WRITERS NOTE: I know it's been a while, and I'm an a-hole. I've been 'filling the well' from which I draw inspiration/cursing the cold weather (I likey the hybernation). I 'spose I should be writing about the holidays or something more relevant but this blog needed out. If there are any out there that have been waiting patiently, thanks. I'll be back sooner next time....
I look around, and I see a generation of fledgling women emulating for tomorrow. Then I look past them and I see those they are emulating, and I do a double take. Double spit take, even.
I'm all about to each their own, and celebrity is a tricky, sticky-wicket. We've watched it escalate to psychotic heights of importance in these past ten years or so, and no one ever signs on the dotted line to be "looked up to" but they are regardless, just by being available to observe. I definitely think we can do FAR better in way of women worth mimicry, though. For your consideration, I nominate Tina Fey.
I won't ever forget seeing a four year-old girl meeting her "idol" Paris Hilton on one of the entertainment news programs. You know, the ones that are half the problem. It wasn't the far-too-mature-for-her-wardrobe, the make-up or the giddy anticipation she had slathered all over her as she stood on the street and a "dream became a reality". It wasn't Paris' signature half-assed cordiality as she bent her lanky frame to cradle the little tot, clearly phoning in a meet and greet (reason numero uno to be suspect of her cred as a role model). It was the look of almost ravenous adoration the child's mom had, standing a foot away. She could have pooped a Twinkie in that moment, begging the speculation that maybe her idol is Paris. I closed my mouth, sighed, switched the channel, wishing that misguided mom had a LONG time ago.
It's no secret how I feel about the lack of character exhibited these days, so when a middle-aged female in the throws of the Hollywood machine consistently churns out intelligence and class and side splitting laughs, it's a very brainy no-brainer. She's not trying to fit into the mold, she's custom made her own.
Who knew such an unassuming, wall flowery lass would have such walloping star power. By all industry standards, she's a total loose cannon. Out, wittily trolling the youth/drama-obsessed streets with her anti-serum of smart, sweet and sassy no matter what she looks like or how old she is, not that she's trying. She's comfortable in her goofy, neurotic skin, she's un-afraid to go head to head with anyone comedically (or otherwise I'd wager), she's a breezy anti-sex kitten that reassures you of who you are, by just being who she is. You're in good hands with Tina. She's not going to go all weird and homogenized or jump any shark. No impossible comparative standards. No sensational falsehoods, no hype-generated flash in the pan-ness. She's worked her ass off bringing the funny for years, the majority of them behind the scenes yet all of them with integrity to be herself and share her unique perspective. She's earned her place.
SNL was infinitely funnier and more memorable when she was head writer. Meta-marvelous 30 Rock is quite easily one of the funniest shows EVER (the live episodes alone for that matter), as a result. Mean Girls was a deserving instant cult classic, and any subsequent movies she's been a part of have done well box-office wise, and she didn't have to pop her tits out or play damsel in distress once, to achieve any of it. I challenge you to watch television and not long for an ounce more Tina-ness out of Snooki, the Kardashians, Bratz dolls, or any other female archetype in the spotlight. That's the true beauty of what Tina represents...she's not an archetype, she's a real person.
Like one of her own comedic idols, Bea Arthur, Tina has the awesome power to be warm and comfortable while she takes you on an outlandish journey that in anyone else's hands would be too outlandish...all while pulling a laugh and a half a minute. She's a wife, a mom, a career girl. She's cool, only because she could care less if she is or not.
Cheers to a modern icon that deserves to be, and here's hoping more four-year olds find her.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
The SMD: Legos
It's entirely fitting that Logan plays with Legos the way she does. Daily, intently, she constructs architectural masterpieces. Then she kicks them to oblivion with as much glee. It's her happy place.
This school year has been an adventure already, and we're a month and some change in. Within the first two weeks, she came down with lice (by the way, THAT is what should be shown in Health class as abstinence propaganda-that inevitably, one day, you will be crouched over your child's head like a crazed chimp, extracting bugs and their eggs out of his/her head for hours while they squirm and complain/you cry and curse the heavens-it will keep the nickel between the knees better than diseased reproductive organs, I'm telling you), come down with a heavy, black-lung type cough/stuffed nose (sleep deprived x2), and was called into the principals office for kissing/chasing/man-handling the boys. Like mother like daughter.
Then as crippling crescendo, she got her last batch of immunizations at her required physical check-up. Shots=disgruntled kid. After a run like that on top of the basic stress of the new, the rest of the year is a Carnival Cruise, even if I know not of what's to come.
The California Public School System is in tragic disarray, and I've witnessed what that means in real terms, not just as abstract political commentary. The school encourages parent volunteering/involvement to counter balance all the budget cuts and over-worked teachers and staff. They have a $4,000.00 budget for the ENTIRE Ocean View School District (about 20 schools) for the ENTIRE year. All the teachers have to pay out of pocket for classroom expenses. They ask you donate hand sanitizer, baggies and tissues, whenever possible. As a firm believer in being part of the solution not the problem, I stepped up. I'm "Room Mom" for her class (organizational go-to for the other volunteer moms), and I help out in the classroom weekly.
Then there's the PTA and Volunteer sponsored fundraisers (like, two a week) to help out with, and the homework and structure needed for her to make the grade. They will be reading and writing by the end of the year, so it's crunch time the whole way through. One of Logan's teachers joked that it's "not eating cookies and making crafts anymore" in Kindergarten. She ain't just whistlin' Dixie.
In my mind-scratch that BOTH our minds-we figured this school thing would be an oasis of learning, mutual breaks from the norm and each other, and would be an easy transition due to our excitement, willingness and natural aptitude (refer to previous entries for proof). Then reality slapped us swiftly and soundly, and we're exhaustively re-envisioning the full picture every day. It's not the learning curve or the clamoring to make it all clip along smoothly, but the dashing of all rosy-colored sketches we had hanging above the mantle of our minds.
These first years are the building blocks to her future, and in turn one of the most important factions of my own. We have to stack well. She and I are committed ("school lunch" is her main motivator, whatever gets butts in seats) and it really is a commitment. I watch many parents deny that truth, to their child's detriment. I refuse to be one of them.
As the Loganator stacks, constructs, and negotiates her little cities and sculptures everyday, we'll do the same for our new respective educational careers. the joy of kicking them down to rebuild stronger is just that, and it feels good to draw up blueprints together. And to shelter others from what we've built along the way, is an awesome thing.
This school year has been an adventure already, and we're a month and some change in. Within the first two weeks, she came down with lice (by the way, THAT is what should be shown in Health class as abstinence propaganda-that inevitably, one day, you will be crouched over your child's head like a crazed chimp, extracting bugs and their eggs out of his/her head for hours while they squirm and complain/you cry and curse the heavens-it will keep the nickel between the knees better than diseased reproductive organs, I'm telling you), come down with a heavy, black-lung type cough/stuffed nose (sleep deprived x2), and was called into the principals office for kissing/chasing/man-handling the boys. Like mother like daughter.
Then as crippling crescendo, she got her last batch of immunizations at her required physical check-up. Shots=disgruntled kid. After a run like that on top of the basic stress of the new, the rest of the year is a Carnival Cruise, even if I know not of what's to come.
The California Public School System is in tragic disarray, and I've witnessed what that means in real terms, not just as abstract political commentary. The school encourages parent volunteering/involvement to counter balance all the budget cuts and over-worked teachers and staff. They have a $4,000.00 budget for the ENTIRE Ocean View School District (about 20 schools) for the ENTIRE year. All the teachers have to pay out of pocket for classroom expenses. They ask you donate hand sanitizer, baggies and tissues, whenever possible. As a firm believer in being part of the solution not the problem, I stepped up. I'm "Room Mom" for her class (organizational go-to for the other volunteer moms), and I help out in the classroom weekly.
Then there's the PTA and Volunteer sponsored fundraisers (like, two a week) to help out with, and the homework and structure needed for her to make the grade. They will be reading and writing by the end of the year, so it's crunch time the whole way through. One of Logan's teachers joked that it's "not eating cookies and making crafts anymore" in Kindergarten. She ain't just whistlin' Dixie.
In my mind-scratch that BOTH our minds-we figured this school thing would be an oasis of learning, mutual breaks from the norm and each other, and would be an easy transition due to our excitement, willingness and natural aptitude (refer to previous entries for proof). Then reality slapped us swiftly and soundly, and we're exhaustively re-envisioning the full picture every day. It's not the learning curve or the clamoring to make it all clip along smoothly, but the dashing of all rosy-colored sketches we had hanging above the mantle of our minds.
These first years are the building blocks to her future, and in turn one of the most important factions of my own. We have to stack well. She and I are committed ("school lunch" is her main motivator, whatever gets butts in seats) and it really is a commitment. I watch many parents deny that truth, to their child's detriment. I refuse to be one of them.
As the Loganator stacks, constructs, and negotiates her little cities and sculptures everyday, we'll do the same for our new respective educational careers. the joy of kicking them down to rebuild stronger is just that, and it feels good to draw up blueprints together. And to shelter others from what we've built along the way, is an awesome thing.
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Audio Files
It's infinitely interesting, the kinds of human drama you pick up when no one is aware you're hearing them. When you live in an apartment with a high volume of residents like I do, unintentional eavesdropping is optimal as is camouflage from the world I absorb, being on the third floor with high railing. Sitting quietly (and most often pensively), I employ the balcony in my apartment as a way to escape, but am privy to other bullshit-ery while doing so. It's people hearing, instead of people watching, a modern day equivalent to the radio soap opera episode, if I were spinning the dial and tuning in at random. I ignore it as best I can to preserve my sanity and their privacy , even if it's they themselves that are shouting TMI whilst clomping around in noisy shoes, at all hours of the night. I hear snippets of salacious stories, odd/comical sound effects, and routine living sounds of those I live feet from but know nothing of. It's a very surreal connection, a far cry from the old school days of knowing everyone on the block and their life story. I know the busy business, but wouldn't be able to place them if I saw them around. If I were so inclined to get some surveillance gear and start up an investigation firm, I'd have a prime perch to do so. Thankfully for those ne'er do wells around me, I'm not.
By the ebb and flow that social life affords, I don't have much time out and about these days, albeit by choice. It's frequently, briefly lonely, and that can stagger even the strongest after a while. Without the ebb, the flow doesn't mean much though, you know, that whole thing. You would think that hearing juicy tid-bits would be all the more welcome, but not really. The fact that I'm trying to just BE in my own space, not around others, makes it slightly more annoying to be jarred out of thoughts, movies, or phone conversations of my own by those in the same residential boat. You think they'd realize and empathize.
It IS amusing to internally riff on the statement, "I hate you guyzzzz....you me drink that shot of Jager...if you think I'm drinking more yur crazzzy." slurred to the heavens by a nameless, faceless neighbor/friend of as she scuffles past the first wing and farther into the bowels of the complex, most likely to pass-out or even more likely, drink more. It's funny to hear the unmistakable sounds of a car hit the speed bump at way too high a speed in the courtyard parking area, then screech to halt before plowing into the loud and rickety motorized gate that "protects" said courtyard. I can glean a chuckle from an almost fist fight between party going alpha males over a coveted late night parking spot. A candid-camera type commercial in my routine.
Then there's the sobering stuff. Among the worst, a domestic dispute between a young sounding, Jerry Springer-y couple next door. Hearing the sound of a slap connecting on the jaw of the instigating female in the equation, accelerating my own heart rate, sending adrenaline and frozen alertness down my spine. It's not my boyfriend, or my jaw, but for an instant, it feels that way. A police helicopter circling the building with increasingly low altitude, having no idea if it's something to be concerned with or to just shrug and hope they are out to catch the right man, whomever they're after. The sounds of neighbor kids being despicably mean to one another, all the pain recalled instantly from your own catalog of heartache, from when you were that age. The sound of an unhappy baby, wailing it's little heart out, spiking your blood pressure despite your lack of responsibility or knowing of he/she (it's a medically proven thing that baby cries=physical stress). I feel like I should know these people, for all the residual static. I've been secretly, inadvertently, included. We should shake hands or trade a recipe.
At the most intense times I want to lean over the railing and answer whoever is shouting obnoxiously, just to shut them up. Just to see if they really want an objective answer. Just to see the look on their face to hear a polite response to a rhetorical question. I wish I could beat up the would-be bullies for those bullied just below me. I wish I could console those that I hear having a bad day, toss them a cupcake or something.
Maybe that's the whole point to what I hear, how it impacts me. The day I stop noticing is a big red flag for my own humanity and empathy for others. When lives are broadcasted, I can send back my own quiet prayer for them or a subtle appreciation in whatever way. If I were to actually let them know I've heard them, it might be embarrassing or awkward or slightly dangerous maybe. So I'll maintain my silent sporadic vigil. All in all, it's good imagination fodder and good reflection fuel, even as I curse the momentary loss of (the illusion of) autonomy.
I'll keep smiling, grimacing and musing to myself, and remember to keep the personal crisis on the low when I get back in the flow myself. Either that or I'll holler a good sea shanty or dirty limerick, for all those fellow fellows in earshot.
By the ebb and flow that social life affords, I don't have much time out and about these days, albeit by choice. It's frequently, briefly lonely, and that can stagger even the strongest after a while. Without the ebb, the flow doesn't mean much though, you know, that whole thing. You would think that hearing juicy tid-bits would be all the more welcome, but not really. The fact that I'm trying to just BE in my own space, not around others, makes it slightly more annoying to be jarred out of thoughts, movies, or phone conversations of my own by those in the same residential boat. You think they'd realize and empathize.
