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?
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
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.
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