A New Normal

Come See Me Now!

2011-01-11T17:16:00.003-07:00

If you have found your way to this blog please come see what life is like for me today...

Ruffles and Toes

Thanks for dropping by
Amanda

The End

2007-05-15T11:26:00.000-07:00

There is a moment directly before a song ends where my finger flits up to press the repeat button. I have found that right now i have done enough repeating in my life, and now it is time for a new venture. I have decided that this will be my last post on A New Normal. This blog has offered me an incredible insight into a way that my mind can work, and how I am able to process things. This blog came about as a direct response to three very significant losses in my life. While writing on here for a little more than a year, I have been in relationships that have indeed ended as well. A lot of my writing on here was a way for me to sort through my feelings without getting too a head of myself. I am grateful for the opportunity that I was able to take away from having a blog. I think it is the best work someone can do. It is amazing to learn what things, as a writer, you filter out. I have put some awfully personal things up here, and yet left out some of my most common experiences. I have a sense of the kind of writer that I am, and what I am also capable of becoming. I feel that while I continue to write in this environment I will continue to hold myself in a place that it is obviously time for me to move on from. I will never stop writing, and now I will be able to focus much more energy on the writing that I feel can take me places.

For the few who have stumbled upon here that I do not know, I thank you for reading. And for those of you I know that read this, what an incredible thing to be carried by those closest to me. All of you are deeply cherished. Thank you!!

Cheers,
Amanda

Memories Committed

2007-04-30T11:22:00.000-07:00

It seems life happens during the most obscure moments, spaces, places. Memories created after a split second interaction. Music plays the overture to these thoughts, times. I have always had a very strong associative memory. It is probably because this way I can insure that I will never disappear. I remember dates that remind me of other dates. I get that dates in themselves are arbitrary. They are simply a way of keeping everything from happening all at once. But I am marked by dates. I can rattle off to you the anniversaries of my life... first hospitalization, first kiss, first love, the day I met my best friend August 15, 1992. I can tell you that 4 years and one day later we documented this friendship in the form of a scrapbook that sits safely in my home, tucked away with other mementos from my life, more dates. This affinity for calendar days is one that I do not necessarily understand but it is also making an anniversary of something always about to pass. Happy ones, tragic ones, and very minute ones that somehow mean everything to me. I know I should be looking forward and focusing on what is to come as opposed to celebrating what has already happened. Yet, I don't feel as if i am living in the past I am simply finding small ways to celebrate what has happened and bringing it back into the present, bringing it back from somewhere so far away. I want to hold on to so much that I forget in order to embrace new things I need to let go a little bit.

Why is there so much fear in letting go? Is it necessary that i can tell you the dates of all of my major breakups? April 15th, July 8th, March 2nd, August 14, September 29... Those are memories that surely must clutter out other more important things, like the day my little brother took his first step or uttered the first word of a complex language. Sometimes I would like to just watch a sunset on fire, ignited from the underbelly of the setting sun; and not worry that I have to commit the date to memory, or how it reminds me of something that has already happened. Can I, Should I, let go? Probably. I just don't want to feel as if I am losing parts of myself as if they were dandelion seeds caught in the breath of someone else's wish.

I am not at a crossroads, I am not in trouble, peril, confusion... I am still just me trying to let go of some of the excess that no longer needs to be held on to. I have a lot of great new dates that await me. The aforementioned best friend who has many memories etched into my heart, categorized by dates, songs, and laughter; is expecting. A baby. She is having a baby. I joke with her, call her, ask how our baby is doing. It makes me giggle, the same way that our childhood memories make me laugh out loud. But she has 9 months of dates, already approximately 112 days have passed, to remember this journey. I wonder what memories she discarded in order to make room in her head for all that is about to come. I know that i am attempting my own spring cleaning of the brain. What a great time today is. April 30, what will I remember today for. Maybe I should just remember the carefree feeling and not the obligatory thoughts of committing this day to memory. I am trying...

Characters: Fictional and Real

2007-04-10T09:33:00.000-07:00

In ten days I read 4 books. Though it would seem antisocial to read this much, ironically it was through this action that I was able to meet all of my neighbors. Yes, all of them. But first, the books. They are easily four of the best books that I have read in a long time; and to read them back to back is something that may never happen again. I should say here that at this moment, though I have purchased a couch, there is absolutely no furniture in my home; aside from my bed of course. There are chairs outside of my apartment, so that is where I generally reside with a great book. There have been many characters that have accompanied me on the porch. There was Alais and Alice; who lived 800 years apart; but their drive to protect the Holy Grail was quite an achievement. I met them in Labyrinth, by Kate Mosse. Phenomenal. Upon putting that book down I literally picked up the other one and nestled back into the arms of a world so different from my own. The book Dogs of Babel plucked me from my life and put me into a place where a man is desperately trying to teach his dog to talk. Though this sounds like the beginning of fantasy babble, it is in an effort to find out what happened the day his wife died. Their dog was the only witness. It explores a journey post-death and pre-death and a man's search for any clues that his dead wife left behind. Beautiful, just beautiful literary work and also a storyline that is so abundantly full of life while death hovers over the whole story.

After Babel, I changed gears a bit and picked up Running With Scissors; a bizarre account of one man's childhood. A memoir that in itself seems born of fiction. I have read many memoirs and it seems as if their goal is to break your heart. That is not the case in this one. I reveled in the hilarity and the odd happenings in this youth's life. After finishing this book it was incredible to look back and see what this young man had actually endured; and the environment he in turn thrived in. Augusten Burroughs has written several works in the memoir genre, this was the first I read. It will certainly not be the last. After putting Augusten's trials aside I moved then to a book called Case Histories. It pulled me in like the comfort of a mother's arms enveloping you in love and safety. Yet with the warmth that it tucked inside of its reader the plot was about a private detective and the cases he was working; families came to him in search of something lost or found, desiring answers that the graves would not tell.

