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.
Friday, March 5, 2010
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.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Cheers To That
Too much has happened in these past ten years to viscerally encapsulate/articulate here, but my writing has grown from it, so I offer it as proof. SO much has happened. SO much yet to come. And for the first time in a long while, I feel-not think-that what is to come, is well worth the wait.
Just saw Avatar with the family, as we like to make it to at least one movie in theatres at Christmas time (Netflix in the off season). My disbelief was suspended to dizzying crescendos (the most it has in ages), and I enjoyed every moment of it. As with all mind-blowing triumphant adventures, it was meant to be had when I was meant to have it, and seeing this film dynamically coincided with my musings for the coming year. My very being hums with it's message, and I'm so thankful to receive it.
James Cameron deserves all accolades, awards and back alley BJ's he gets from this movie. Go see it immediately, and not because it's the hot button movie of the moment, or a technological groundbreaker (both are reason enough, mind you). It's an astonishing, moving, piece of art, one that toiled diligently, in true patient visionary style to be illustrated adequately. Such epic loyalty can be agonizing, harrowing and cost you many relationships and trifles of sanity. In the end, you have to execute to the best of your ability, damning any wreckage thereof. Inspired creation is always worth it, even when you don't see the direct effect.
I'm not one to make hollow resolutions. Not the "quit smoking" or "hit the gym more" kind of way. Those are awesome as a jumping off point to self improvement, but in light of the world (and my world) these days, those don't cut any kind of mustard. Last year, I resigned myself not be "afraid" anymore. That notion evolved to me communicating, thinking and living without fear of repercussion. It's working out better than any nicotine patch in existence, and it's health benefits are far superior to any treadmill.
This year I've landed on Belief. The true, abiding kind. To my loved ones, to commitments made in deed and spirit and in myself. No doubt or anguish over the immediate immediacy. Just joy in the journey, strength in what I do have in this moment. The plan I set in motion a long time ago, by just jumping in. To be happy, create, and love life enough to trust it.
As the Na'vi and their creator fought and believed in their path, so shall I. As cheesy/dramatic/any other pessimistic term as it sounds. And if you are one of those nay-sayers, may you embrace the silver lining. It is there, in abundance. Do yourself a favor and chuck the blinders.
2010 will rock the casbah, as we design it to. Let's stride on, brushing off all lingering momentary defeat as we go. Let us not be making resolutions, but ourselves be resolute.
Just saw Avatar with the family, as we like to make it to at least one movie in theatres at Christmas time (Netflix in the off season). My disbelief was suspended to dizzying crescendos (the most it has in ages), and I enjoyed every moment of it. As with all mind-blowing triumphant adventures, it was meant to be had when I was meant to have it, and seeing this film dynamically coincided with my musings for the coming year. My very being hums with it's message, and I'm so thankful to receive it.
James Cameron deserves all accolades, awards and back alley BJ's he gets from this movie. Go see it immediately, and not because it's the hot button movie of the moment, or a technological groundbreaker (both are reason enough, mind you). It's an astonishing, moving, piece of art, one that toiled diligently, in true patient visionary style to be illustrated adequately. Such epic loyalty can be agonizing, harrowing and cost you many relationships and trifles of sanity. In the end, you have to execute to the best of your ability, damning any wreckage thereof. Inspired creation is always worth it, even when you don't see the direct effect.
I'm not one to make hollow resolutions. Not the "quit smoking" or "hit the gym more" kind of way. Those are awesome as a jumping off point to self improvement, but in light of the world (and my world) these days, those don't cut any kind of mustard. Last year, I resigned myself not be "afraid" anymore. That notion evolved to me communicating, thinking and living without fear of repercussion. It's working out better than any nicotine patch in existence, and it's health benefits are far superior to any treadmill.
This year I've landed on Belief. The true, abiding kind. To my loved ones, to commitments made in deed and spirit and in myself. No doubt or anguish over the immediate immediacy. Just joy in the journey, strength in what I do have in this moment. The plan I set in motion a long time ago, by just jumping in. To be happy, create, and love life enough to trust it.
As the Na'vi and their creator fought and believed in their path, so shall I. As cheesy/dramatic/any other pessimistic term as it sounds. And if you are one of those nay-sayers, may you embrace the silver lining. It is there, in abundance. Do yourself a favor and chuck the blinders.
2010 will rock the casbah, as we design it to. Let's stride on, brushing off all lingering momentary defeat as we go. Let us not be making resolutions, but ourselves be resolute.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Hollidaze Sauce
Halloween blew past, complete with a sassy, boozy turn as Miss Scarlett (I rocked a wrench), trick or treating with my favorite lil' bat and alot of much needed creative outlet costume making. I love the occasion for precisely those reasons. Creativity, alter-ego-for-a-night style drinking, and candy. Not necessarily in that order. Already stoked for next year. And thus it begins.
Then comes Thanksgiving, rapidly approaching with all the reverence of a rustic rest stop on the home stretch to Disneyland. I can't pinpoint exactly when that trend was accepted as the norm, but it's no fun. A good two weeks before Halloween even has a chance to be awesome, the Christmas decorations encroach on the kitch and candy corn. Let alone the pumpkin pie and pilgrim-y charm that's next on the calendar.
All that can ever do is fuel the feeling that life is a runaway train of seasonal chaos (which is more blatant each year of life), and we don't have time to enjoy ANY of it. We have to fight that.