It IS amusing to internally riff on the statement, "I hate you guyzzzz....you me drink that shot of Jager...if you think I'm drinking more yur crazzzy." slurred to the heavens by a nameless, faceless neighbor/friend of as she scuffles past the first wing and farther into the bowels of the complex, most likely to pass-out or even more likely, drink more. It's funny to hear the unmistakable sounds of a car hit the speed bump at way too high a speed in the courtyard parking area, then screech to halt before plowing into the loud and rickety motorized gate that "protects" said courtyard. I can glean a chuckle from an almost fist fight between party going alpha males over a coveted late night parking spot. A candid-camera type commercial in my routine.
Then there's the sobering stuff. Among the worst, a domestic dispute between a young sounding, Jerry Springer-y couple next door. Hearing the sound of a slap connecting on the jaw of the instigating female in the equation, accelerating my own heart rate, sending adrenaline and frozen alertness down my spine. It's not my boyfriend, or my jaw, but for an instant, it feels that way. A police helicopter circling the building with increasingly low altitude, having no idea if it's something to be concerned with or to just shrug and hope they are out to catch the right man, whomever they're after. The sounds of neighbor kids being despicably mean to one another, all the pain recalled instantly from your own catalog of heartache, from when you were that age. The sound of an unhappy baby, wailing it's little heart out, spiking your blood pressure despite your lack of responsibility or knowing of he/she (it's a medically proven thing that baby cries=physical stress). I feel like I should know these people, for all the residual static. I've been secretly, inadvertently, included. We should shake hands or trade a recipe.
At the most intense times I want to lean over the railing and answer whoever is shouting obnoxiously, just to shut them up. Just to see if they really want an objective answer. Just to see the look on their face to hear a polite response to a rhetorical question. I wish I could beat up the would-be bullies for those bullied just below me. I wish I could console those that I hear having a bad day, toss them a cupcake or something.
Maybe that's the whole point to what I hear, how it impacts me. The day I stop noticing is a big red flag for my own humanity and empathy for others. When lives are broadcasted, I can send back my own quiet prayer for them or a subtle appreciation in whatever way. If I were to actually let them know I've heard them, it might be embarrassing or awkward or slightly dangerous maybe. So I'll maintain my silent sporadic vigil. All in all, it's good imagination fodder and good reflection fuel, even as I curse the momentary loss of (the illusion of) autonomy.
I'll keep smiling, grimacing and musing to myself, and remember to keep the personal crisis on the low when I get back in the flow myself. Either that or I'll holler a good sea shanty or dirty limerick, for all those fellow fellows in earshot.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Pencil It In
From about the age of 13 (onset of puberty, I'm looking at you), I've been predominantly nocturnal. Since those formative years, I haven't wanted to wake up earlier than about noon
nor hit the hay at anything close to sensible hours. Even when I know I need to. I love to sleep, dream and luxuriate in a comforter far more than I love most daily demands (nothing against the demands just ain't my bag). The best side of morning is on the tail end of the night, when the sun has yet to slice through the dawn in my book. Night time is the right time, as it brims with spontaneous and mysterious possibilities to do what you will, how you want to. Maybe it's an overly romantic/rebellious way of viewing the world, but still. Unfortunately for fellow nocs like me, the majority of societal structures and operating hours are set up to begin early morning and end just after we've begun to feel most productive, rendering us at odds with obligations, frequently. Jank, I tell you.
No matter how my soul shudders and sputters as the alarm bell jangles me hence, it's a big part of being a grown-up, and you can rarely get around it after you procreate or attain lofty career goals, or both. I think the element of daily drudgery is what hinders us most. It just so monotonous. There are bright, beautiful things that occur, but mostly, just monotony. There has to be a way to get through it all.
Sitting on my beloved balcony, where I do the lions share of pondering/writing/communing with celestial powers, I fantasize a lot about how the day would go if time, immediate surroundings and reality were on my side. The name of the game is swimming, for a moment, in what you want not dealing with what you don't have, when you daydream. Call me crazy, that's why I dig it so. I'd wake up ready to tear the world a new one if only I had this mythical schedule of excellence. The phrase, "Wouldn't it be nice if..." thought lovingly gets me through many a dull moment. Feel free to incorporate the Beach Boys song of the same name if you need some extra set-the-carefree-tone zazz as you conjure up your own spirit lifting scenarios. Mine goes like this:
Wouldn't it be nice if...I woke to the warm nuzzling of Joseph Gordon Levitt and/or Tom Hardy (they're the top drawer pretend tag team in rotation currently), with just the right amount of inspirational, comforting whisperings such as, "Today, the world will benefit from your unique humanity, you beautiful creature, you" or "I love how effortlessly gorgeous you are when you wake" and then commence in the type of wake-up ritual that everyone should have (time tables are non-existent, as are any intrusions). Then, said gentleman dissipates with a wink and smile, only after handing over a Venti White Chocolate Mocha and a "go get 'em tiger" ass slap.
Wouldn't it be glorious if your completely assembled for the day, sweetly cheerful child appeared and hugged you, saying, "I'm truly thankful for all you do for me" or "My world is wonderful, thanks to you" and then the two of you eat a delicious breakfast that you neither have to prepare or clean up after, with no trace of post-breakfast bloat. Then she heads out the door to her next adventure, safe, content, and secure. The rest of the day would be adequate smatterings of gleefully creating amazing art, sun bathing, shopping, and feeling at ease and whole. Never a moment of stress or ill side effect, never feeling a moment wasted or squandered.
It would be more than nice, my friends.
I have yet to nail down that particular scenario, but I'll be damned if it doesn't put a smile on my face in the early hours when I need one most. And for that, I'll have Secretary of Brain Function make room. Even if it means getting my groggy ass up to do so.
nor hit the hay at anything close to sensible hours. Even when I know I need to. I love to sleep, dream and luxuriate in a comforter far more than I love most daily demands (nothing against the demands just ain't my bag). The best side of morning is on the tail end of the night, when the sun has yet to slice through the dawn in my book. Night time is the right time, as it brims with spontaneous and mysterious possibilities to do what you will, how you want to. Maybe it's an overly romantic/rebellious way of viewing the world, but still. Unfortunately for fellow nocs like me, the majority of societal structures and operating hours are set up to begin early morning and end just after we've begun to feel most productive, rendering us at odds with obligations, frequently. Jank, I tell you.
No matter how my soul shudders and sputters as the alarm bell jangles me hence, it's a big part of being a grown-up, and you can rarely get around it after you procreate or attain lofty career goals, or both. I think the element of daily drudgery is what hinders us most. It just so monotonous. There are bright, beautiful things that occur, but mostly, just monotony. There has to be a way to get through it all.
Sitting on my beloved balcony, where I do the lions share of pondering/writing/communing with celestial powers, I fantasize a lot about how the day would go if time, immediate surroundings and reality were on my side. The name of the game is swimming, for a moment, in what you want not dealing with what you don't have, when you daydream. Call me crazy, that's why I dig it so. I'd wake up ready to tear the world a new one if only I had this mythical schedule of excellence. The phrase, "Wouldn't it be nice if..." thought lovingly gets me through many a dull moment. Feel free to incorporate the Beach Boys song of the same name if you need some extra set-the-carefree-tone zazz as you conjure up your own spirit lifting scenarios. Mine goes like this:
Wouldn't it be nice if...I woke to the warm nuzzling of Joseph Gordon Levitt and/or Tom Hardy (they're the top drawer pretend tag team in rotation currently), with just the right amount of inspirational, comforting whisperings such as, "Today, the world will benefit from your unique humanity, you beautiful creature, you" or "I love how effortlessly gorgeous you are when you wake" and then commence in the type of wake-up ritual that everyone should have (time tables are non-existent, as are any intrusions). Then, said gentleman dissipates with a wink and smile, only after handing over a Venti White Chocolate Mocha and a "go get 'em tiger" ass slap.
Wouldn't it be glorious if your completely assembled for the day, sweetly cheerful child appeared and hugged you, saying, "I'm truly thankful for all you do for me" or "My world is wonderful, thanks to you" and then the two of you eat a delicious breakfast that you neither have to prepare or clean up after, with no trace of post-breakfast bloat. Then she heads out the door to her next adventure, safe, content, and secure. The rest of the day would be adequate smatterings of gleefully creating amazing art, sun bathing, shopping, and feeling at ease and whole. Never a moment of stress or ill side effect, never feeling a moment wasted or squandered.
It would be more than nice, my friends.
I have yet to nail down that particular scenario, but I'll be damned if it doesn't put a smile on my face in the early hours when I need one most. And for that, I'll have Secretary of Brain Function make room. Even if it means getting my groggy ass up to do so.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The SMD: Another One Rides The Bus
"Don't worry...we have more crying parents on the first day than we do kids." Dr. White says breezily, as she walks past me and out into the thick August heat outside. For Logan's soon-to-be principal to have the same confidence in my offspring (who she met for a few minutes only), does my heart good. I toss a lighthearted "I'll bet!" in her direction and smile to myself. This past Monday I sat on an impossibly rigid wooden bench they still insist on putting in school offices, and registered the youngster for Kindergarten. Lots of change this way comes, all positive for both of us. I have no doubt what the good Dr. says is true, even if it won't be that way for me. Letting a child loose in the social/academic wild, signifies they're growing up and out of the daily close reach one grows accustomed to. Setting sail for greener playground-y pastures and testing out all the wisdom you've imparted to guide them on their voyage, without you beside them to assure it all goes smoothly. The cord shall be cut on September the 8th, and if I had more of a wallflower than a kamikaze fighter pilot for a kid, it might be scarier.
If I've learned anything through this stay-at-home business, it's that the kid sets the pace. When you fight it, that's where the rub begins. Some days you wield sand paper in hand however, no matter who's counting on you for a cup of hot cocoa in the morning. We fought to the burger many rounds, but we managed to figure it out as we went, and we're both better for it. A huge sigh of relief that she's moving forward. I've taught her all I can, now she has to realize what I've said is truth and for her benefit...by bumbling through. And so it begins.
It's been the most arduous, glorious, harrowing, awe-inspiring five years, getting to know/mutually growing with my daughter. In small sporadic doses, I've had the bittersweet reckoning of all that which has passed by, and all that which is yet to come. I really am thankful every day, despite any soul smothering by-products. My whole universe has revolved around this bright, curly haired cherub, everyday for half a decade. So much love and strength and intelligence was born of her birth, she continues to carry it on and wear it better with each day. If I weren't so mind numbingly knackered from all these fantastic follies, I probably would weepier about the forthcoming separation, mostly out of excitement for her broadened horizons, and in turn the ability to resume broadening some myself. Or that it flashed by so quick, never to return. As it stands, I'm just plain stoked.
Being the pint sized evil-genius she is, we've discussed most aspects of what is to come, at length. Her highlights so far are the "chocolate milkshakes" (Carnation Instant Breakfast to the layperson), the bus rides to and from school ("Just like the Berenstain Bears!!!" she says), and the chance to make a real, true friend. All that learning and junk, that too, she'd say for my benefit, probably.
I'm proud of who she is, and that she's the challenging opposite of me so often. This will kick her into the next gear in that respect, help her hone her Logan-ness, as it helped me hone my Lola-ness (what seems like eons ago), if in no other way, realizing a true original is a damn fine thing to be.
There will be occasion a few weeks/a month from now that I'll long for the absent blaring of Johnny Test, Spongebob and Yo Gabba Gabba reverberating off the walls of our apartment. At some point I'll wistfully recall the numerous chagrined stumblings over Logan's latest architectural design in the middle of any/all walkways, comprised of stuffed animals, bits of her uneaten breakfast and dining room furniture. I'll be out running errands (with welcome recaptured ease), and something silly will happen. I'll turn to the back seat and a sadness will slap that I can't share an inside joke with her about it later, not in the same way as if she'd been there. The day she comes home with a friend and a play date, and I will no longer be her lovingly beleaguered wing man for such. I think then Dr. White's words will mean what she meant.
Until then, I'll stand waving joyously at Logan's joyous waving from the bus window.
And we'll both have much to learn of each other upon return.
If I've learned anything through this stay-at-home business, it's that the kid sets the pace. When you fight it, that's where the rub begins. Some days you wield sand paper in hand however, no matter who's counting on you for a cup of hot cocoa in the morning. We fought to the burger many rounds, but we managed to figure it out as we went, and we're both better for it. A huge sigh of relief that she's moving forward. I've taught her all I can, now she has to realize what I've said is truth and for her benefit...by bumbling through. And so it begins.
It's been the most arduous, glorious, harrowing, awe-inspiring five years, getting to know/mutually growing with my daughter. In small sporadic doses, I've had the bittersweet reckoning of all that which has passed by, and all that which is yet to come. I really am thankful every day, despite any soul smothering by-products. My whole universe has revolved around this bright, curly haired cherub, everyday for half a decade. So much love and strength and intelligence was born of her birth, she continues to carry it on and wear it better with each day. If I weren't so mind numbingly knackered from all these fantastic follies, I probably would weepier about the forthcoming separation, mostly out of excitement for her broadened horizons, and in turn the ability to resume broadening some myself. Or that it flashed by so quick, never to return. As it stands, I'm just plain stoked.
Being the pint sized evil-genius she is, we've discussed most aspects of what is to come, at length. Her highlights so far are the "chocolate milkshakes" (Carnation Instant Breakfast to the layperson), the bus rides to and from school ("Just like the Berenstain Bears!!!" she says), and the chance to make a real, true friend. All that learning and junk, that too, she'd say for my benefit, probably.
