On 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.

The past was painful. Death. Love lost. Attempted suicide(s). Rape. Hope.

The glass is half empty. On its way to being drained. I should just

give up...

The present is the same - painful. 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 still coloured with shades of the past; but that old sepia hue lends itself to some amazing tints of the now.

The glass is half empty. On its way to being filled. Maybe, maybe, I should stick around.

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 will experience each to its fullness. Whatever they may be.

Yesterday taints our today, and our tomorrow ... sometimes, you just want to hide away.

The glass is half full. On its way to overflowing. What’s next? Who cares? I can’t wait!

Past, present, and future: not only a knot, but also a circle.

Sometimes, when this thing we call life gets to be too much …when it feels like there is just too much ...

… too much responsibility

… too much worry

… too much, “oh fuck, what next?”

… too much, “honestly, I really need just 5 more minutes”

… too much, “I wish I didn’t have to do this but … your time with us has come …”

… too much, “where will the money come from?”

… too much, “I can’t take any more”

… too much, “I’m too fat. I’ll never find love”

… too much, “This world is going to hell, and I’m holding the hand basket”

… too much, “I’m too broken. And so are you.”

… too much … too much …

Sometimes you have to just let it be, and let it shine.

It is times like these that you just need to take a break. Be selfish.

Go play.

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 now, and just ... be.

Welcome the sun on your face. Revel in the wind through your hair. Kiss the sky, and the one you love.

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 … run around, fly kites, wrestle, jump and play? Even when those waves crash into you? Reminding you of your misery?

When the sounds of silence don’t quite clamor enough… when your words and arms just don’t reach enough … 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.

Revel in those moments. Revel in that silence.

Revel! Revel in the spaces between.

Tears can be those of happiness or sadness.

Laughter can be that of joy or pain.

Lies at times, can be a fine line between happiness and pain.

Live in the grey. Live straddling the black and white. Live in those spaces between.

My wish, my hope, 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, fun.

300 seconds of laughter.

300 seconds of remembering bruised shins, and knees.

A mere 300 seconds of …

JOY.

In those 300 seconds, there IS no what if, or what next, or what now ... it is only ... what next?

There is only 300 seconds of unadulterated laughter.

You can spare that, can’t you?

Come on. You ARE beautiful. C'mon ... greet this brand new day.

Look around … find those spaces in between …

(It took me a long time to find beauty … but I have found it. And I am still searching. And I won’t let it go ... even if it’s dressed in rags.)

There are still times that I long for yesterday ... but I am living in the now. I force myself to do so ...

So, there are these monkey bars near my house … any one want to come out to play?

In Bruges

Holy hell ...

I'm TRYING to watch the movie, to listen to the dialogue, to follow the story ...

But I can't.

All I can do is bite my lip, and imagine that Colin Farrell is doing the same (to me).

(Damn those accents!)

Effluvia

I suffer from ADD/OCD/SAD/ED/BBD/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.

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.

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.”)

Granted, I DO post a lot of "emo-me-me-me" shit, but someone asking me to actually pinpoint 25 things?

I choke. Then I procrastinate. Then I find something else shiny to take up my attention.

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 friends to torture options.

(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.)

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”.

2) I've found that when I listen to the Deb Talan station on Pandora 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.

3) There are some songs 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. (Wentworth Miller, I’m looking at you – our moment will come. And come. And come again.) Ahem, where was I? Oh yes, bacon. 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 this inhale.

I need a moment after that song.

And maybe a towel.

Whew.

Sorry, where were we? Oh, yes …

*Exhale*

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 American Pie. Nothing else mattered when "American Pie" was on. Unfortunately, I can no longer listen to Mr. McLean in my car, not even to “Vincent”, because every time I do the only thing I have to show for my LINT unholy love of 70’s music is a speeding ticket, or more accurately, tickets. Every single ticket I’ve ever had the joy of receiving 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.)

5) Portobello Stroganoff. (Add more garlic. And substitute in portobello's.) It could also use some more cowbell. 

6) Procrastination I have mastered. (Which is why I’m finally doing this stupid list months after it was popular.)

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.)

8) Speaking of ears, I loathe 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 …

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.

10) Even though I hated living on the road, I truly do miss it more often than not. Odd, that.

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 allowed to let go.)

12) Mmmm. Scampi. (Not as good as the family recipe, but close enough.)

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 my dead mother her dead daughter.

14) Sleeping is my best friend, and my worst enemy. I adore sleeping, yet I hate actually going 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 still wake up exhausted. (There is a reason I need 3 alarm clocks.) There’s something to be said about circadian rhythms, no?