I met these characters while I was meeting my own characters intermittently. Porches and patios, the basic building blocks of a neighborhood forced me to experience what it means to be a neighbor and above all what it means to make friends. I visited many people in these books and in between the spaces I met my new neighbors. It has been a great couple of weeks learning about people that never existed and then hearing stories of truth and life from those that really do exist. I am making great friends.

Moving On...

2007-03-31T18:36:00.000-07:00

I remember reading somewhere that one of the greatest stress inducers besides death and public speaking is moving. After moving for the 11th time in 9 years, I believe that I can attest to this theory. However, there is an immeasurable amount of relief when one has completely moved out of an old dwelling and into a new one. I am again living by myself. It is the first time in 4 years and even though I am far from being settled I feel a kind of peace that has been lacking in my life for some time. It has nothing to do with the fact that I had roommate issues or anything like that, but has everything to do with taking one more step and being able to create a home that is in itself a great sanctuary.

I moved into this great complex in Old Town Scottsdale. It is a space of great energy and awesome tenants, two of who came to introduce themselves carrying three vodka tonics to my front door. We did the regular introductions followed by a toast to my moving into this community. Really? This actually happens to people? As the three of us sat overlooking the pool trading stories of how we all ended up here on this beautiful evening, our landlord walked up and welcomed me with a hug and a nice bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. I hadn’t even lived here for more than 12 hours and I was already among friends. For me to live by myself is a personal accomplishment that I am not taking lightly; financially, I am secure enough to live here, and socially there is no room for loneliness with the incredible friends I have around me.

The process of moving is a really hard thing for me to do. I notice that I tend to walk around in circles wondering where to start first. I believe everyone needs a friend that is willing to come over and keep you on track. Consider the bottle of wine they bring a sign of a great friend. The people that came to help me in my final hours at the old place was one of those things that just made me feel good. I always manage to find something in my life to be insecure about and it is usually that I have a very small group of friends, though, they are as solid of 100 friends. But I could not find an ounce of insecurity as I sat cleaning side by side with these people who mean so much to me.

The weather is getting warmer and my life is in the spring stages, blossoming in so many ways. I really feel as if I have come full circle. The phase of my life in my old apartment was full of tumultuous and wonderful memories tucked into a nice part of my mind. But moving out of there was equivalent to shedding this shell that I have constructed over the past few years. I noticed ways in which I still grieve for the people I lost in my life. I know that I will continue to heal in my own little ways but this time I get to come around when I choose to, and in my own space. Which happens to be such an incredibly intimate and caring environment. Right now, and how it just so happens to have been for an ongoing amount of time, I feel both blessed and proud. This pride is a new thing; it comes from acknowledging that I am where I am because of specific actions that I have taken. I am now able to say that I have a fun life because I do. It is only now that I know I have worked to create it and I feel like I deserve it. A toast: to finding comfort in personal space and holding onto the peace it creates.

Straight Up

2007-03-16T12:44:00.000-07:00

Today is a Paula Abdul day. Not the American Idol Paula; but the Forever Your Girl Paula. The Paula that I had routines perfectly choreographed on my Minnie Mouse roller skates. The fact that I am listening to this album makes me feel, simultaneously, young and old. These songs can resurrect the exact feelings of my nine year-old-hip-self; i was the empress of cool. Her words channel straight to the euphoric part of my brain where my biggest concern was how to finagle my parents into letting me play outside later. One of my stock associates just came into my office while "Straight Up" was playing. He looked at me, then my speakers, chuckled, and then said, not asked, "What is this". Shell shocked, I responded that it was Paula Abdul. I said you don't know Paula Abdul? He said of course he knew who she was... I think his words were, "I watch American Idol, yeah I think I know who she is." I could have slipped in the puddle where his dripping sarcasm had collected.

Paula, for me, ranks right up there with Tiffany and The Bangles. I swear that those women shaped my life. Okay, maybe that is taking it a step too far, but they surely built a great city of memories in my mind. Side note from my head, celebrating the little things. Find something little to celebrate on this Eve of St. Patrick's Day!!

Past Life

2007-03-05T21:40:00.001-07:00

We are interesting creatures, us humans. We have varying degrees of depth, love, understanding, and pain. We have even more ways to handle these emotions. In every encounter, no matter how great or how small, we gain insight into the people around us but more importantly we, ourselves, become magnified. We can gain infinite knowledge to who we are when we walk away from someone or even when we are the one being walked away from. I choose to believe in the power of a moment, because in that second of realization, it is already gone. A moment becomes the past, immediately. I made a choice when I chose life. I decided I would never again waste one second on regret, on thinking I hadn’t given everything I could to something. Things as small as reading my brothers a bedtime story, or even as great as choosing whom to love, I approach each of these instances with the exact same passion. This fervor does not come without its own set of complications. I have seen that there are few who approach life this way. I think that the combination of recognizing inflicted scars, loathing life, losing someone; it is through these tumultuous experiences those of us who survive are granted a beauty reserved for very few. Yes, I have been hurt and will be undoubtedly hurt again, but I will heal just as I always have. By having the ability to believe in the power of an exchange, the power of an opportunity, I will always have something to look forward to.