I'm proud of who she is, and that she's the challenging opposite of me so often. This will kick her into the next gear in that respect, help her hone her Logan-ness, as it helped me hone my Lola-ness (what seems like eons ago), if in no other way, realizing a true original is a damn fine thing to be.
There will be occasion a few weeks/a month from now that I'll long for the absent blaring of Johnny Test, Spongebob and Yo Gabba Gabba reverberating off the walls of our apartment. At some point I'll wistfully recall the numerous chagrined stumblings over Logan's latest architectural design in the middle of any/all walkways, comprised of stuffed animals, bits of her uneaten breakfast and dining room furniture. I'll be out running errands (with welcome recaptured ease), and something silly will happen. I'll turn to the back seat and a sadness will slap that I can't share an inside joke with her about it later, not in the same way as if she'd been there. The day she comes home with a friend and a play date, and I will no longer be her lovingly beleaguered wing man for such. I think then Dr. White's words will mean what she meant.
Until then, I'll stand waving joyously at Logan's joyous waving from the bus window.
And we'll both have much to learn of each other upon return.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Love Letter
From the first time I experienced you, knew you, partook of you, I was changed. We started slow and easy, you understood that I had many years ahead to stumble, falter, pick myself up. As I did, you were there to hold my hand, to stand by my side. Hours of tender truths and wise council you've given, and will forever more, of that I'm sure. You speak to me in an ancient, romantic language, one that I hear with every fiber of my being.
We delight in our flings, that sweaty dance, that repetitive romp. I've changed the way I ravenously relish you from second to second, and you've changed with me, step for step. You conjure fresh technique whenever I require, and you give it to me good. Hard and fast or soft and slow...your administrations are emblazoned on my mind, body and soul. Over and over, again and again.
No one else is with me whenever I need for however long, asking nothing in return but more of the same, like you are. I marvel at the daily symphony we share, how complete and simple. Just when I think I know all there is to know of you, another dimension slides along my senses, and I am alive again in a different way. And all the better for it.
You are my sentinel, my guardian. My most intimate friend. You see me through. You are my touch stone of connectedness to myself and to the world, and for that I am truly thankful and wholly addicted. In your absence, I am adrift in boredom and commonplace, afloat in defeat. The world is a card board facade of silent sadness. Together we've cried, laughed, learned. Together, the darkest hours and brightest moments.
You are my sanity, are all I have and all I want, so often.
Music...how I love you so.
We delight in our flings, that sweaty dance, that repetitive romp. I've changed the way I ravenously relish you from second to second, and you've changed with me, step for step. You conjure fresh technique whenever I require, and you give it to me good. Hard and fast or soft and slow...your administrations are emblazoned on my mind, body and soul. Over and over, again and again.
No one else is with me whenever I need for however long, asking nothing in return but more of the same, like you are. I marvel at the daily symphony we share, how complete and simple. Just when I think I know all there is to know of you, another dimension slides along my senses, and I am alive again in a different way. And all the better for it.
You are my sentinel, my guardian. My most intimate friend. You see me through. You are my touch stone of connectedness to myself and to the world, and for that I am truly thankful and wholly addicted. In your absence, I am adrift in boredom and commonplace, afloat in defeat. The world is a card board facade of silent sadness. Together we've cried, laughed, learned. Together, the darkest hours and brightest moments.
You are my sanity, are all I have and all I want, so often.
Music...how I love you so.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Ode English
Mighty Mouse and Banana Man were received with a wide grin and an eager ear. Then Labyrinth unfolded before me, King Jareth's commanding, mesmerizing androgyny opening my eyes to what I considered interesting and sexy. Monty Python was taboo for many Catholic reasons, but I snuck it in whenever possible, it's members in my Comedy Hall of Famery-ing forever.
The Beatles blared from our living room speakers, we danced and sang along with genuine, raucous abandon (some of the best memories I have). Oasis and Radiohead appeared on the radar in my teen years (replace dancing with writing angsty/smutty manifestos in my journal), helping me through heartache and awkwardness eloquently. Are You Being Served?, Fawlty Towers, The Young Ones, Little Britain, Coupling, Spaced and my newest favorite, Skins all have a special stronghold in my living lexicon of entertainment and enjoyment (there's a few hundred others, a condensed list for time and sanity). The exuded cheeky class, relaxed off-beat sophistication and rebellious, level-headed aloof, make my heart palpitate. The majority of men on my Top Ten of All Time list are from across the pond (faster still, my heart doth beat). I am instantly intrigued by anything as soon as it's determined to be of English origin.
My name is Lola, and I'm an Anglophile.
Not one to be overly obsessive geek-girl (alright, not as outwardly then), when it comes to ol' Blighty, I'm smitten and all a-slobber. It's a word.
My fondness stems from the comfort of that which I knew daily, concretely in another life, it feels. Perhaps a parallel life to the one I have now. It's comforting to feel part of witty verbal earnestness, to witness reveling in a tradition of intelligence and nothing is sacred-ness (with a dash of everything IS sacred-ness). Even the lowest brow is set pretty high, no pandering or talking-down-to happening. It's all very natural and easy-peasy, yet should a fight or cause to rise against occur, irreverently as a people, they're on it like a bonnet.
There's a tea break/pub stint to shake loose monotony, neither of which is a bad idea, ever. There's far less squeamishness with nudity, controversial issues or personal relating. A chivalry and decency and dignity with all that truly matters, and a "fuck-all!" to everything else. That just ain't part of our heritage so much. America is the teenager of the world, England the knowing older sibling, chuckling and shaking it's head at our rowdy, misguided antics. A refreshing escape, one I take frequently with fervor.
Sadly and wrongly, I've never visited, and my few sordid interludes with actual English imports here were not as awe-inspiring as I had always/often fantasized. I have a theory as to why, one meant analytically. Foreign types who come to the U S of A are usually pursuing the American "way of life", assimilation to that end being the very same issue I have with many fellow Americans. Cut-throat competitiveness, material fixation, shallow wanker-itis, to site a few. Not everyone that comes to our soil is that way nor are everyone that inhabit it, but it makes sense, like attracts like.
Anyway, I'm assuming that's what kept me and the random few Brits from skipping down the road arm in arm, singing God Save the Queen whilst sprinkling scones like parade candy. That must be why.
Like the post I wrote in response to my New York trip and how I feel for California (Bi-Coastal), there's never any lack of respect or love for where I am currently. I love America for what it is, I just have an awakened sense of understanding somewhere else. I feel that with every song, show or syllable I take delight in.
When I voyage to the iconic island itself, I'll fare well with the people there-they're juice from the root, one I've long felt rooted akin to. As life imitates art, my propensity for all things English will translate a connection in many ways. Can't wait to pop 'round and see.
The Beatles blared from our living room speakers, we danced and sang along with genuine, raucous abandon (some of the best memories I have). Oasis and Radiohead appeared on the radar in my teen years (replace dancing with writing angsty/smutty manifestos in my journal), helping me through heartache and awkwardness eloquently. Are You Being Served?, Fawlty Towers, The Young Ones, Little Britain, Coupling, Spaced and my newest favorite, Skins all have a special stronghold in my living lexicon of entertainment and enjoyment (there's a few hundred others, a condensed list for time and sanity). The exuded cheeky class, relaxed off-beat sophistication and rebellious, level-headed aloof, make my heart palpitate. The majority of men on my Top Ten of All Time list are from across the pond (faster still, my heart doth beat). I am instantly intrigued by anything as soon as it's determined to be of English origin.
My name is Lola, and I'm an Anglophile.
Not one to be overly obsessive geek-girl (alright, not as outwardly then), when it comes to ol' Blighty, I'm smitten and all a-slobber. It's a word.
My fondness stems from the comfort of that which I knew daily, concretely in another life, it feels. Perhaps a parallel life to the one I have now. It's comforting to feel part of witty verbal earnestness, to witness reveling in a tradition of intelligence and nothing is sacred-ness (with a dash of everything IS sacred-ness). Even the lowest brow is set pretty high, no pandering or talking-down-to happening. It's all very natural and easy-peasy, yet should a fight or cause to rise against occur, irreverently as a people, they're on it like a bonnet.
There's a tea break/pub stint to shake loose monotony, neither of which is a bad idea, ever. There's far less squeamishness with nudity, controversial issues or personal relating. A chivalry and decency and dignity with all that truly matters, and a "fuck-all!" to everything else. That just ain't part of our heritage so much. America is the teenager of the world, England the knowing older sibling, chuckling and shaking it's head at our rowdy, misguided antics. A refreshing escape, one I take frequently with fervor.
Sadly and wrongly, I've never visited, and my few sordid interludes with actual English imports here were not as awe-inspiring as I had always/often fantasized. I have a theory as to why, one meant analytically. Foreign types who come to the U S of A are usually pursuing the American "way of life", assimilation to that end being the very same issue I have with many fellow Americans. Cut-throat competitiveness, material fixation, shallow wanker-itis, to site a few. Not everyone that comes to our soil is that way nor are everyone that inhabit it, but it makes sense, like attracts like.
Anyway, I'm assuming that's what kept me and the random few Brits from skipping down the road arm in arm, singing God Save the Queen whilst sprinkling scones like parade candy. That must be why.
Like the post I wrote in response to my New York trip and how I feel for California (Bi-Coastal), there's never any lack of respect or love for where I am currently. I love America for what it is, I just have an awakened sense of understanding somewhere else. I feel that with every song, show or syllable I take delight in.
When I voyage to the iconic island itself, I'll fare well with the people there-they're juice from the root, one I've long felt rooted akin to. As life imitates art, my propensity for all things English will translate a connection in many ways. Can't wait to pop 'round and see.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Rectitude
We need to be our own Sassy Gay Friend, that's all there is to it. If you know not of whom I speak, head to thesecondcitynetwork.com/You Tube, check it out, and compile a list of people (outside of the rare and glorious real friends you might have, cherish them) that would be as candid with you in an hour of crucial decision making. Or that hilarious while doing it.
Honesty isn't the best policy anymore, or when it is, it's callously misinterpreted to suit our personal needs, spare us unwanted interaction or help us gain something. I've been beating my brains out lately trying to figure out exactly why we do this to ourselves and others. Laziness? Fear of confrontation? Defense mechanism? Selfishness? I suspect it's all of the above. What the what and why the why, I ask.
EVERYONE does it, we're all a link in the spiral of shame. I accepted a dinner invitation from a random dude at the park the other day. He didn't trip my trigger physically, nor personality wise, and the verbal exchange was weak to say the least. He didn't even introduce himself before getting digits (ones that I could have fudged as an easy out but never do out of habit I guess, psssh). He then proceeded to imply by tone of voice what would be happening in exchange for sushi. Yuck and double yuck. Needless to say I declined later, and scoffed at the subsequent blatant booty text the next night. "I'm not interested, but thanks. Approaching me took guts though, good job." That's how that could have gone, but it's a park frequented often, and no doubt I'll run into him again, therefor I felt obligated to spare the potential rejection awkwardness of it all. So I pretended, kicking myself ever since.
According to the general study of humans I informally conduct, when you do let the truth fly, it's detrimental somewhere down the line, and that's the deciding factor above all else. The collective stigma isn't on being honest so much as having to deal with that person in the future, in light of your real feelings or thoughts. By telling them what you think, you open your thought process and opinions to them, and in effect that friend/person will know where you stand, and either shy away or rebel against you accordingly. So it's easier to just say what they want to hear or skirt the issue and not have to sort out the messy, draining details.
Every time you let a good friend out of the house wearing an unflattering get-up despite any dubious queries for your input or omit pertinent facts to receive money/a service/material gain from someone the truth bending isn't for them, it's for you. Selfish and jaded much? Yeah, somehow we are.
Couple that with the human need for acceptance by everyone and their teacup poodle, its obvious how this all came down, even as we ignore indefinitely. I decided to challenge myself to fix it from my end. If we can all band together to "go green" we can all "go real", too.
Those individuals-you know who they are/if you are one-that ring loudest and clearest when relating do so by tactfully revealing thoughts and constructively evaluating situations without fear or delusional misgivings clouding their head. It's not what you say, it's how you say it. If we pass that down to even the simplest interactions, and trust in our perspective in that moment, we can dig a tunnel to truth and be set free. If what you say is meant to help, any momentary offense will be forgotten when they come out the other side, better for it.
In other words, "Probity ain't just fun on a Saturday night, it's a way of life." You know, something sassy like that.
Honesty isn't the best policy anymore, or when it is, it's callously misinterpreted to suit our personal needs, spare us unwanted interaction or help us gain something. I've been beating my brains out lately trying to figure out exactly why we do this to ourselves and others. Laziness? Fear of confrontation? Defense mechanism? Selfishness? I suspect it's all of the above. What the what and why the why, I ask.
EVERYONE does it, we're all a link in the spiral of shame. I accepted a dinner invitation from a random dude at the park the other day. He didn't trip my trigger physically, nor personality wise, and the verbal exchange was weak to say the least. He didn't even introduce himself before getting digits (ones that I could have fudged as an easy out but never do out of habit I guess, psssh). He then proceeded to imply by tone of voice what would be happening in exchange for sushi. Yuck and double yuck. Needless to say I declined later, and scoffed at the subsequent blatant booty text the next night. "I'm not interested, but thanks. Approaching me took guts though, good job." That's how that could have gone, but it's a park frequented often, and no doubt I'll run into him again, therefor I felt obligated to spare the potential rejection awkwardness of it all. So I pretended, kicking myself ever since.
