN5l01nlIZYvx1t-c9t9Li2-YoNCCwPLlg-D9Lg2nGmkBnsev00t6V913eK2btmPUh9Up5ZU/s320/Slow+ride.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270238299422232082" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7qk1CHvw-6X6GVoLXksRXgBGLIusZKRFTByySJnXG-9jAQbGhE8wPOgZJ0ieROQBOkFZtVavSdfkT78wW0AseVWHNwgR2g5tuNJARBRG413R7AgUC5JMsQyHAAe86xT01lTS7I2lRj8k/s1600-h/Bars.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7qk1CHvw-6X6GVoLXksRXgBGLIusZKRFTByySJnXG-9jAQbGhE8wPOgZJ0ieROQBOkFZtVavSdfkT78wW0AseVWHNwgR2g5tuNJARBRG413R7AgUC5JMsQyHAAe86xT01lTS7I2lRj8k/s320/Bars.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270238293650332706" /></a>Not tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1643804312966498342.post-61660355246230366632008-11-06T20:46:00.000-08:002008-11-06T20:48:10.602-08:00I wish I wrote thishttp://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2008/11/07/havrilesky/index.htmlNot tellin' you my name ...http://www.blogger.com/profile/12574183667705891194noreply@blogger.com0