Over what has been nearly a year of writing this blog I have disclosed some very personal thoughts, thoughts that at times were truly unbearable. I found myself in chasms where breathing was the only connection holding me to this world. I have allowed hurt to creep into my life in various forms, various relationships, I have felt broken. It is only now that I am beginning to see that the shades of what I consider to be one of my greatest strengths entirely misunderstood. In my constant faith in goodness I have come across as being fragile, breakable, even unstable. This idea of holding onto something and being comfortable with the unknown allows me to be cognizant of my present. This awareness lends me to feeling things very deeply. I understand that by witnessing undeniably deep feelings ranging from elation to profound sadness, some may see these emotions of mine and label them as weakness. For reasons I can understand it seems I project this need to be rescued. Oddly enough it is I who feels that does the rescuing. This is certainly an in depth analysis brought about by a very recent break up. Yet, there is such familiarity in the words that are spoken to me, echoes of others wanting to save me and protect me. What a silly thing to focus on when the once shared experience has been finalized. I wish others to stop looking at me and my supposed need to be saved and start looking at why there seems to be more devotion after the fact. Yes, I am hurting right now, but I am not consumed by sadness and certainly not regret. I am creating my past, day-by-day. I am building my life, something that is uniquely mine. I have loved hard, and I promise I will never stop loving hard. It is with a distinct sadness that I move forward knowing that others shut down on purpose, never to be reopened. What a futile way to build a past.

This post is dedicated to many, all of whom I love, and will continue to love until the moment my life is nothing more than my past.

candles, cake, moving trucks, hearts, etc...

2007-02-27T18:05:00.000-07:00

Out of place. Familiarity lurks in the unknown shadows; a comfort zone questioned. I am getting older. My mom is having heart troubles. No big deal, she says. No biggie. I am her daughter; I fall victim to the idea that mom knows best. Immediate heart catheritization on Friday. March 2nd, a day that has been for the past three years, a day of varying goodbyes. The first remarkable March 2nd was a day that allowed me to say goodbye to my very destructive life; the following year forced me to say goodbye to someone who had moved my heart, and last year; I lost my grandmother that day. I said goodbye to her a few days later during a beautiful memorial service. It is silly to question the future. It is impossible for me to not think that March 2nd will always represent goodbyes. So this year, I am hoping it is about ushering out the unfortunate heart troubles my mom seems to be having. I keep coming back to the fact that I am getting older. Usually I am reinforcing this myself; after all it is my birthday tomorrow. It seems though that the things that keep reminding me that I am growing up have nothing to do with another candle in my cake. It happens that my dad et al. are leaving; moving across the country. The comfort of a family unit that I have had since I moved to Arizona nearly nine years ago is shifting about 2500 miles away. Granted, the unit has not remained static; sometimes shifting just barely othertimes it felt as if earth itself was shattering. My dad married a wonderful woman, who has become a best friend; I have two little brothers that will start becoming east coast boys in basically a matter of minutes. I have a dad who thinks I have abandonment issues, and thinks I feel like I am being left behind. Silly thoughts I think, but not for a dad. He has been my rock here; I think he forgets that he will still be my rock. He just happens to be a little bit farther away. I remind them every day that I am an adult. I am rapidly, as in 6 hours rapidly, approaching my late twenties.

I am exhilerated and yet a little bit conscious of the real fear behind getting older. The fear of loss. A day, a single day, is one in a series of progressions that will bring us our greatest joys, and our largest defeats. This knowledge becomes much more palpable once loss has been experienced, and grief has taken your breath away. But tomorrow, the literal tomorrow, I will be a year older. Another year has graciosuly been offered for me to shape and mold as I so desire. No matter the degree of fear, I have always loved play-dough; I can't imagine that changing any time soon. Cheers to another year, and to a myriad of goodbye's that could enter my life sooner than later.

losing voice

2007-02-23T12:44:00.000-07:00

I took a break from writing. It wasn't a conscious decision. I feel as if my creative voice fell away. I am again under the microscope of perfection. I find myself here occasionally; paralyzed by my own expectations that are rooted in some unreachable, unattainable far away place. I end up choking, smothered by my own boundaries.

The truth is I only write when I am in turmoil. Having touched upon this subject before I don't know why I am surprised by this observation. Now comes the difficult part of finding the root of my unease. Work is intense and great, yet temporary. My home is in effect not really a home any longer. It is a shell, housing my goods until I can find a place to call home. That's unnerving. I am in a relationship. Mind you, I am not bad at relationships, it is only that I have a hard time being still while involved with someone. I am always anticipating the unexpected disappearance of my partner. Whom ever this partner is does not matter; they are arbitrary in my issues of abandonment. I believe that I am good, fundamentally good. Though it seems I fall short of being good enough. This is strange to me. I certainly have insecurities; but I believe I am worth it, to someone I am worth it. This post may be read, it may not be, but as I discussed in a previous post, that's not why I write. I use this medium to understand what it is that my silence is screaming. So far I am not any closer to interpreting this foreign language of mine. I do believe now though that things are a little more tumultuous than I was giving them credit for. Nothing in my life is currently bad, so when I have these feelings of unease, I fear the worst. It is apparent that I am uncomfortable in complacency. Though, isn't that a contradiction in terms? I am certainly unsettled, I just haven't yet found the defining point. It seems that there must be more than one specific notion for this feeling that I feel.

Armed with self-acceptance I will move forward. I like to wrap things up in pretty, little, exquisite boxes and be sure that all is settled. That won't happen today. Oh life, here I am.

Delicate Changes within the Psyche

2007-01-31T15:29:00.000-07:00

Stories are good; they can heal, they may offer quiet moments of reflection, they eventually have the power to change us. I just finished The Memory Keeper's Daughter, by Kim Edwards. The power in this book is found in the momentum that is built through fluid writing, breathtaking imagery, and the thread of humanness that is embroidered throughout this novel. I love books that allow me to escape my life; romantic love affairs that take my breath away, intense thrillers that force me to be more aware of my surroundings. The Memory Keeper's Daughter offers a bit of escapism, but not much. It is not a romance, nor a thriller, it is not an epic story of insurmountable courage. It is a story of what it means to be human. It is as real as a novel can be. Edwards, an accomplished short story writer, taps into the darkest parts of the soul and fractures it into an explosion of secrecy, redemption, understanding and compassion. A man, a decent man who happens to be a doctor, is forced to deliver his own child. Unaware that his wife is about to give birth to twins he delivers a healthy baby boy and hands him over to the nurse. While this man is comforting his wife he realizes that there is another child about to be born. He delivers his daughter, she is born with Down syndrome. At that moment he makes a decision to have the nurse take the baby girl to an institution. He will tell his wife that she gave birth to twins but that her daughter died. This man will go on to live with this secret. A mother will raise one child and mourn the death of a daughter she never got to see. A nurse, a woman, will have the opportunity to change her life and the life of a little girl. A boy will grow up beside the shadow of his "dead" twin sister. The story is told from the perspective of these four people.