According to the general study of humans I informally conduct, when you do let the truth fly, it's detrimental somewhere down the line, and that's the deciding factor above all else. The collective stigma isn't on being honest so much as having to deal with that person in the future, in light of your real feelings or thoughts. By telling them what you think, you open your thought process and opinions to them, and in effect that friend/person will know where you stand, and either shy away or rebel against you accordingly. So it's easier to just say what they want to hear or skirt the issue and not have to sort out the messy, draining details.
Every time you let a good friend out of the house wearing an unflattering get-up despite any dubious queries for your input or omit pertinent facts to receive money/a service/material gain from someone the truth bending isn't for them, it's for you. Selfish and jaded much? Yeah, somehow we are.
Couple that with the human need for acceptance by everyone and their teacup poodle, its obvious how this all came down, even as we ignore indefinitely. I decided to challenge myself to fix it from my end. If we can all band together to "go green" we can all "go real", too.
Those individuals-you know who they are/if you are one-that ring loudest and clearest when relating do so by tactfully revealing thoughts and constructively evaluating situations without fear or delusional misgivings clouding their head. It's not what you say, it's how you say it. If we pass that down to even the simplest interactions, and trust in our perspective in that moment, we can dig a tunnel to truth and be set free. If what you say is meant to help, any momentary offense will be forgotten when they come out the other side, better for it.
In other words, "Probity ain't just fun on a Saturday night, it's a way of life." You know, something sassy like that.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The SMD: In The Wings
At the most severe height, it's the tormented woman that drowned her kids in Texas a few years back. The next step down would be Munchausen by proxy and all the disturbing psychosis that goes with it. A few rungs down the ladder resides the slightly crazed, cutthroat parents who push their young ens to perform/dazzle/win (to appease their own whatever), proclaiming "it's his/her dream and I'm just helping to achieve it!!!"so as not to come off as misplaced aggressive as they fear they are. A few rungs below that are the parents that blindly interject their gifted kids/all attributes and accomplishments regardless of relevance to the conversation, broadcasting how great they are at passing on genes and being humble. No matter where you fall on the societal shame ladder, one thing unites all: you are no longer in the shining star in the spotlight, but the seasoned roadie shuffling around backstage.
It's your own damn fault, too. You procreated, you chose to teach them to be agreeable and well mannered and to be themselves. So get out of the way while the rest of us delight in the precociousness, or something like that.
Weather it's the residual cuteness swag, or the on-sight smiles and giggles, at emotionally drained low points (submerged in Single Mama Drama, I can have a few low points a week), it starts stinging when you aren't automatically included. It can be implied, but never related in the same giddy gushy-ness, so might as well be not at all. No one rushes to give me a hug and hand me a balloon like they do Logan, when I'm the one that could use it half the time. I realize how immature and asshole this all sounds. It's a very base level truth though, even if it gets ignored or suppressed for the sake of sanity and or healthy development. It's still there, if your honest.
The little darling sweeps in, destroying your daily life as you knew it in every way, only to increasingly encroach on your identity, too. Something you've tried to maintain in spite of and because of them, equally. Big, lonely, insult-to-injury ouch. Even if I'm not standing on any particular rung of the shame ladder, I can see how it could escalate to such.
I'm honorably the alpha and omega of Logan's frequently glamorous pint-sized world, and it's a worthy consolation every time I/anyone else remembers that. Despite all the firm disciplining and soft nurturing used to sculpt a stand-out kid, it truly is fifty-fifty. She deserves all the oohs and aahs any interesting person with a zeal for life does. So fuck it. Quit being a needy wuss about it, eh? Be proud, not beat down. Fight the important battles, not the neurotic self-imposed ones. Hopefully she'll glean that lesson along the way, too.
When she's eighteen and gets the hell out, I can revert to the ol' one lady show. A passion project to rival the last revival, if you catch my drift.
It's your own damn fault, too. You procreated, you chose to teach them to be agreeable and well mannered and to be themselves. So get out of the way while the rest of us delight in the precociousness, or something like that.
Weather it's the residual cuteness swag, or the on-sight smiles and giggles, at emotionally drained low points (submerged in Single Mama Drama, I can have a few low points a week), it starts stinging when you aren't automatically included. It can be implied, but never related in the same giddy gushy-ness, so might as well be not at all. No one rushes to give me a hug and hand me a balloon like they do Logan, when I'm the one that could use it half the time. I realize how immature and asshole this all sounds. It's a very base level truth though, even if it gets ignored or suppressed for the sake of sanity and or healthy development. It's still there, if your honest.
The little darling sweeps in, destroying your daily life as you knew it in every way, only to increasingly encroach on your identity, too. Something you've tried to maintain in spite of and because of them, equally. Big, lonely, insult-to-injury ouch. Even if I'm not standing on any particular rung of the shame ladder, I can see how it could escalate to such.
I'm honorably the alpha and omega of Logan's frequently glamorous pint-sized world, and it's a worthy consolation every time I/anyone else remembers that. Despite all the firm disciplining and soft nurturing used to sculpt a stand-out kid, it truly is fifty-fifty. She deserves all the oohs and aahs any interesting person with a zeal for life does. So fuck it. Quit being a needy wuss about it, eh? Be proud, not beat down. Fight the important battles, not the neurotic self-imposed ones. Hopefully she'll glean that lesson along the way, too.
When she's eighteen and gets the hell out, I can revert to the ol' one lady show. A passion project to rival the last revival, if you catch my drift.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Showstopped
The Muse is a sordid, lovely mistress. I hear her whispering, even when I lack the capacity to extol her blessings forth, she still haunts and nurtures equally. From all accounts, as soon as the fair lady wins out and you reach artistic fruition with fans clamoring in your wake, it's tormenting and validating, joyous and depressing. You either want more or less of what you have (fame, accolades, chances, pressure), and the battle claims a life. Some of the greatest artists the world has known have lost the battle and moved on to entertain on another plane of existence, what/wherever that may be.
I've been watching a slew of dramatic/tragic movies lately, ones that I meant to watch closer to their respective cultural relevance, but that rarely works out with my budget/time constraints these days. It falls under the "they happen when they need to" theory I have about movies, especially intense dramatic ones. They will pull a revelation out of you in a timely way.
La Vie En Rose, is the stand out so far. I know it came out three years ago and much has transpired since then. Critical acclaim, Oscar dresses, much deserved awards, all that jazzola. What struck me as I watched wasn't all the hype of a bygone year though. Marion Cotillard was able to breathe retrospective life into a real life person, she had her mannerisms and her feisty spirit nailed down, yes indeed. She most importantly captured the anguish pursuing a dream can be, how even when you feel so unworthy to even do so, the thing you were born to do finds a way to keep you in the game. Every creative person knows that feeling. Every person in general, knows that feeling, if you let it in.
I was a blubbering mess by the end of it (accordingly from the first 30 minutes on, who am I kidding) but it shook things loose. Afterward, I sat gazing over my balcony at the palm treed horizon and was utterly thankful. Thankful for that which I have (love present and past, a good head on my shoulders, a wonderful family, my health to name a few) and for that which I don't (debilitating ailments, too much too soon, a lack of backbone or empathy or understanding). After I said my thanks to the night sky, I thought about how tortured people make the quickest and brightest stars, and why that is. Those destined for greatness are also destined for such great pain, it seems.
What could possibly be worth all the noise and fury, why do those with true art to share with the world even bother? Then The Muse whispered in my ear again and I smiled and thanked her too. As long as you do it for yourself, all pain and strife are worth it. If you connect with others and help them feel better in their own skin, all the more worth it, even when that inspiration tosses you to and fro. Each choice made, each tear shed, each resolution to keep going and do what you gotta do will help cleanse or help deteriorate. Maybe those who check out early or in shocking ways want nothing more from life. They've already had a chance to shine their story to the darkness, but it wasn't enough to seek the light for longer. And that's their business, not ours. At least we have them in our hearts still. Even in death, we glean inspiration from their work, how precious it is that they fought to share.
The words non, je ne regrette rien come to mind.
I've been watching a slew of dramatic/tragic movies lately, ones that I meant to watch closer to their respective cultural relevance, but that rarely works out with my budget/time constraints these days. It falls under the "they happen when they need to" theory I have about movies, especially intense dramatic ones. They will pull a revelation out of you in a timely way.
La Vie En Rose, is the stand out so far. I know it came out three years ago and much has transpired since then. Critical acclaim, Oscar dresses, much deserved awards, all that jazzola. What struck me as I watched wasn't all the hype of a bygone year though. Marion Cotillard was able to breathe retrospective life into a real life person, she had her mannerisms and her feisty spirit nailed down, yes indeed. She most importantly captured the anguish pursuing a dream can be, how even when you feel so unworthy to even do so, the thing you were born to do finds a way to keep you in the game. Every creative person knows that feeling. Every person in general, knows that feeling, if you let it in.
I was a blubbering mess by the end of it (accordingly from the first 30 minutes on, who am I kidding) but it shook things loose. Afterward, I sat gazing over my balcony at the palm treed horizon and was utterly thankful. Thankful for that which I have (love present and past, a good head on my shoulders, a wonderful family, my health to name a few) and for that which I don't (debilitating ailments, too much too soon, a lack of backbone or empathy or understanding). After I said my thanks to the night sky, I thought about how tortured people make the quickest and brightest stars, and why that is. Those destined for greatness are also destined for such great pain, it seems.
What could possibly be worth all the noise and fury, why do those with true art to share with the world even bother? Then The Muse whispered in my ear again and I smiled and thanked her too. As long as you do it for yourself, all pain and strife are worth it. If you connect with others and help them feel better in their own skin, all the more worth it, even when that inspiration tosses you to and fro. Each choice made, each tear shed, each resolution to keep going and do what you gotta do will help cleanse or help deteriorate. Maybe those who check out early or in shocking ways want nothing more from life. They've already had a chance to shine their story to the darkness, but it wasn't enough to seek the light for longer. And that's their business, not ours. At least we have them in our hearts still. Even in death, we glean inspiration from their work, how precious it is that they fought to share.
The words non, je ne regrette rien come to mind.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Hot Town
My favorite time of year is crouched in attack position...waiting for the last pastel remnants of spring to evaporate, upon which it shall pounce, exploding adventure and all its' glittery possibilities in every direction with frivolous abandon. It ain't the temperature so much as the fun, carefree vibe festively threaded throughout that makes it such an event. Everything about summer is salacious, sexy and savory, if one does it well.
Those friends you mysteriously only associate with during these months come out of the woodwork, offering familiar escapades/opportunities you've shared joyously every year (not unlike the Vegas slogan, what happens during the summer is left during the summer in the best sense), it's comforting and exciting. Motivation to find what you want-be it the perfect bikini, vacation package or restoration project-kick starts you through any lingering cold weather yucks. Barbecue grills, pools and all manner of water craft are being lovingly refurbished for another good time go-round. Kids ravenously counting down to school free months of tree-climbing, bike-riding, ice-cream truck chasing and hopefully, horizon broadening.
It's a big fluffy pile of calendar dessert. Indulging too much yields some consequences, but you'll always relent to decadent, sensual delight even the tiniest bit. I might be firmly in broken record territory with the positive-not-negative undertone I convey to you here, but I mean it with all my large pounding heart, and I stand by it. Along with all the above reasons that stand alone in their own right, this is the time of year when everyone is a little more aligned with that beloved notion of mine for whatever their reason, and I eat it up. With chopsticks.
Personally, this years tentative agenda will be: seasonal visit to Wyoming (I save my kidneys up all year for the volume of drunken reunions had there), getting some quality writing done (blog and novel wise), reading a good book on the beach whilst getting a nice golden brown going (if the spring chill/wind would take a hint, for the love of all that is holy) and most importantly, striking up new friendships/flings that will make Summer '10 enjoyable, and all the more distinct.
My season never lets me down, even when the odd bout of chilly rain or overly enthusiastic night-out involving police, threatens to do just that. I anticipate bright shiny days and warm velvety nights filled with surprises, intrigue and some R and R. Many giant Slurpees, many crisp cocktails, many light-hearted, marvelous make-outs and many laughs. Who's with me?
Those friends you mysteriously only associate with during these months come out of the woodwork, offering familiar escapades/opportunities you've shared joyously every year (not unlike the Vegas slogan, what happens during the summer is left during the summer in the best sense), it's comforting and exciting. Motivation to find what you want-be it the perfect bikini, vacation package or restoration project-kick starts you through any lingering cold weather yucks. Barbecue grills, pools and all manner of water craft are being lovingly refurbished for another good time go-round. Kids ravenously counting down to school free months of tree-climbing, bike-riding, ice-cream truck chasing and hopefully, horizon broadening.
It's a big fluffy pile of calendar dessert. Indulging too much yields some consequences, but you'll always relent to decadent, sensual delight even the tiniest bit. I might be firmly in broken record territory with the positive-not-negative undertone I convey to you here, but I mean it with all my large pounding heart, and I stand by it. Along with all the above reasons that stand alone in their own right, this is the time of year when everyone is a little more aligned with that beloved notion of mine for whatever their reason, and I eat it up. With chopsticks.
Personally, this years tentative agenda will be: seasonal visit to Wyoming (I save my kidneys up all year for the volume of drunken reunions had there), getting some quality writing done (blog and novel wise), reading a good book on the beach whilst getting a nice golden brown going (if the spring chill/wind would take a hint, for the love of all that is holy) and most importantly, striking up new friendships/flings that will make Summer '10 enjoyable, and all the more distinct.