I can't say enough praise for a ritual of binge eating and being thankful. Good stuff. I'm not one to obsess over the turkey or make chestnut stuffing, but growing up I always looked forward to donning fancy fall clothes, listening to/trying to muffle the sounds of the familial ruckus and eating half a dozen homemade ravioli, passing out in food coma bliss. Repeating as necessary. Why rush it?
Then there's the big Christmas shebang. I had a card with the 24 days of Christmas scattered across it, each with it's door to open as a countdown to the big day. I wanted to open them all in rapid succession and make with the gifts and cozy pajama-ed traditions every year. Now that I'm an adult and I have to do the actual planning, budgeting, baking, cooking and wrapping, it's almost like the Super Bowl, instead of a leisurely punch bowl. Full of strategic pressure, moments of epic experience, and a post game stupor. It's a magical time, it's a highly commercialized time. It's frenzied, it's peaceful. It's like all preceding holidays rolled into one capped with a jolly icon to march everyone into gift giving, sugar cookie making, and carol singing. Frazzling, frivolous, fun.
It's one of the few times a kid has a chance to put all their positive energy into one moment-the Christmas morning unveiling-and either it's a blissful cavalcade of presents and joy or a slightly disappointing mystery as to why Santa forsook you and got you anything other than what you specifically asked for. You were after all, extremely good this year. The aforementioned security and excitement of being with loved ones while eating honey glazed ham. Why rush that?
And finally New Years. This one signaling the next whirlwind to be ushered in, almost a mourning period for the year hauling by. Well, if it weren't for the hopeful gaze to what the new one will be. Finding/keeping/wishing for someone to kiss at midnight, making resolutions and reflecting, marking a notch on the growth chart of your life. Drinking and crying a little too much in any absence of anything thereof....this one rushes itself.
By the time the January bills come, you realize how quickly it jetted away. Another year in the can. Exercise, extra jobs to regulate holiday spending, spring cleaning to start formulating. Valentine's. Easter. Such a rocket ride.
Perhaps between the child's twinkly, crawling anticipation and the face paced flow of adult nostalgia, we can slow it down on the actual day with genuine miraculous spirit or revel in the importance of the whole process. That's what tradition and ritual are. I hope so, as I eagerly scramble to settle my own plans and begin the ballet of it all.
By this time next year I'll be satisfactorily slathered once again. I think I'll take my time.
Then comes Thanksgiving, rapidly approaching with all the reverence of a rustic rest stop on the home stretch to Disneyland. I can't pinpoint exactly when that trend was accepted as the norm, but it's no fun. A good two weeks before Halloween even has a chance to be awesome, the Christmas decorations encroach on the kitch and candy corn. Let alone the pumpkin pie and pilgrim-y charm that's next on the calendar.
All that can ever do is fuel the feeling that life is a runaway train of seasonal chaos (which is more blatant each year of life), and we don't have time to enjoy ANY of it. We have to fight that.
I can't say enough praise for a ritual of binge eating and being thankful. Good stuff. I'm not one to obsess over the turkey or make chestnut stuffing, but growing up I always looked forward to donning fancy fall clothes, listening to/trying to muffle the sounds of the familial ruckus and eating half a dozen homemade ravioli, passing out in food coma bliss. Repeating as necessary. Why rush it?
Then there's the big Christmas shebang. I had a card with the 24 days of Christmas scattered across it, each with it's door to open as a countdown to the big day. I wanted to open them all in rapid succession and make with the gifts and cozy pajama-ed traditions every year. Now that I'm an adult and I have to do the actual planning, budgeting, baking, cooking and wrapping, it's almost like the Super Bowl, instead of a leisurely punch bowl. Full of strategic pressure, moments of epic experience, and a post game stupor. It's a magical time, it's a highly commercialized time. It's frenzied, it's peaceful. It's like all preceding holidays rolled into one capped with a jolly icon to march everyone into gift giving, sugar cookie making, and carol singing. Frazzling, frivolous, fun.
It's one of the few times a kid has a chance to put all their positive energy into one moment-the Christmas morning unveiling-and either it's a blissful cavalcade of presents and joy or a slightly disappointing mystery as to why Santa forsook you and got you anything other than what you specifically asked for. You were after all, extremely good this year. The aforementioned security and excitement of being with loved ones while eating honey glazed ham. Why rush that?
And finally New Years. This one signaling the next whirlwind to be ushered in, almost a mourning period for the year hauling by. Well, if it weren't for the hopeful gaze to what the new one will be. Finding/keeping/wishing for someone to kiss at midnight, making resolutions and reflecting, marking a notch on the growth chart of your life. Drinking and crying a little too much in any absence of anything thereof....this one rushes itself.
By the time the January bills come, you realize how quickly it jetted away. Another year in the can. Exercise, extra jobs to regulate holiday spending, spring cleaning to start formulating. Valentine's. Easter. Such a rocket ride.
Perhaps between the child's twinkly, crawling anticipation and the face paced flow of adult nostalgia, we can slow it down on the actual day with genuine miraculous spirit or revel in the importance of the whole process. That's what tradition and ritual are. I hope so, as I eagerly scramble to settle my own plans and begin the ballet of it all.
By this time next year I'll be satisfactorily slathered once again. I think I'll take my time.
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