When I am reading a book I am constantly trying to decipher and predict what will happen within the walls of these tightly woven stories. I cannot remember the last time that I became so caught up in the lives of the characters that I didn't see what was coming next. I got blindsided a couple times through the course of these chapters. I was not left untouched nor with dry eyes. This is a poignant story. It is a story about secrets, and everyone has secrets, that is what makes this book so powerful. Edwards' words invoke a new level of awareness which I will now carry with me. I am changed, with all the intricacy and ease that a string of words can bring about. I will take care to tread lightly in matters that may appear trivial and yet may have deep roots. There are stories out there that remind me why I read, this is one of those such stories. I am changed; delicately but deeply.

Ocean's and the Tango; Resolutions at Their Best

2007-01-09T23:26:00.000-07:00

A blink closes the eyes, even if it is only for a moment. There is, in that fraction of a second, a chance for intrinsic reflection. A quiet examination that is both conscious and unconscious. Even within that tiniest instant these moments add up. An hour, a day, a month, the next breath we take opens our eyes to a new year. Here we are waking up to 2007, a new chance to begin with our old selves. I may be the strange one, and I probably will count on that actually; but I tend to find more anxiety than motivation in the beginning of a year. I find hope in discovering my footing in the now, in the everyday. Yes, we have these resolutions that we start to think of two weeks before the stroke of midnight on that evening established for new beginnings, but I have always silently questioned their staying power. Resolutions are what we say we will do in order to become a greater human being. They are what we believe may bring us happiness, love, joy, luck in the upcoming year.

I find myself dancing around the topic in which I am trying to bring up. Through a maze of lyrical jargon all I want to say is that I find myself overwhelmed at the beginning of a year. This idea of resolutions for me is a difficult one because I will never say that the idea of trying to better one’s self is wrong. I am a firm believer in the power of thought. It is this power that can provide the motivation that I believe guide people to become the best possible version of themselves. Though I have found that I work much better by simply forcing the best out of myself every day. What that really challenges me to do is offer a level of self-acceptance. I understand that my best will always vary. I used to set myself up just so someone else would catch me. I ached to be picked up for years. I finally realized that the only consistent person around to pick me up was in fact myself. I was the only one who could offer the strength I so desperately searched for. I like the idea of setting New Year’s resolutions but I find that these ideals often become hidden from the tasks of the everyday. My days become cluttered with the responsibilities surrounding life; paying for groceries ends up trumping those tango lessons I wanted to take last year. Not to mention that the goal of swimming in the ocean is unfortunately bypassed because a pressing family matter used up my vacation days. The act of living sometimes tends to force these desires of mine into the journal that houses my dreams for this lifetime. The only thing that I feel when I cannot realize these goals I so carefully thought out is guilt. I feel as if I let myself down. I make no excuses for my life and am honestly quite happy with the path that I am currently on, but I am not above disappointment or frustration. I have discovered that if I do not stand for my goals than it will be impossible for anyone to stand by me while I pursue these endeavors. Which in a roundabout way brings me to the end, a resolve if you will; if we all simply challenge ourselves everyday a new resolution may be reached much more quickly than if we wait for a specific time and date to change our lives. A new future is ready every day not just New Year’s Day. Turns out I do have a new years resolution. I will be setting new goals constantly and I will believe that I am consistently able to achieve these ambitions of mine, no matter how great or how insignificant they may be. They are mine and this is the year that I will own them.

Cheers to 2007!

Absurdity

2006-12-14T21:50:00.000-07:00

My sister and brother-in-law's house is broken. Well, I shouldn't say that the whole house is broken. The water pipe broke at the foundation. Seeing as I have been the only one staying there for the past three nights I am sure that it was my fault. I break things; that's what I do. Apparently even houses are not immune to the wrath that is Amanda. In any case, having this happen right now is pretty much a testimonial to the old saying, "when it rains it pours". We all need a little comic relief. Though I probably shouldn't find it in the memory of carrying pots of water from a cooler upstairs last night to dump into the back of the toilet in order to flush it, but I do. I also acknowledge the absurdity in all of it. When I came home on Wednesday night I noticed there was a pleasant stream of water pouring down the driveway. I distinctly remember thinking, hmm, interesting that it rained so much here and not at all in DC. Keep in mind that it had to have rained a little bit because the ground all around was wet. I am not completely oblivious to the world around me. Though, it still didn't hit me later when I tried to flush the toilet and the tank was bone dry. Nope I didn't tie the two together at all. Lola, their black pug, barked all night. I was spooked about stalkers/thieves/murderers. I am sure she was barking at the rumbling of the waterfall that the front porch had turned into. I drifted off to sleep, eventually. I woke up to a severe decrease in water pressure. Did I call my sister? oh no. I washed my face and fed the dogs. But then she called me and in passing I told her that I couldn't flush the toilet. She said to just fill up the tank. Then I hear my brother-in-law, Jay, in the background start asking her questions. She asks me to go out front. I know what she is going to ask me before she does. I tell her yes, Niagara Falls has briefly relocated to Pasadena, Maryland and taken up residence directly outside her front door. She wasn't pleased. I think it may have had to something with the fact that Emerson Kate is still in the hospital and that the water situation may just be what breaks the camel's back; or in this case my sister's. When I got to the hospital I went into to see Emerson, Kate appeared a moment later.