My season never lets me down, even when the odd bout of chilly rain or overly enthusiastic night-out involving police, threatens to do just that. I anticipate bright shiny days and warm velvety nights filled with surprises, intrigue and some R and R. Many giant Slurpees, many crisp cocktails, many light-hearted, marvelous make-outs and many laughs. Who's with me?
Monday, May 24, 2010
The SMD: Bump in the Night Right Back
How steadfastly enamored she is, of that which scares the bejeezus out of her. It's almost like Logan has to push her imagination in a terrifying direction so she's thankful for the commonplace conflict she most frequently is up against (me). At the tender age of five, she insists upon the adrenaline rush most clamor to avoid.
We bought Coraline the other day, at her insistence she really wanted it/had to have it, it was her one treat of the outing. We'd watched it together before, she was slightly worse for the ware, but her whole kick is to rise against the challenge, so I indulged her. If I could handle James and the Giant Peach and Nightmare Before Christmas, then she's cool too, I figure. Side note: What exactly happened to Tim Burton in his formative years that has inspired such creepy-creepshow ramifications? He and Stephen King should get together and create an original work of biblical proportions and put the torture porn horror genre of today out of its misery. Pun intended.
Anyways, dread time (or bedtime to the layperson) becomes literal for her after the creepy movie du jour (which is true of most people). A tenth drink of water, another installment of Wubbzy, a categorical list of what's in the bathroom cupboards. Anything to keep her from the lights going out, and the shadows befalling. Still, she HAS to see it. Like, mad-at-me-for-days-if-I-deny-her, has to. Jumanji is the only other movie that twisted her up as bad (the notion that animals are out to destroy you is disquieting for anyone, let alone a kid that normally sees nothing but cuddly happy versions), but I'll be damned if she will stop the show and find something less frightening.
Fear is a powerful motivator, an equally powerful entertainer due to that fact. Hardwired to be "afraid" for survival reasons, and I suspect also, that if we ourselves are capable of so much-for lack of a better term-evil, then we can only expect it from elsewhere. Especially the dark.
No matter the rationale behind it, it's bizarre to watch her want to watch them. At first signs of anxious and wide-eyed, as a mom I want to protect and distract, but she's hell bent on seeing it through. A crucial part of growth is to face what you fear head-on and know you can overcome, and many of the "scary" movies geared toward kids do send that message, at least. Coraline doesn't take the malicious misfortune lying down, she rallies and rails against the Other Mother and her spindly manipulation. Perhaps Logan knows that she'd do the same, and a vivid demonstration is comforting. That's why I'll always press play.
It's supposedly easier to manage our fears as the grown-ups, they tend to get more social/interpersonal. You don't fret about a giant spider woman stalking you down (which might be an oversight that's scary shit) half as much as you do about getting rejected in front of your peers, dying sad and alone, or losing your job. Does that make us less or more enlightened than the youngens?
If nothing else, I've instilled that it's only a movie and it can't hurt her. Just pretends. The light switch is a few feet away, the strength shown to antagonistic characters always helps to shove them back into their respective caves/castles/swamps etc. If only us grown-ups could talk ourselves down as easily, what a safe world it really would be.
We bought Coraline the other day, at her insistence she really wanted it/had to have it, it was her one treat of the outing. We'd watched it together before, she was slightly worse for the ware, but her whole kick is to rise against the challenge, so I indulged her. If I could handle James and the Giant Peach and Nightmare Before Christmas, then she's cool too, I figure. Side note: What exactly happened to Tim Burton in his formative years that has inspired such creepy-creepshow ramifications? He and Stephen King should get together and create an original work of biblical proportions and put the torture porn horror genre of today out of its misery. Pun intended.
Anyways, dread time (or bedtime to the layperson) becomes literal for her after the creepy movie du jour (which is true of most people). A tenth drink of water, another installment of Wubbzy, a categorical list of what's in the bathroom cupboards. Anything to keep her from the lights going out, and the shadows befalling. Still, she HAS to see it. Like, mad-at-me-for-days-if-I-deny-her, has to. Jumanji is the only other movie that twisted her up as bad (the notion that animals are out to destroy you is disquieting for anyone, let alone a kid that normally sees nothing but cuddly happy versions), but I'll be damned if she will stop the show and find something less frightening.
Fear is a powerful motivator, an equally powerful entertainer due to that fact. Hardwired to be "afraid" for survival reasons, and I suspect also, that if we ourselves are capable of so much-for lack of a better term-evil, then we can only expect it from elsewhere. Especially the dark.
No matter the rationale behind it, it's bizarre to watch her want to watch them. At first signs of anxious and wide-eyed, as a mom I want to protect and distract, but she's hell bent on seeing it through. A crucial part of growth is to face what you fear head-on and know you can overcome, and many of the "scary" movies geared toward kids do send that message, at least. Coraline doesn't take the malicious misfortune lying down, she rallies and rails against the Other Mother and her spindly manipulation. Perhaps Logan knows that she'd do the same, and a vivid demonstration is comforting. That's why I'll always press play.
It's supposedly easier to manage our fears as the grown-ups, they tend to get more social/interpersonal. You don't fret about a giant spider woman stalking you down (which might be an oversight that's scary shit) half as much as you do about getting rejected in front of your peers, dying sad and alone, or losing your job. Does that make us less or more enlightened than the youngens?
If nothing else, I've instilled that it's only a movie and it can't hurt her. Just pretends. The light switch is a few feet away, the strength shown to antagonistic characters always helps to shove them back into their respective caves/castles/swamps etc. If only us grown-ups could talk ourselves down as easily, what a safe world it really would be.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Bi-Coastal
I had my initial bite into that Big chaotic Apple I've so vividly fantasized about, and I am still reveling in what I tasted. It feels like cheating on my beloved California, that's how much I dig it. The comparisons between the two don't jive though. NYC is a crisp, fresh, bittersweet, larger- than-life apple, and California is a thick, laid back, grandiose, cantaloupe. Both are uniquely juicy. Duality was seamlessly sliced this past week.
I'm primarily melon (both in breast size and overall texture of life if you catch my breeze which is why I live where I do), so I was surprisingly surprised that from the first glimpse of dusky skyline (bringing tears to my eyes even through the tiny vantage of an airplane window), my East Coast inclination inklings were confirmed. I stepped onto the filthy sidewalk, hailed my first cab and strapped in for an amazing joyous experience. I'm still knackered and sated from it all.
New York feels like a constant, daily parade. People briskly bobbing along from place to place-decadent, determined, deranged or usually all three-secure in the knowledge that no matter how outlandish, common place or middle of the road they come across, others around them are themselves busy being them, and could care less, really. An informal celebration of ambitious, sophisticated diversity with no bullshit in between. No time for it.
Having said that, it's a constant flow of sensory delight, impossible to be ignored. The smell of street vendors/restaurants presenting their wares, humid air and people as they pin ball against one another, the occasional sewer/bodily fluid smell slapping vengefully, inspiring gratitude that you're obligated to walk so swiftly onward. The sounds of taxis and the other brave souls sharing their road, honking in an adamant unintelligible language. The sight of famous, glamorous landmarks stretching to life in historic graceful grime, the bright blue or maudlin gray sky setting tone to each days drama. The notion that it could all go horribly wrong but rarely does, is exhilarating.
What a clusterfuck of humanity insanity, tending to make perfect sense if you choose to notice.
In the same way California sprang to life before my eyes and sank deep into my soul many years ago, New York triggered forth elements of quality I didn't realize were lacking. My family (nine of us total) covered a lot of ground. What we saw was awesome, (AWESOME!) and I won't forget how I changed as I saw it. I could regurgitate it all, but go see for yourself, then we'll trade notes.
NYU grad, fantastic brother and reason for the season was at the helm. Being local he gave insider terminology, insight and definition to it all. His friends/acquaintances/comrades all share a similar genuine intrigue and intelligence, and he fits like a glove among them. Perhaps that's what made it so comfortable, so visceral.
Perhaps it is the fact that thriving there is thriving with a capital T and we felt a part of it. Every day you wake up, set forth to accomplish and actually do, it's sheer self-empowerment. On foot, on your own. Living fast, free and expensively. Living for yourself, although ironically, New Yorkers are the least selfish I've encountered if you are in need. They know what it's like to walk the paces. That is one of the true similarities both coasts share, actually. New York is just quicker to the punch by necessity.
I amassed a hundred anecdotes/inside jokes, a few hundred pictures and a few thousand subtle souvenirs, most of which are spiritual. The most profound is that I have a new mecca of connectedness. I can't say I plan to leave Cali or that New York has replaced it, rather, it slid in tightly astride as so much of the city itself.
Like the yin and yang, both coasts will reside inside. Can't have one without the other.
I'm primarily melon (both in breast size and overall texture of life if you catch my breeze which is why I live where I do), so I was surprisingly surprised that from the first glimpse of dusky skyline (bringing tears to my eyes even through the tiny vantage of an airplane window), my East Coast inclination inklings were confirmed. I stepped onto the filthy sidewalk, hailed my first cab and strapped in for an amazing joyous experience. I'm still knackered and sated from it all.
New York feels like a constant, daily parade. People briskly bobbing along from place to place-decadent, determined, deranged or usually all three-secure in the knowledge that no matter how outlandish, common place or middle of the road they come across, others around them are themselves busy being them, and could care less, really. An informal celebration of ambitious, sophisticated diversity with no bullshit in between. No time for it.
Having said that, it's a constant flow of sensory delight, impossible to be ignored. The smell of street vendors/restaurants presenting their wares, humid air and people as they pin ball against one another, the occasional sewer/bodily fluid smell slapping vengefully, inspiring gratitude that you're obligated to walk so swiftly onward. The sounds of taxis and the other brave souls sharing their road, honking in an adamant unintelligible language. The sight of famous, glamorous landmarks stretching to life in historic graceful grime, the bright blue or maudlin gray sky setting tone to each days drama. The notion that it could all go horribly wrong but rarely does, is exhilarating.
What a clusterfuck of humanity insanity, tending to make perfect sense if you choose to notice.
In the same way California sprang to life before my eyes and sank deep into my soul many years ago, New York triggered forth elements of quality I didn't realize were lacking. My family (nine of us total) covered a lot of ground. What we saw was awesome, (AWESOME!) and I won't forget how I changed as I saw it. I could regurgitate it all, but go see for yourself, then we'll trade notes.
NYU grad, fantastic brother and reason for the season was at the helm. Being local he gave insider terminology, insight and definition to it all. His friends/acquaintances/comrades all share a similar genuine intrigue and intelligence, and he fits like a glove among them. Perhaps that's what made it so comfortable, so visceral.
Perhaps it is the fact that thriving there is thriving with a capital T and we felt a part of it. Every day you wake up, set forth to accomplish and actually do, it's sheer self-empowerment. On foot, on your own. Living fast, free and expensively. Living for yourself, although ironically, New Yorkers are the least selfish I've encountered if you are in need. They know what it's like to walk the paces. That is one of the true similarities both coasts share, actually. New York is just quicker to the punch by necessity.
I amassed a hundred anecdotes/inside jokes, a few hundred pictures and a few thousand subtle souvenirs, most of which are spiritual. The most profound is that I have a new mecca of connectedness. I can't say I plan to leave Cali or that New York has replaced it, rather, it slid in tightly astride as so much of the city itself.
Like the yin and yang, both coasts will reside inside. Can't have one without the other.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Precipice
Checking items of the ol' master list, cleansing breaths, dutifully compartmentalizing, and above all, trying not to spawn a counter productive headache with all of the above. Setting out on a voyage of any kind can be as stressful as moving minus the actual permanent relocation. The attention to detail is just as important. Slighting your necessities slightly and you could be boned for days, weeks, months even. Then hopefully amidst it all, you remember why you're doing it all, and that sharp thrill of anticipatory excitement surges through your midsection, a smile brightening your furrowed face. And again, you're ready to do what's gotta be done. I'm headed to New York for the first time on Saturday, at long last.
Ironically, people have asked if I'm from NYC off and on since I've lived in California. I'm not sure what they are basing it off of (no bullshit take of life, kindness to those in peril?), but I'm very excited to put two and two together. It's more than that though...my amazing, beautiful, younger brother is graduating from NYU with Honors, and I am so very proud of him. He himself is on the crest of a voyage into "adulthood" (which he'll find isn't really a hood, more like a mock turtleneck), and I can't imagine a better send off than having a gathering of loved ones from various locations around the U S of A. Full circle and all that.
Maybe that 's where half the anxiety comes from. I know it will be a momentous occasion, so I better get my shit straight. I can't be casual when so much is at stake. If I'd chillax a little, and think of it as the adventure it will undoubtedly be, an awakening to new culture, climate and life experience, the odds and ends would fall into place with less flustering. I'm working on it.
Regardless, just being there to witness one of my favorite people getting acknowledged for his excellence-it can't happen enough-will be worth all the bothersome befuddlement. Cheers to you, Cooper. Your life is a tribute to how unique and deserving you really are. You worked your ass off, and I love you all the more for it. Tear grown-upness a new one, or rather continue to do so. I can't wait to stand at the edge of the next big event with you. I won't stress about the depth of the deep, just the awesomeness of our leaps.
Ironically, people have asked if I'm from NYC off and on since I've lived in California. I'm not sure what they are basing it off of (no bullshit take of life, kindness to those in peril?), but I'm very excited to put two and two together. It's more than that though...my amazing, beautiful, younger brother is graduating from NYU with Honors, and I am so very proud of him. He himself is on the crest of a voyage into "adulthood" (which he'll find isn't really a hood, more like a mock turtleneck), and I can't imagine a better send off than having a gathering of loved ones from various locations around the U S of A. Full circle and all that.
