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.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
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?
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