My sister has been a rock during this entire time. She has been so strong. I have only caught one or two tears. When I went to hug her; she started crying. "Stupid, stupid water" she said in her laughing,crying sing-songy voice. The nurse wasn't aware what we had been talking about and said something to us. She repeated what she said because by the obvious look of question on our faces she realized we had not heard her. "Is it because of the incision? Are you crying because of the incision?" The nurses had removed Emerson's dressing and her incision was much more noticeable. Kate and I look at each other and kinda laugh. Of course the tears are not over her little girls scar; that she can handle. It is just the house that is breaking her strong self down. Absurd, yes... A realignment of priorities; of course. Acknowledgement of the ridiculousness of timing, triple check. All I want to do is just ask, really? right now? seriously? The porch is going to be fixed; not as gently as Emerson's heart was, but everything soon will start to go back to normal; Two healthy daughters, running water, a porch that isn't waterlogged. Isn't life grand?

What is Family?

2006-12-12T20:33:00.000-07:00

Today, families and bloodlines do not run parallel. This is my reality. I am one of six siblings; only two of which share half of my blood. I am equally close to those "blood" sisters as the other siblings who do not share this common defining force. I have a father, a real father, who chose me. He decided, before I ever could, that he would not only be my father, my guardian, but at the end of the day he chose to be my dad. This father of mine chose another child who didn't have his blood either. He saw past the black and white lines that an old society had declared law. I was there when this little brother of mine was delivered into this world. I saw God the day he was born. My family grew that day. My dad and his wife (who is also of no blood relation to me) gave birth to another baby boy two years later. I have two small brothers because these two were not blinded by blood bearing bindings. They are 22 and 24 years younger than I, respectively.

While I acknowledge this man who chose me as a daughter; I do not deny where I have come from. My biological father who was married to my mom; went on to remarry and have a family of his own. The woman he chose to start a new life with brought a daughter with her. She happens to be 3 months older than I am. Though it is physically impossible to have a blood sister who is three months older, I have this sister. She is as real to me as the lightning bugs we caught in the summers together over 20 years ago. Is family not history? That father whose blood pulses through my veins had two more daughters. They are my half sisters. I certainly declare them as my sisters though. They are as related to me as my two young brothers and my older sister. I have a family that is not bound together by the old rule that you cannot choose your family; you are born into them.

There are people out there who stand by the belief that blood is binding. To me they have not had the chance to experience the opportunity to choose a family. I beg them; have you not ever asked a friend into your family? Have you never considered another as a part of your heart, a part of you? To me this is what family is. I wonder about those who adhere to these strict definitions of family and if they are truly happy to draw the line at such a rigid point.

I am the length of the country away from my home to sit with my sister who shares no relation to me. I sit there gazing at her daughter, my niece, who just had a life saving operation; and I do not question that I am her family. I sit there thankful that I am welcomed into such an intense life experience. There are siblings out there who do not talk. Years go by and it is painful for them to pick up the phone; but since they share the same blood they are more honorable than us who don't? This is not a subtle discussion for me. Often, I do feel as if I have to defend my relationships with these siblings of mine who either vary so much in age or in distance. This challenge does not make me wonder if I am not their family; it only forces me to acknowledge the pain that I have that I was unable to grow up in an environment that was so indicative of this seemingly common experience. You see I was raised an only child. As I say this I do not wish to change what I had; I only am bearing witness to an experience that I certainly didn’t have. But I do not believe that it warrants the right to say that any of these people are not my family.

I saw my sister and her husband comfort each other in ways only an intimate couple know how to do. Things that only family know how to do. I understand that marriage is a ceremonial platform to declare that two people are joined as family; however do they only become family at that exact moment in time where the "I do" is uttered? I beg to differ; at some point these two people realized they had a bond before they chose to formally commit. Do we, as people not seek these connections on a daily basis? Do we not seek this behavior in a partner, in a friend? If you do not, I beg for you to challenge me.

The best thing about true family is that they never make you choose. That is when you know who has decided to stand beside you. Yes, disappointment is inevitable when there are multiple people that are being dealt with. Homes, holidays and hearts are implicit with families. Though, there will never be a line drawn saying you may not be with this person/family. They let you go; heavy hearts and all. We all face a sense of loss when those who mean so much to us choose to be elsewhere. But a family picks up the pieces and understands that no matter what, everyone still stands united no matter how far apart.

What is family? A family, to me, is an unspoken pinky swear; with all of its simplicity and complexity.

I Heart Emerson

2006-12-11T21:44:00.000-07:00

A heart is a heart, is a child, is a baby, is a niece. Here I am. I sit in the night looking at my niece fast asleep in her car seat. When she fusses I alternate between putting the binky in her mouth and rocking her seat. Her mouth is open. She is in a pink onesie; it has little puppies all over it. They are named cozy dog. Her mother, my sister, is writing and tearing up at the same time. I leave her be. She needs this time to feel. I need this time with a baby Emerson; that is the greater truth.

I still disguise my need for others. My older sister has always been this beacon of strength for me. She constantly held this position in life that I daydreamed of. Things like that never waver. Both of her daughters are as close to my own babies that I can feel. Emerson with her heart, and me with my own, I can only pull slight parallels. I am familiar with her future tests, her need to be pulled out of school, her need for an early adulthood. I feel connected to her as I would any other being, but the fact that she is my sister's daughter makes that truth so undeniably true. Here I sit in a place that I am completely immobile. I can gather the mail, put the dishes away, feed the dogs. I cannot take away the uncertainity, I cannot take away the scar on Emerson's chest. I am unable, at the end of the day to take away the unseen scars that my sister and her husband bear. I am uncomfortably aware of my inability to do anything mildly remarkable at all right now.