Maybe that 's where half the anxiety comes from. I know it will be a momentous occasion, so I better get my shit straight. I can't be casual when so much is at stake. If I'd chillax a little, and think of it as the adventure it will undoubtedly be, an awakening to new culture, climate and life experience, the odds and ends would fall into place with less flustering. I'm working on it.
Regardless, just being there to witness one of my favorite people getting acknowledged for his excellence-it can't happen enough-will be worth all the bothersome befuddlement. Cheers to you, Cooper. Your life is a tribute to how unique and deserving you really are. You worked your ass off, and I love you all the more for it. Tear grown-upness a new one, or rather continue to do so. I can't wait to stand at the edge of the next big event with you. I won't stress about the depth of the deep, just the awesomeness of our leaps.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Be Kind Rewind
Nothing fish hooks you into chronological awareness more than a decade resurfacing on the collective radar. Much like the nouveau 80's in the early Milena, the 90's are large and in charge. I'm witnessing grunge-ahem-twice. There is a feminine edge, flannel with ruffles at least. I definitely existed in musty old man thrift store fodder more than a thirteen year old girl ought. Back in my day, that's how we did it.
Every time I witness linebacker shoulder pads being rocked in earnest by a tween or a remix of Tag Team's Whoomp There It Is booms over the grocery store speakers (I can still joyously recite every lyric btw), I re-live it all, or at least get a flashback of that particular juncture in my own sordid teen exploits.
It doesn't seem like it was that long ago really, yet it feels like an eternity of other things have transpired since. Years since I waited eagerly for the next MTV Party To Go volume to be released. Since I did the Tootsie Roll at a YMCA dance, since I shed a tear for Kurt Cobain. Since I made out to The Pumpkins Melancholie album while I got pawed at, both of us unsure of the next step.
My sister once uttered that she felt incredibly old watching us, her younger siblings revisit trends from her years gone by. She'd regale me with "I remember that!" stories and at the time I scoffed, tightly coiled in callous adolescence. I get it now. For me it's not the fear of getting older; it's the notion of youth draining away to reveal itself all over again. Feels counter productive, maybe. Yet it's still fun to pull out the dusty recollections and slap them around once more. Most I've come across are of free and exploratative times. First hand account makes the trend du jour more like a badge of retro honor reflecting different times, instead of a fleeting fancy or marketing strategy.
I wouldn't know how to relate to a teenager-hell, a late grade schooler even-in the modern world. I know it's not the same game it was for me and my peers. From birth now, kids are hyper-accelerated and informed, and by parallel age comparison I feel like a geezer. I text, and speak in IM. I know what is/how to Skype. I'm on Facebook. Still, I doubt we'd truly communicate.
That's the beauty of pop culture and it's revolving Rolodex, and particularly, music and fashion. "How's Geometry?" might insight a riot, but compliment the fuchsia Doc Martens with an implied knowing wink and you'll get a genuine smile. Either you got it or you don't, embraced it or won't.
Seeing trends being ushered around full circle by a crop of young bloods is comforting. Fancy that. Oh sure, at times-like when a gaggle of them are shouting obscenities and littering and groping each other in the crosswalk while the light turns yellow-I'm tempted to illustrate (at top volume out the window) that one day in the future they will be in my (70's reheat a la Spice Girls cool again) platform shoes and not to give me the side-eye. Alas, I haven't the heart to do it. It comes swiftly enough, I'll let them enjoy their jackassery. Those who came before them certainly did, even if they conveniently forget.
As we all stride towards the next decade of re-relevance, let's go 20's. That's my vote. True recreation though, no modern re-vamp. Charleston dance-a-thons at the club, spats, three piece suits and flapper dresses at the office. Why not? The Roaring 20-ians would have something to telegraph-literally-much as I do in regards to 90's. I guess I would be dial-up emailing then? With all the dizzying input and recycled culture it would be a much needed dose of cat's pajamas.
Every time I witness linebacker shoulder pads being rocked in earnest by a tween or a remix of Tag Team's Whoomp There It Is booms over the grocery store speakers (I can still joyously recite every lyric btw), I re-live it all, or at least get a flashback of that particular juncture in my own sordid teen exploits.
It doesn't seem like it was that long ago really, yet it feels like an eternity of other things have transpired since. Years since I waited eagerly for the next MTV Party To Go volume to be released. Since I did the Tootsie Roll at a YMCA dance, since I shed a tear for Kurt Cobain. Since I made out to The Pumpkins Melancholie album while I got pawed at, both of us unsure of the next step.
My sister once uttered that she felt incredibly old watching us, her younger siblings revisit trends from her years gone by. She'd regale me with "I remember that!" stories and at the time I scoffed, tightly coiled in callous adolescence. I get it now. For me it's not the fear of getting older; it's the notion of youth draining away to reveal itself all over again. Feels counter productive, maybe. Yet it's still fun to pull out the dusty recollections and slap them around once more. Most I've come across are of free and exploratative times. First hand account makes the trend du jour more like a badge of retro honor reflecting different times, instead of a fleeting fancy or marketing strategy.
I wouldn't know how to relate to a teenager-hell, a late grade schooler even-in the modern world. I know it's not the same game it was for me and my peers. From birth now, kids are hyper-accelerated and informed, and by parallel age comparison I feel like a geezer. I text, and speak in IM. I know what is/how to Skype. I'm on Facebook. Still, I doubt we'd truly communicate.
That's the beauty of pop culture and it's revolving Rolodex, and particularly, music and fashion. "How's Geometry?" might insight a riot, but compliment the fuchsia Doc Martens with an implied knowing wink and you'll get a genuine smile. Either you got it or you don't, embraced it or won't.
Seeing trends being ushered around full circle by a crop of young bloods is comforting. Fancy that. Oh sure, at times-like when a gaggle of them are shouting obscenities and littering and groping each other in the crosswalk while the light turns yellow-I'm tempted to illustrate (at top volume out the window) that one day in the future they will be in my (70's reheat a la Spice Girls cool again) platform shoes and not to give me the side-eye. Alas, I haven't the heart to do it. It comes swiftly enough, I'll let them enjoy their jackassery. Those who came before them certainly did, even if they conveniently forget.
As we all stride towards the next decade of re-relevance, let's go 20's. That's my vote. True recreation though, no modern re-vamp. Charleston dance-a-thons at the club, spats, three piece suits and flapper dresses at the office. Why not? The Roaring 20-ians would have something to telegraph-literally-much as I do in regards to 90's. I guess I would be dial-up emailing then? With all the dizzying input and recycled culture it would be a much needed dose of cat's pajamas.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Jail House Rock
One of my favorite shows is Be Good, Johnny Weir, for so many reasons. Not everyone has the raging boner-er-admiration for him that I do I'm sure, particularly the skating officials (or skating Nazis as I lovingly refer to them) that think he's a loose cannon for loose cannon's sake. They're mistaken. Despite any resistance or attack he's on the receiving end of at every turn-pun intended-he's one of the most comfortable-in-his-own-skin people I've ever known of. You can see it in his eyes, hear it in his intelligent voice.
J-Dub is a naturally talented spitfire, an honest, classy artist. He's a dreamboat and a saucy minx, but always with gratitude and kindness. If you aren't picking up what he's putting down, it ain't no thang. He's been himself long enough for it not to matter and it's beautiful. I eat up all the exposure he accumulates with a spoon, because he's got the backbone to back it up, and it confirms what I always suspected before this show, before his documentary. He doesn't compromise his essence. He's more of a relevant role model for that fact alone than all the Wheaties box athletes that usurp his medals (I'm looking at you, Lysacek). Inspiration is harder to glean from someone that plays it safe. They have everything to lose if asked out on any limb.
Anyone who's a beautiful and unique snowflake (if you didn't get that Fight Club reference, I shame thee) knows how trying it is to express the light from within and not be punished in some way on the daily. I think it starts around junior high age, insecurity ravaging us all to take the path of least resistance and pretend we're happy to be who everyone wants us to be.
It takes strong resolve to be considered the whack job, as it is the worst kind of vampirism to intend suppression of bold individuality, to angrily or violently fear what you don't know/agree with and insist others heft the bill. The good news however is that if you are unflinching genuine article from the heart, you'll attract others to that effect. Speaking from experience, "fitting in" pales in comparison to fitting within yourself. Even if it's lonely at times, express your unique perspective in whatever way you want, lest your contentment will always be subject to someone else. How very limiting.
Another fellow rebel JFK, said, "Conformity is the enemy of thought, and the jailer of freedom". I have a handwritten poster of that quote on my fridge, so in my toughest moments of misunderstanding from others, I remember to be strong and stick to being me. Even if you pay the ultimate price for your slant on things as he did, at least you lived without confines, your thoughts were your own. Nobody can take that from you, so let that freak flag flap gallantly in the breeze, baby.
J-Dub is a naturally talented spitfire, an honest, classy artist. He's a dreamboat and a saucy minx, but always with gratitude and kindness. If you aren't picking up what he's putting down, it ain't no thang. He's been himself long enough for it not to matter and it's beautiful. I eat up all the exposure he accumulates with a spoon, because he's got the backbone to back it up, and it confirms what I always suspected before this show, before his documentary. He doesn't compromise his essence. He's more of a relevant role model for that fact alone than all the Wheaties box athletes that usurp his medals (I'm looking at you, Lysacek). Inspiration is harder to glean from someone that plays it safe. They have everything to lose if asked out on any limb.
Anyone who's a beautiful and unique snowflake (if you didn't get that Fight Club reference, I shame thee) knows how trying it is to express the light from within and not be punished in some way on the daily. I think it starts around junior high age, insecurity ravaging us all to take the path of least resistance and pretend we're happy to be who everyone wants us to be.
It takes strong resolve to be considered the whack job, as it is the worst kind of vampirism to intend suppression of bold individuality, to angrily or violently fear what you don't know/agree with and insist others heft the bill. The good news however is that if you are unflinching genuine article from the heart, you'll attract others to that effect. Speaking from experience, "fitting in" pales in comparison to fitting within yourself. Even if it's lonely at times, express your unique perspective in whatever way you want, lest your contentment will always be subject to someone else. How very limiting.
Another fellow rebel JFK, said, "Conformity is the enemy of thought, and the jailer of freedom". I have a handwritten poster of that quote on my fridge, so in my toughest moments of misunderstanding from others, I remember to be strong and stick to being me. Even if you pay the ultimate price for your slant on things as he did, at least you lived without confines, your thoughts were your own. Nobody can take that from you, so let that freak flag flap gallantly in the breeze, baby.
Friday, March 5, 2010
The SMD: Present from the Past in the Present
The wondrous unifier of books and the tradition of handing down each magical stepping stone of experience is one of the best joys of raising a kid. In past entries I've bitched/moaned and related a darker underbelly of what goes on, mostly because there's an abundance of that, and it's nice to have a release from it. Write it down, let it go I always say. Thanks for listening-er-reading. Reading is where it all starts.
On the occasions (prevalent if you're aware of them and open enough to receive, some days you just ain't) where you and yours have mutual spiritual growth, it feels humbling and touching and scary. You know with every lesson learned, there's a trifle of their innocence left behind, but it's poetic somehow. The world is a jumbled mess, especially if you've only seen a sheltered slice of it. Once you start realizing there's an all encompassing cake out there (you know nothing of) the safety of childhood is less. Authors from the inception of the idea, have broached life lessons and helped us all understand. Wherever you are on the spectrum.
I'll Love You Forever by Robert Munsch was on the menu tonight, and for the first time, Logan asked me (in as solemn a tone a four-year old can have), "Did his mother die?" at the end. If you've read the book, you know it's about a mother's love despite all harrowing stages of the game, and those bonds carrying her and her son through life. I was quiet for a minute, then I replied, "Yeah, she did. We all do some day." As soon as it fell from my mouth, I grappled within my mind and tears sprang forth. Should I have told her that at her age? Should I just fudge it and tell her no? When do you address subjects like that? All in a few seconds. This job will do that to you, but truth is rarely worse than the alternative, that I know.
Instead of anger or the third degree (which are her usual reactions to mind boggling concepts), Logan said, "You mean YOU'RE going to die?" with a hint of melancholy I'd never heard before but no panic, no fear. I said, "Yeah, but not for a looooooong time. Not until you're an older grown-up." This seemed to satiate her curiosity a little, but I knew she needed something more solid.
I watched her cherub face and tried to ease the emotion tucked into it. I said, "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but right now is a gift. That's why they call it the precious present, sweetie. Life is precious." A light bulb went off somewhere behind her bright blues, and she got up from bed. She said, "I want to give you something." She went to her closet and rooted around. After about five seconds, and with a proud smile, she extended a Penguins of Madagascar toy she'd eagerly received in a Happy Meal not long ago. "For you, the best mama and for doing the things and being a lady." She thought "present" meant she needed to give me some, because I was still alive, still in her life. Maybe she thought it was why she gets so many small tokens of affection throughout the common day. Whatever the connection, it was heartfelt and joyful. An otherwise sad ordeal was replenished with tenderness and hope.
Any book that speaks to you growing up, is cemented with that kind of memory. The frightful fascination throughout Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, the cozy comfort of lessons and truths in The Berenstain Bears series, the fantastical rhymes and reason to Dr. Seuss. If us lil' podlings hadn't read those miraculous words at that miraculous age, life would be too overwhelming. To see others (be they ducks, bears, honorary monsters or orphans) struggling to understand all the emotion, reprimands and colorful, confusing tapestry of day to day is a huge sigh of relief. For a mama/dad/grandparent to witness it, is exactly that which fuels the fire it is our duty to sustain.