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 I am ready. Intervention really only works for those who are ready for it.

16) Dancing is my sanity, my sanctuary, and my meditation. It’s the only time that my brain will actually shut up.

17) Friends call me “shiny girl”, because (even though the connection makes so much sense in my head) I always make unseemingly random statements out loud.

18) The best beer I ever had was found at an ABC store in Saugus, MA. It tasted like smoked sausage.

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.

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.

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 best feelings in the world. Ahhhh.

22) Once I was in a year long, monogamous relationship, and we never had sex. However, he did introduce me to the music of Tom Waits, so I guess it balances out.

23) One may be the loneliest number, but 23 has always been my favourite. Followed closely by 42.

24) Until I lived in San Francisco, I never knew how much power there was in the simple, and physical, act of human touch.

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.

Good lord. That was full of ego and tripe.

Forget about me – here’s my current LINT song from Deb Talan.

(Ohhh, look! A shiny thing! Mmmmm. Avocado.)

February ...

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.

Would it be better? Worse? Or the same?

Would I have younger brothers or sisters?

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?

Would I, and my unknown sibling(s), have been a product (or products) of a broken (or unbroken) home?

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?

Would I have been more (or less) comfortable in my own skin?

Would I have allowed myself to enter into an unbalanced and unhealthy marriage?

Would I be better off, or worse off?

Would I know HER better, or worse? And what would our relationship be … now?

Would I (still) be jealous of my family who knew her longer, and (possibly) better, than I ever had a chance to?

(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.)

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 …

Dad: You Are the Woman

Me: Just Remember I Love You

- Dad: (It's how I feel each time you're close to me)

- Me: (When there's so much trouble that you wanna cry)

- Dad: (It's hard to tell you all the love I'm feeling, that's just not my style … )

- Me (The world has crumbled and you don't know why)

- Dad: (I saw your face and that’s the last I’ve seen of my heart … )

- Me: (When it feels like sorrow is your only friend … )

- 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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

And (potentially) we all have each other.

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.

And now? I am finally (finally) able to live that life. And I do it joyfully, and unabashedly.

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.

And unabashedly.

(This concept of breathing? Of feeling my heart beating through the generations? There are no words for it.)

 

I WILL steal the stars from the sky ... and no longer will I wonder "what if".

I will LIVE "what next?"

Am I cold?

Not just physically, but emotionally?

Many of my friends are losing their parents. Or are sitting at their bedsides in the hospital. And I feel for them.

I do.

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 …

But … at the same time, I'm jealous. Very jealous.

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.

And that's why I'm jealous - they had what I could never have. They have experienced what I could never experience.

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.

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.)

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 ... ")

My self perceived "other" truly wasn’t pity on their part. Not really. It was fear.

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?

Well, then I blamed them. But now?

Now, now I understand.

As I watch so, SO many of my friends sit by their parents bedside ... I no longer feel hate.

I feel fear.

Fear that I can’t be there for them in the way that they need.

Fear that I can’t be there for them in the way that they want me to be there.

Fear that I will let them down. Because after all, I HAVE been there, and I HAVE done that.

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.

Now … when I find myself repeating those same words, I feel their truth.

And I can’t fully explain to my friends the long-term truth of those words without feeling like a hypocrite.

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?

I know that death is just part of the circle of life, but knowing that doesn't erase the hurt that follows it.

Other than showing my support through my actions, no words that I can say will help. But I know this …

…that later, be that days, months, or years, they will get it.

And for that? I will still be sad. Not only for them. But for myself.
And mostly, for all of us.

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.

And I also know this: that my concept of celebration isn't wanted right now, but I know that it will. Someday.

Until then, let's commemorate the life we knew. The life we know.

And the life we hope to live.

A rant: Superstars of Dance

I’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 …

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.)

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:

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.

I hate you.

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?

Lick me where I pee.

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.

Piss off.

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.

Póg ma thoin.

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.

Russian ballerina – you have the crazy eyes, but oh so beautiful feet (and stop dropping your damn left elbow during your turns).

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.

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.

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.

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!)

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 …

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.)

The popper won over Australia? I poop on you judges!

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.

Screw it, maybe it will just kill me so that I won’t tune in next week.

Growing 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

*******

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.

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.

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 …

… be.

*******

There’s just something so … vital … so life affirming … about wind. Before the fires start I mean.

But this is the night, the exact type of night, where I am proud to say I grew up here.

And I want to go howl at the moon.

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.

And I’m happy to be ALIVE.