Tonight it is about life and the ones you love. They may be far away, they may be holding your hand, but no matter they are there to guide you. Live RIGHT now as if there is no other moment. Live with no fear in regards to the one that you are with. This is life and this is all that we have... Goodnight.

Elusive Discussion of Happiness

2006-12-10T20:10:00.000-07:00

Today, I got a surge of self, one of those moments when life seems a little less opaque. I need these flashes to remember that this is my own journey. I have spent nearly a year dealing with my grief. I created this blog as an exploration of my feelings in regards to a sometimes overwhelming sense of loss. A new normal, a psychological term used to describe the reality that introduces itself after one has experienced loss. A phrase that I heard in passing that seemed so applicable to my life when I started this type of writing. I have studied how writing is used as a form of healing. I am fascinated that even the physical act of using your hands, through writing or typing, stimulates areas in the brain that soothe the mind and calm the soul. When I started posting here; I did not understand that I was silently reaching out to a community while wrapped safely in my anonymity. I thought I was just writing. In truth I have been healing parts of myself, making myself whole again. So now, as I experience this wholeness that I have been struggling to find, I find my creative voice becoming more of a whisper, a slight autumn breeze. Why?

I am finding that it is far more revealing for me to offer up my happiness than to discuss aspects of my sadness. I am surprised if not shocked by my trepidation in communicating just how happy I really am. And here I am discussing fear while trying to define happiness. Comical.

Feeling more exposed and a little more raw than I like to admit; I will say the root of my gratitude comes from the realization that life cannot be lived without being a little bit carefree. I feel that there is this instinctual pull to be in control of everything. I think the secret to letting gratitude in is simply escorting some of the control out. Little surprises, quirks, coincidences can be such a source of fullness. In a sense these small serendipitous moments allow for the option to believe that we are not so alone. I am not saying that this is the key to happiness. What I am saying is that it is possible to seek out joy and make it a part of your daily routine, that being whole is a choice. I don’t mean to sound so overly simplistic, but I am surprised to say that it is just that: simple. All of our actions are manifested from choices me make. We as humans have the opportunity to choose how we see our life. Personally, there were years I certainly did not choose life. Those days have been replaced with a more conscious effort to make my life not only worth living but one that was worth saving. Life is cyclical, and I only hope that I remember that I have a choice in all that I do. I will again be faced with great sadness and great joys, these experiences carving out a stronger, more definable sense of self. I have again found myself in a new normal, a normalcy born out of awareness, and appreciation as well as a bit of apprehension. I have written about this before but moments, all moments, good and bad, are fleeting. So as I choose to celebrate this ever-expanding sense of joy I escort in not just the possibility but also the inevitability of it all changing. Changing for the better or the worse, we are not sure, but we can count on the fact that it will all change.

I am writing this while I should be packing for my trip back east tomorrow morning. My 10-week-old niece is scheduled for open-heart surgery on Tuesday. I don’t know what will happen. I am aware of all of the possibilities. I am choosing to focus on the right now. And at this moment, as I glance at the cup of tea in front of me it is so obviously half-full; a small moment of quiet serendipity to reassure me that I am exactly where I am supposed to be. Joyous.

Strong Memories

2006-11-22T13:56:00.000-07:00

So much depends upon a day, a week, a month. So much more depends upon a year. Today is the anniversary of Kate's death. I don't miss her more today than I do any other day. I don't feel any more heartbroken. The only difference is that I wonder what she was doing last year right now. RIGHT NOW. I have questions that will never have answers. That kind of permanence is unsettling.

I said yesterday that I am thankful for time. Time offers perspective. When in the thick of something it is very hard to remember that it is temporary; it cannot last forever. Time will quickly usher in new joys, new hurdles, new turmoils and smiles. If I could talk to Kate once more, just once more, I would tell her that loneliness, despair, and hopelessness are okay. And that they are capable of crumbling. I would have reminded her that it was not only my hand that would have reached out to grasp hers. There would have been an unending pile of support that would have caught her...if we only knew. I would have told her that in hindsight any tragedy that she had encountered could not have equaled what has been left in the wake of her passing. Yet, I write that last line with trepidation because Kate existed on a plane that I always wanted to be on. She was a true prodigy, I cannot begin to imagine the scope of her mind. I would have said what was expected: that I loved her and missed her, and that yes, I am still pretty pissed at her. But then being human, I would have shared the details of my life. I miss the way she looked at things. I would have loved to hear the happiness in her voice when I spoke of my life right now. She would have been so proud. Seeing as she was with me at my worst, I feel like it would only be fair for her to see me at my best. I would have told Kate that I am seeing someone. She would have loved the fact that he draws an iron over tasks that need to be "ironed out". It's the little things that I miss telling her. A friendship is based on reciprocity. I miss listening to her and I miss being listened to by her.

Thanksgiving is tomorrow and this holiday will never again carry the innocent thankfulness that it once did for me. I will be forced to offer thanks for something that Kate, herself, robbed from me. I will also not be able to escape the lingering truth that even the great fall; never to get up again. Today I will be gentle with myself, and tomorrow I will cherish thoughts of a dear friend who passed much too soon. Next year I will have only gained more clarity and perspective, something I wish Kate would have allowed herself to do. But right now, right this second, I am remembering her giggle and smile and the way she whirled the word "fantastic" off her tongue in the most excellent Welsh accent. And I am thankful that those are strong memories; after all I am going to need them to accompany me on my own journey.

What I am thankful for... Volume 2

2006-11-20T16:51:00.000-07:00

This one may be a little more sentimental, but maybe not. I am thankful for time; the passage of it as well as the reveling in. Time forces me to remember that not everything is happening at once. It also shows me the grace of each moment. Being thankful for life, and deeply understanding what it means to say that, is something that I am welcomed to feel. A solid appreciation for life comes from a concrete knowledge of how fragile each breath is. For once, I am thankful for not acting on my urge to apologize for my continual exploration of grief. I believe in moments of bliss encountered serendipitously whether it is on the top of The Great Wall or in a rock fort up in the mountains. And I am so overly thankful for Coke bottle candies, these little gummies are almost as dear to me as the friendship that precipitated this off the wall blessing. I fall short when trying to discuss the relationships in my life.