Every word, picture and plight committed to page-is a reflection of life. When it's reflected back at you from a pair of comfortably wizened eyes, it's life at it's best.
On the occasions (prevalent if you're aware of them and open enough to receive, some days you just ain't) where you and yours have mutual spiritual growth, it feels humbling and touching and scary. You know with every lesson learned, there's a trifle of their innocence left behind, but it's poetic somehow. The world is a jumbled mess, especially if you've only seen a sheltered slice of it. Once you start realizing there's an all encompassing cake out there (you know nothing of) the safety of childhood is less. Authors from the inception of the idea, have broached life lessons and helped us all understand. Wherever you are on the spectrum.
I'll Love You Forever by Robert Munsch was on the menu tonight, and for the first time, Logan asked me (in as solemn a tone a four-year old can have), "Did his mother die?" at the end. If you've read the book, you know it's about a mother's love despite all harrowing stages of the game, and those bonds carrying her and her son through life. I was quiet for a minute, then I replied, "Yeah, she did. We all do some day." As soon as it fell from my mouth, I grappled within my mind and tears sprang forth. Should I have told her that at her age? Should I just fudge it and tell her no? When do you address subjects like that? All in a few seconds. This job will do that to you, but truth is rarely worse than the alternative, that I know.
Instead of anger or the third degree (which are her usual reactions to mind boggling concepts), Logan said, "You mean YOU'RE going to die?" with a hint of melancholy I'd never heard before but no panic, no fear. I said, "Yeah, but not for a looooooong time. Not until you're an older grown-up." This seemed to satiate her curiosity a little, but I knew she needed something more solid.
I watched her cherub face and tried to ease the emotion tucked into it. I said, "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but right now is a gift. That's why they call it the precious present, sweetie. Life is precious." A light bulb went off somewhere behind her bright blues, and she got up from bed. She said, "I want to give you something." She went to her closet and rooted around. After about five seconds, and with a proud smile, she extended a Penguins of Madagascar toy she'd eagerly received in a Happy Meal not long ago. "For you, the best mama and for doing the things and being a lady." She thought "present" meant she needed to give me some, because I was still alive, still in her life. Maybe she thought it was why she gets so many small tokens of affection throughout the common day. Whatever the connection, it was heartfelt and joyful. An otherwise sad ordeal was replenished with tenderness and hope.
Any book that speaks to you growing up, is cemented with that kind of memory. The frightful fascination throughout Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, the cozy comfort of lessons and truths in The Berenstain Bears series, the fantastical rhymes and reason to Dr. Seuss. If us lil' podlings hadn't read those miraculous words at that miraculous age, life would be too overwhelming. To see others (be they ducks, bears, honorary monsters or orphans) struggling to understand all the emotion, reprimands and colorful, confusing tapestry of day to day is a huge sigh of relief. For a mama/dad/grandparent to witness it, is exactly that which fuels the fire it is our duty to sustain.
Every word, picture and plight committed to page-is a reflection of life. When it's reflected back at you from a pair of comfortably wizened eyes, it's life at it's best.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Tidal Ways
Living by the beach, for me, is a very zen component to the quality of life we all chase. Every time I step on the frothy granules of sand, hear the gulls squawk with curious authority and feel the sun breathe life on my skin, I'm part of the world again. When there's a ripple in that balance, it's felt all through the community, even if we shrug and pretend it's nothing to worry about. We don't live directly on the beach, no matter how frequently we visit. That's what we assimilate to as Americans, let alone Surf City-ians.
The recent earthquake in Haiti (and the massive rainstorms we endured thereafter as a result), created a marked disturbance in the carefree day at the beach notion. There's been telethons and informative commercials raising funds to aid the ravaged Haitians, urgency in the collective plea.
I got a FWD text (those are always dubiously received for practical time saving reasons) in which Americans were shamed for having such an interest in Haiti, when we here in the U.S of A have the same issues being overlooked by those lobbying for other nations. I raised a quizzical eyebrow reading it, it seemed a little harsh. Even if I have felt the tugs of poverty, medical bill strain, or daunting insecurity in our "leaders" I wouldn't want anyone else to feel that no matter the semantics involved.
Yesterday I stood on suddenly foreign feeling sands, that political text message popped into mind. I watched the ocean angrily slam into the beach, chopping vengefully at the birds looking for food, hinting at frazzled sea life trying to settle back into routine. The banks themselves stood riddled with debris from boats/structures torn asunder in recent waterlogged weeks. It was faintly frightening. The vibe was listless, the waters S.O.S. message being telegraphed was eerily ignored by the native animal inhabitants, as they were more concerned with keeping up enough to find normalcy.
In all my memories by the water, I've yet to encounter a scene so oppositional from my haven of connectedness. Yet still, how do I feel remotely saddened when I'm still free to retreat to the safety of my home, intact and healthy?
Politics are like math: I deal with it as necessary, but don't go scaring up Algebra for the sake of it. I'd rather use a calculator, focus on the answer and move on (mixing metaphors I know, hear me out). Those in America, as flawed and spoiled as we may be, know what it's like to struggle if we let ourselves remember and ultimately feel thankful for the absence. Ironically, the powers that be seem to be doing to the common man of today what the ancestors fled to this country to escape. In the end, it's not what we talk/think about a situation, but how we live within that knowledge, what we choose to fight for.
The gulls, sandpipers and starfish don't care about the oceanic thundering. They know that it will calm, instinctively. All they want is food, obtaining shelter and fixing the damage, as it's all connected. In that light, all those asking for help are serving humanity well. Passing on good might kick start the stilted circle and we could get some of that attention to our own stranded dwellers, maybe. Minus the aquatic blustering.
Here's hoping.
The recent earthquake in Haiti (and the massive rainstorms we endured thereafter as a result), created a marked disturbance in the carefree day at the beach notion. There's been telethons and informative commercials raising funds to aid the ravaged Haitians, urgency in the collective plea.
I got a FWD text (those are always dubiously received for practical time saving reasons) in which Americans were shamed for having such an interest in Haiti, when we here in the U.S of A have the same issues being overlooked by those lobbying for other nations. I raised a quizzical eyebrow reading it, it seemed a little harsh. Even if I have felt the tugs of poverty, medical bill strain, or daunting insecurity in our "leaders" I wouldn't want anyone else to feel that no matter the semantics involved.
Yesterday I stood on suddenly foreign feeling sands, that political text message popped into mind. I watched the ocean angrily slam into the beach, chopping vengefully at the birds looking for food, hinting at frazzled sea life trying to settle back into routine. The banks themselves stood riddled with debris from boats/structures torn asunder in recent waterlogged weeks. It was faintly frightening. The vibe was listless, the waters S.O.S. message being telegraphed was eerily ignored by the native animal inhabitants, as they were more concerned with keeping up enough to find normalcy.
In all my memories by the water, I've yet to encounter a scene so oppositional from my haven of connectedness. Yet still, how do I feel remotely saddened when I'm still free to retreat to the safety of my home, intact and healthy?
Politics are like math: I deal with it as necessary, but don't go scaring up Algebra for the sake of it. I'd rather use a calculator, focus on the answer and move on (mixing metaphors I know, hear me out). Those in America, as flawed and spoiled as we may be, know what it's like to struggle if we let ourselves remember and ultimately feel thankful for the absence. Ironically, the powers that be seem to be doing to the common man of today what the ancestors fled to this country to escape. In the end, it's not what we talk/think about a situation, but how we live within that knowledge, what we choose to fight for.
The gulls, sandpipers and starfish don't care about the oceanic thundering. They know that it will calm, instinctively. All they want is food, obtaining shelter and fixing the damage, as it's all connected. In that light, all those asking for help are serving humanity well. Passing on good might kick start the stilted circle and we could get some of that attention to our own stranded dwellers, maybe. Minus the aquatic blustering.
Here's hoping.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Tipping The Scales
Laurell K Hamilton is one of my all time favorite writers. Not only is her writing intelligently vivid, tender and candid throughout the multitude of delicious pages, the Anita Blake series is completely compelling, sexy, heartrendingly fun, humorous, and poignantly dark. I jumped into the series around the tenth novel, six years ago at the insistence of a friend. For some strange reason, I decided to read just two of them initially (then read the next three chronologically after those sporadically over the years) and didn't go back to the first book until around October of last year. Life was hectic, or I forgot how much I enjoyed them. Something lame like that.
For the same reason Memento is one of my fave movies, revealing all that lead up to the intro I had to the series is one of my mainstays of escape and relaxation lately, and forever more. Anita isn't a fragile little dandelion concerned with the shallow selfishness that being young yields (which is all too common in feminine prose, no offense), she's a vampire hunting necromancer that struggles continually with the right/wrong human/monster side of her life and those in it. She's justified in most all her extreme actions, striving to maintain the strict, yet ever evolving moral code she adheres to while still struggling to accept joy and normalcy outside her job. People who have the moxie to endear typically terrifying creatures, thoughts and occurrences to this satisfying degree are rare.
I was recently in a courthouse (to support a friend in a gnarly child custody case) and the term "justice" seemed awkwardly vacant within those walls, where it should presumably feel the most prevalent. People shuffling to and fro with tense bemusement at the snail's pace of proceedings, stress beleaguering them as plainly as the business casual attire. There was no buzzing of anticipation louder than a dull hum of ebbing legality, no sense of fairness beyond determining the lesser of two evils. I'm not trying to knock the system, I can't imagine having to delegate people's fate on a daily basis. I'm just relating the experience as it seemed to me, I had some time to ponder. Maybe it was the fantasy/reality contrast of that was so jarring.
The group of people on the opposite bench were trying to bully everyone on our side, quite openly (which is what brought them there to begin with, to put it mildly). They lost the case ultimately, with good reason and the victory was celebrated most by the child trapped in the violent storm, so it was a good day. In that moment of dirty looks and side glances, I summoned my inner Anita, as silly as it sounds. I could have spat in their faces, sinking to their level and below. I could have been a braggart when we won, could have held anger in my heart.
Justice is served best when the actions of retribution are confident in what will be. To be and cause more drama, feeds the fires of chaos. Perhaps when the victim in question is satisfied with their daily life after the crime committed, it's a good day for vindication.
The correlation may be far reaching for some, but in my mind, that's the essence of why the novels are so enthralling and resonating, and I didn't realize it until that day. Instead of chucking all humanity in the face of adversity, meld with it. Let the universe sort out retributions fine print, don't write it yourself.
I eagerly wait to see what Anita does in the awaiting chapters I've yet to enjoy...and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, it will be just what I need.
For the same reason Memento is one of my fave movies, revealing all that lead up to the intro I had to the series is one of my mainstays of escape and relaxation lately, and forever more. Anita isn't a fragile little dandelion concerned with the shallow selfishness that being young yields (which is all too common in feminine prose, no offense), she's a vampire hunting necromancer that struggles continually with the right/wrong human/monster side of her life and those in it. She's justified in most all her extreme actions, striving to maintain the strict, yet ever evolving moral code she adheres to while still struggling to accept joy and normalcy outside her job. People who have the moxie to endear typically terrifying creatures, thoughts and occurrences to this satisfying degree are rare.
I was recently in a courthouse (to support a friend in a gnarly child custody case) and the term "justice" seemed awkwardly vacant within those walls, where it should presumably feel the most prevalent. People shuffling to and fro with tense bemusement at the snail's pace of proceedings, stress beleaguering them as plainly as the business casual attire. There was no buzzing of anticipation louder than a dull hum of ebbing legality, no sense of fairness beyond determining the lesser of two evils. I'm not trying to knock the system, I can't imagine having to delegate people's fate on a daily basis. I'm just relating the experience as it seemed to me, I had some time to ponder. Maybe it was the fantasy/reality contrast of that was so jarring.
The group of people on the opposite bench were trying to bully everyone on our side, quite openly (which is what brought them there to begin with, to put it mildly). They lost the case ultimately, with good reason and the victory was celebrated most by the child trapped in the violent storm, so it was a good day. In that moment of dirty looks and side glances, I summoned my inner Anita, as silly as it sounds. I could have spat in their faces, sinking to their level and below. I could have been a braggart when we won, could have held anger in my heart.
Justice is served best when the actions of retribution are confident in what will be. To be and cause more drama, feeds the fires of chaos. Perhaps when the victim in question is satisfied with their daily life after the crime committed, it's a good day for vindication.
The correlation may be far reaching for some, but in my mind, that's the essence of why the novels are so enthralling and resonating, and I didn't realize it until that day. Instead of chucking all humanity in the face of adversity, meld with it. Let the universe sort out retributions fine print, don't write it yourself.
I eagerly wait to see what Anita does in the awaiting chapters I've yet to enjoy...and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt, it will be just what I need.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
The SMD: My Own Betrayer
It's not a news flash that women are supposed to peak sexually at 30, and by the look of things, that ain't no lie. As I draw closer (I turn 28 in a couple weeks), my inner hormonal troglodytes hunt with increasing ferocity ending in comical, heart wrenching results. I wish Dr. Drew would make a house call and explain it to me and then demonstrate. "Ms. Cheatham, it goes like this..." and then he takes off his glasses and tie and tells me insider Loveline fun facts naked...wait...what happened...?
The statistics that boast many women well into their thirties have yet to climax boggles my mind, and I wonder if they have similar urgings. I was five the first time I remember finding my own fantastical happy place, and haven't looked back, really. Men are a treasure in so many ways, it was only a matter of eight more years before I put the two together-partially-and then another five before it was full copulation time. Again, all systems go. My thirties will be like the Olympics to an already decorated Pole Vaulter. That's right, Pole Vaulter.