Simply, my cup runneth over. Thank you...

What I am thankful for... Volume 1

2006-11-14T16:06:00.000-07:00

In honor of the rapidly approaching Thanksgiving holiday I would like to give thanks for the following things... little black puglets, pinky swears, arizona sunsets, thunderstorms, earplugs, private concerts, highlighters and my favorite purple pen, baby nieces, double soy chai lattes, ayn rand, blogs, little brothers, inhalers, pounds and pounds of tissue, FJ Cruisers, wtf?, "would you rather?" questions, Alchemist-like moments, macbooks, tacky souvenirs from shady little roadside stands, cheese, wine, bathtubs (especially ones with iron claw feet), concord grapes, best friends, welch's grape soda, gardens, the color green, tesseracts...

Fiction exercise #1, #2

2006-10-30T08:11:00.000-07:00

#1 Character Sketch: Christine Joy Fullerton

I sat beside you Daddy the night of my first kiss. I didn't know where else to go. I didn't want to go home because I knew mama would smell my sin. I never wanted to grow up. I don't know why I felt older on that evening than I did that night you left us. Its okay daddy, I don't blame you. I know it was that deer that ran you off the road and not the handle of Jack you drank that night. I could never forget that night, or that date. Your death day marks the celebration of my life. The eleventh anniversary of your and mamma's little accident. You always used to tell me I was the best mistake you ever made. Remember how Mama used to get after you for calling me a mistake? You would just wink at me and grab your beer; by then it would be time for you to settle into your evening ritual of news and crossword puzzles. Well, three years have passed since we buried you in that cemetery down the street. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, with your death daddy, our dreams turned to rust.

I'm 14 now; daddy's little girl growin up without a daddy. It's okay I don't really mind it. I've learned to pick up the pieces. I am the one that looks out for the boys now. Jake, your baby, is getting ready for the little league tournament. I meet him every day after practice. I ask him all the questions you used to; the stuff about batting averages, and strike-outs. I even tell Jake about the Red Sox and their curse. I tell him everything you would have. Mickey is hard to talk to though. He doesn't have much use for a younger know-it-all sister. But I guess you probably knew that. Is it true that you can see everything from up there? I hope so; I told Jake that you saw his homerun last week. He is still glowing.

I help mama with dinner every night. She has gotten tired since you left. I started doing the shopping for her down at Smith's. We have a tab down there now. You'd be real proud daddy; I don't buy anything that we shouldn't have. Mama's not eatin' much these days, but I still fix her a plate. She always eats on the night I roast the brisket, though. That used to be your favorite. You would always drizzle it in Smith's secret barbeque sauce. Mama doesn't let us have that in the house anymore. She says she never liked it anyway. I tell her she's just being silly. But I know the truth; the taste reminds her of your kisses.

I started high school last week. I can hear your words, "You watch out, Christine Joy, those boys are nothing but trouble." Gregory asked me to the Homecoming dance, and it's not for another month. That was before he tried to feel me up underneath the bleachers. That right hook you taught me so many nights ago proved to be a winner. My trophy, his shiner, is still shining bright. Needless to say I will be going stag to my first high school dance. See daddy, I keep you with me all the time.

The night air is chilly with autumn on its breath. Orion is hovering. As Christine traces the outline of her father's name on his headstone, pieces of stone fall away. Jacob Ray Fullerton, beloved husband and father: It would seem that people are not the only thing that crumble after a long awaited touch.

#2 Dialogue with Character from Sketch

I walk in the house in time to catch Mama and Mickey getting into it. Silence falls fast when I shut the door. “Why don’t you get after Chrissy, ma? She's the one out all night sitting in a cemetery talking to a rock she thinks is the drunk that was our father-“ Mickey is silenced by a swift slap across the face.
“Christine Joy, you get yourself upstairs” mama says.
Mickey is red, fuming, shamed by his anger. Mama is shaking. I don’t have to be told twice to get somewhere.

I am combing out my hair; I heard a hundred strokes will make it shiny, stronger, …72, 73, 74…
“Chrissy?” Jake is standing on the threshold of my room.
“Come on in, bub” I say to the tear stained cheeks of my baby brother.
“Is he gonna die like daddy?” Jake asks me this every time Mickey and mama get into an argument. I put my brush down on the vanity and gather the sadness that is my little brother into my arms. I tell him this time, like every other time, “No honey, Mickey could never hurt mama dyin’ like he could by livin.’” He is too young to understand what that means, but Jake is old enough to know when I am telling the truth.
“Tell me a story, Chrissy. Tell me a story about daddy.” Jake said.
“You know how excited daddy was when Mama said there was another plus sign on one of those take home kind of tests?” I say, starting the story of Jake’s beginning. It’s his favorite.
“Daddy went out to buy you a baseball glove the day he found out,” I continued. “Daddy said that he knew he was going to have the best hitter on the Eastern Shore.”
Mama and Mickey’s angry words pierced through the foundation of the house. I could feel their hatred vibrating through Jakey’s little body. Innocence, the world’s greatest conductor, sat, charged in my lap. I kissed my brother’s brow. I ached to take his fear away.
“Jakey, I talked to daddy tonight,” I said. “ He told me he saw that homerun last week, remember how you hit the bat on the ground 4 times before the pitch? He said he knew that was a message for him. That was always your secret number, wasn’t it?”
Jake pulled away and looked into my eyes searching for a dream, verifying a wish. “How did you know that?”
“Like I said, daddy told me.” I said to him. Innocence should be allowed to hold on to its purity for as long as possible. I could not tell him that I heard his prayers every night through our paper thin walls; about 4 years, and leap years, and how he is the fourth tallest in his class, the fourth fastest runner, and the fourth oldest out of Ms. Miller’s class. I couldn’t tell him that I knew those things were how he knew that daddy was looking out for him. I couldn’t tell him that I did the same thing everyday. I would make messages out of cloud formations, the sudden change of a red light to green, the serendipitous vision of a father and daughter walking hand in hand down the street. No, I couldn’t tell Jake any of these things. He deserved to grow up with as much of a father as he could.
“Come on, babe, I’ll tuck you in.” I say to Jake as I carry him to his bed. I make sure he is tightly covered in his sheets. The snugness of his blankets mimicking the comfort I wish he could find during his waking hours. I get up after we say the Lord’s Prayer and head back to my room. Laying on my bed I hear Jake’s whispers, “I knew you were watching me daddy. I remembered our lucky number. I hope I made you proud daddy.”
I now wish someone was here to comfort away my tear stained cheeks. I am reminded that we buried that someone 3 years ago.
“Goodnight Daddy” I say into the darkness.