I rarely yearn for a man to complete my familial triumvirate though, that's the biggest puzzle. I've pictured a select few in that realm, not the general male population on the whole. I'm completely side-tracked by the glimpse of V-shaped torso putting groceries into the trunk of his car. I've always looked, but now it's a leer/linger, fantasies nattering. If this is a fraction like what men go through on a daily basis from puberty forth, I understand things a bit more than ever before. Those young bucks too, have made brief stints in steamy daydreams, however inappropriate or inconvenient (alas, my crotch belongs to the older ones). I blame my lady junk.
Being a mama compounds the immediacy for a dude as I get older, I feel it. I've already pro-created, so I'm not doing the cliched manhunt-for-offspring thing that thirty-something women get harangued for. I'm doing the manhunt for the sake of delicious man/potential father thing. It might be the same. In a previous post 'Homo Erectus Defectus', I examined the biology of sex appeal etc., (look in my archives and read-up if you haven't it's fascinating) and I maintain a similar scientific take on it.
As far as I'm concerned I'm A-OK on my own (staying just to "have someone" isn't in my vocab), and have an exceptional kid to prove it. I'm holding out for both of us. According to my nether regions however, I need to get down on some man meat ALL DAY EVERYDAY and keep him around for fringe father benefits. It's almost as if I've acquired a meddling Jewish mother who's in cahoots with my ovaries and they're plotting to get me hitched or mated or diddled...without my consent. ALL DAY EVERYDAY. And I still have 2 years to go.
As I notice good-looking men, I get lost. In the space of five seconds, I give not only intimate porno-graphic consideration, but fatherhood assessment in the after glow. I've almost hit other cars, walked into sedentary objects while looking directly at them, and subconsciously slid into the saucy hip waggle that every woman gives out of pure lust. The most ironic part, is when they look back, I'm embarrassed (that I've been ogling) or incensed (that some one's checking me out whilst with my child, nothing says "I'm together!" like biological bi-polarity). If I could wink and make it seem on purpose, maybe the title would be My Own Purveyor instead. But I don't, and it isn't. It's jank.
In this post-feminist place we reside-although we don't really get along anyway, I'd rather live along side it than preach it at people-still I catch bullshit from my very cellular make-up, my feminine wiles. What the hell is the point of being so singular for so long, if later I'd be rendered befuddled for it? Mutiny, I say. Inevitable and not personal, but still mutiny.
At the risk of being my own C-block (too late), I know this will dissipate. When she's in school and I have space to breathe, when we're financially stable (the new american dream?), when I have time/wherewithal to discreetly, anonymously prowl and pounce like the cougar I'm apparently posturing to become. When I have a social life again, and just being around other peers will take the edge off. I apologize to all those I've unjustly scoffed at all the way around (the women in my spot and beyond, the men I've mixed signaled). Getting older is a crap shoot of contradiction. I'm ready for a rousing game of sanity Slap jack. Who's game?
The statistics that boast many women well into their thirties have yet to climax boggles my mind, and I wonder if they have similar urgings. I was five the first time I remember finding my own fantastical happy place, and haven't looked back, really. Men are a treasure in so many ways, it was only a matter of eight more years before I put the two together-partially-and then another five before it was full copulation time. Again, all systems go. My thirties will be like the Olympics to an already decorated Pole Vaulter. That's right, Pole Vaulter.
I rarely yearn for a man to complete my familial triumvirate though, that's the biggest puzzle. I've pictured a select few in that realm, not the general male population on the whole. I'm completely side-tracked by the glimpse of V-shaped torso putting groceries into the trunk of his car. I've always looked, but now it's a leer/linger, fantasies nattering. If this is a fraction like what men go through on a daily basis from puberty forth, I understand things a bit more than ever before. Those young bucks too, have made brief stints in steamy daydreams, however inappropriate or inconvenient (alas, my crotch belongs to the older ones). I blame my lady junk.
Being a mama compounds the immediacy for a dude as I get older, I feel it. I've already pro-created, so I'm not doing the cliched manhunt-for-offspring thing that thirty-something women get harangued for. I'm doing the manhunt for the sake of delicious man/potential father thing. It might be the same. In a previous post 'Homo Erectus Defectus', I examined the biology of sex appeal etc., (look in my archives and read-up if you haven't it's fascinating) and I maintain a similar scientific take on it.
As far as I'm concerned I'm A-OK on my own (staying just to "have someone" isn't in my vocab), and have an exceptional kid to prove it. I'm holding out for both of us. According to my nether regions however, I need to get down on some man meat ALL DAY EVERYDAY and keep him around for fringe father benefits. It's almost as if I've acquired a meddling Jewish mother who's in cahoots with my ovaries and they're plotting to get me hitched or mated or diddled...without my consent. ALL DAY EVERYDAY. And I still have 2 years to go.
As I notice good-looking men, I get lost. In the space of five seconds, I give not only intimate porno-graphic consideration, but fatherhood assessment in the after glow. I've almost hit other cars, walked into sedentary objects while looking directly at them, and subconsciously slid into the saucy hip waggle that every woman gives out of pure lust. The most ironic part, is when they look back, I'm embarrassed (that I've been ogling) or incensed (that some one's checking me out whilst with my child, nothing says "I'm together!" like biological bi-polarity). If I could wink and make it seem on purpose, maybe the title would be My Own Purveyor instead. But I don't, and it isn't. It's jank.
In this post-feminist place we reside-although we don't really get along anyway, I'd rather live along side it than preach it at people-still I catch bullshit from my very cellular make-up, my feminine wiles. What the hell is the point of being so singular for so long, if later I'd be rendered befuddled for it? Mutiny, I say. Inevitable and not personal, but still mutiny.
At the risk of being my own C-block (too late), I know this will dissipate. When she's in school and I have space to breathe, when we're financially stable (the new american dream?), when I have time/wherewithal to discreetly, anonymously prowl and pounce like the cougar I'm apparently posturing to become. When I have a social life again, and just being around other peers will take the edge off. I apologize to all those I've unjustly scoffed at all the way around (the women in my spot and beyond, the men I've mixed signaled). Getting older is a crap shoot of contradiction. I'm ready for a rousing game of sanity Slap jack. Who's game?
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Cue the Eurythmics
I'm on a film set. Chevy Chase is directing a stellar cast of comedy A-listers (even if I can't tell who they are exactly...they're all sporting dark sunglasses, and facial hair), it's understood this is a buzzed about project. They seem familiar and I'm excited to be a part of it all, so I wave. They wave back. Joy.
I'm in a church, and an integral past lover approaches me. He's vague about his life, and doesn't ask me any pertinent questions, so I'm disgruntled. He then proceeds to sit down in a row of creaky wooden pews and chat up a random chippy at top volume. I'm annoyed, and tell my close female comrades-that materialized out of nowhere-what a bastard he can be.
Not for long though, as now I'm in a large bed with Matt Damon, and we're laughing, snogging and rubbing up on one another, intimate playfulness. Milla Jovovich happens by with all the zeal of an overworked truck stop waitress and hands me a chocolate Dilly bar. I take a bite, and Milla (who really puts the full in full-service) switches the ice cream from my stick to Matt's. It's melting and creamy and odd.
Then I wake up, dash to pen and paper, and jot it all down.
My dreams have been vivid movie-esque romps ever since I can remember. Usually celebrities cameo, I'm on a quest to save/expose/make right. I've been interpreting them for a good thirteen years now, and I'm always excited to see what will pop out of my recesses. Ahem...moving on...
There's a theory that the happenstance in our dream state is the true reality of our souls, and waking life is the dream. The aforementioned scenario is quite tame in comparison to most of them, and it would be nice to wrangle dinosaurs (on more than one occasion to date) and get freaky-deaky with no consequence or meaning (all fun no drama). Doing dishes is blessedly never on the menu in my dreams. Well, once, but it ended in steamy celeb sex. Boy, would I have dishpan hands.
I would capital L love to research dreams. Being a rare blend of logic and spiritual intuition, it's hard to say which is more telling in this arena ( spoiler alert, it tends to be both). There's a definite line, and nary the twain shall meet. According to some scientific standpoints, your sleep state cannot be materialized by you yourself (which I personally know to be contrary, but for the newbie might be so), and can be influenced by outside stimuli, food you eat prior to sleep and any matter of events surrounding. Conclusive data can be hard to nail down under such vacillating conditions. Symbolic dream interpretation factors in all of those elements and combines the spiritual aspects, emotional influence and how in touch you are with symbols on the daily. Either way, it's fascinating input, and I remember all I write down, a crucial part of the process. How does a terrorizing dream of ghosts nagging you in a giant hotel equate to feelings of your own inadequacy and repressed thoughts? Have to do the research, intuit the findings.
Scrawled on the pages of many a composition notebook, in a language only understood by me, lies better understanding. Chronicling progression of my unconscious mind may be a roundabout path, but it's a thrifty and creative version of the ol' therapists couch. Not that I'm knocking therapy, just marveling-regularly-at a commonly trivialized avenue the mind travels frequently. There are so very many, it would be unfair not to check them all out.
The first few years after I graduated, I had regular dreams of me losing my teeth. Bleeding shards of molars and canines crumbled in chunks of my mouth, I could taste it and feel it. Always, I desperately tried to keep them in. Dreaming of your teeth falling out can mean you have fears of the future (or that you need to go to the dentist some are straight forward), which makes perfect sense for a youngster on the mean streets of career attainment. Now that I'm nearing my thirties, my teeth are staying put, as I've grown into more of a captain, not a cabin boy of this here ship. I could write a million entries on those types of changes. Personal Anthropology.
Cutting back on the rampant chemical fixes and neurotic distraction in some way ain't a bad thing . The phrase "common side effects" is starting to chafe. Before lights out say, "I will have vivid dreams that I will remember when I wake up" and see what happens...
Whether they rattle your cage, predict the future or turn you on...it's a direct reflection of your world, and how you're making it your own. All while you sleep. Can't argue with that.
I'm in a church, and an integral past lover approaches me. He's vague about his life, and doesn't ask me any pertinent questions, so I'm disgruntled. He then proceeds to sit down in a row of creaky wooden pews and chat up a random chippy at top volume. I'm annoyed, and tell my close female comrades-that materialized out of nowhere-what a bastard he can be.
Not for long though, as now I'm in a large bed with Matt Damon, and we're laughing, snogging and rubbing up on one another, intimate playfulness. Milla Jovovich happens by with all the zeal of an overworked truck stop waitress and hands me a chocolate Dilly bar. I take a bite, and Milla (who really puts the full in full-service) switches the ice cream from my stick to Matt's. It's melting and creamy and odd.
Then I wake up, dash to pen and paper, and jot it all down.
My dreams have been vivid movie-esque romps ever since I can remember. Usually celebrities cameo, I'm on a quest to save/expose/make right. I've been interpreting them for a good thirteen years now, and I'm always excited to see what will pop out of my recesses. Ahem...moving on...
There's a theory that the happenstance in our dream state is the true reality of our souls, and waking life is the dream. The aforementioned scenario is quite tame in comparison to most of them, and it would be nice to wrangle dinosaurs (on more than one occasion to date) and get freaky-deaky with no consequence or meaning (all fun no drama). Doing dishes is blessedly never on the menu in my dreams. Well, once, but it ended in steamy celeb sex. Boy, would I have dishpan hands.
I would capital L love to research dreams. Being a rare blend of logic and spiritual intuition, it's hard to say which is more telling in this arena ( spoiler alert, it tends to be both). There's a definite line, and nary the twain shall meet. According to some scientific standpoints, your sleep state cannot be materialized by you yourself (which I personally know to be contrary, but for the newbie might be so), and can be influenced by outside stimuli, food you eat prior to sleep and any matter of events surrounding. Conclusive data can be hard to nail down under such vacillating conditions. Symbolic dream interpretation factors in all of those elements and combines the spiritual aspects, emotional influence and how in touch you are with symbols on the daily. Either way, it's fascinating input, and I remember all I write down, a crucial part of the process. How does a terrorizing dream of ghosts nagging you in a giant hotel equate to feelings of your own inadequacy and repressed thoughts? Have to do the research, intuit the findings.
Scrawled on the pages of many a composition notebook, in a language only understood by me, lies better understanding. Chronicling progression of my unconscious mind may be a roundabout path, but it's a thrifty and creative version of the ol' therapists couch. Not that I'm knocking therapy, just marveling-regularly-at a commonly trivialized avenue the mind travels frequently. There are so very many, it would be unfair not to check them all out.
The first few years after I graduated, I had regular dreams of me losing my teeth. Bleeding shards of molars and canines crumbled in chunks of my mouth, I could taste it and feel it. Always, I desperately tried to keep them in. Dreaming of your teeth falling out can mean you have fears of the future (or that you need to go to the dentist some are straight forward), which makes perfect sense for a youngster on the mean streets of career attainment. Now that I'm nearing my thirties, my teeth are staying put, as I've grown into more of a captain, not a cabin boy of this here ship. I could write a million entries on those types of changes. Personal Anthropology.
Cutting back on the rampant chemical fixes and neurotic distraction in some way ain't a bad thing . The phrase "common side effects" is starting to chafe. Before lights out say, "I will have vivid dreams that I will remember when I wake up" and see what happens...
Whether they rattle your cage, predict the future or turn you on...it's a direct reflection of your world, and how you're making it your own. All while you sleep. Can't argue with that.
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