Days of Grief and Days of Joy

2006-10-25T21:11:00.000-07:00

October 25 2006

That is today's date. I woke up thinking I had something to do all day. I woke up with someone watching me. I woke up in an empty room. Someone today told me that she was looking over her shoulder all day; though she wasn't sure why. Last year, I had to send birthday wishes to a dear friend. The woman looking over her shoulder, last year she was probably trying to find her sister. Her sister shared the same birthday with my friend. They were the same person; our Kate; a sister, a friend, a daughter, an aunt. She was everything to all and someone to one. Today is the anniversary of her life, and in less than a month I will be sitting here aware that at that specific time she made a decision to make that day the anniversary of her passing. Life and death are always so closely intertwined. I heard she drank some Sierra Nevada's on the eve of her death. So on the night of her birthday I have decided to cheers her from life to her grave with a bottle or two of her final brew.

Grief barrels forward. For me grief is a formulation of appreciating joy and relishing sadness. For the two are virtually inseparable. Grief is coming to terms that certain dreams must forever remain dreams; no matter how hard they are fought for. I can acknowledge the reason for my grief. My love of Kate in her life was so deep, so understood, so mutual. I don't grieve over our past; I grieve for what I will never have with her in my future.

I am watching a sister and a friend grieve over their own punctured or broken dreams. Grief doesn't have to born out of death; it can be born simply from a dream not ever being able to be realized. A sister, my sister gave birth to a baby girl on October 10, 2006. My niece entered this world with 10 fingers and 10 toes and 4 congenital heart defects. These defects fixable only by open heart surgery before she is six months old. I do not believe that the specific grief I am referencing will lead back to my niece. I believe the grief that is being generated at this moment belongs to my sister. She has already begun reshaping her point of reference from having two beautiful, healthy daughters to something that is now a new reality. This new normal consists of 2 beautiful daughters one who is healthy and may lead a normal life. And another daughter who will have to be nurtured in areas that do not involve contact sports and involves embracing individuality. Grief is relative; I cannot understand my sister's pain, possible guilt, and her humanness in regards to this situation. Emerson's birth is by no means a point of grief in itself. It is only a testament to something that was originally believed. It is now about creating new dreams and new visions for this daughter of hers. A friend, one of the best friends I could have is mourning a loss of a dream that was awoken from before it had actually even started. It does not make the pain any less; for the dream had already begun and taken hold. In both situations the sadness, regret and grief stem from what the original possibilities meant. The grief stems from a future we had anticipated and even come to expect. As humans we should know never to look past today for as sacred as each moment is; it too is temporary.

Home: An Exploration in Thought

2006-10-18T20:32:00.000-07:00

I have returned to the place of my birth to watch my little sister get married. It has already been a trip of unimaginable intensity that began before I had even boarded the plane to come here. Pardon my ambiguity, but some things need time to be well thought out and right now too many thoughts are highlighted. So here I sit in a house I've considered a place of comfort for nearly 20 years. Memories are measured on the blue wall downstairs; etched with the tip of a knife and a magic marker documenting our physical growth; summer to summer. There was no way to record our personal growth. But we all grew; my sisters and I, together. Those summers stand on memories of double solitaire,swapping clothes and all things reserved for growing girls. Corbett is the sister who is getting married on Saturday. There is something magical about gathering for a wedding, especially when it is in honor of one so close in heart. Corbett was beaming when she walked in the door tonight. Purity, that is what she is. Those would never be her words; but they are the epitome of this young woman. My older sister Kate, and I are the matron of honor and the maid of honor, respectively. This to me means one thing; we have to give a speech. Seeing as Kate just got done birthing a beautiful baby girl; I have taken it upon myself to put together a string of words meant to do justice to this incredibly healthy, mature relationship Corbett and my soon to be brother-in-law have created. To say that I am mildly concerned would be a bit of an understatement. Excuse me for using this as a sort of filter, if you will. Sorting thoughts and feelings on so many varying emotional levels makes it a little difficult to focus only on the love. I will hopefully encounter the end of this sorting process relatively soon.

It is hard not to be envious in the company of honest love. My older sister has it, my little sister has it now as well. One would think that I am saying this simply because I am related to these people, connected with these relationships. I feel that is particularly why I can say what it is that I am saying. Where marriages today seem to be built on empty vows and temporary love I have watched thunder roll through these two relationships and bring about serious storms. Yet, only the beauty and eloquence remains after the clouds have parted. I am in awe, constant awe of these sisters of mine. It is hard to be surrounded with these incredible relationships and not reflect on one's own success and failures in the matters of the heart. I only hope that one day I can experience the level of completeness Kate and Corbett and their partners feel. Loving can be a beautiful thing and I am showered in the wake of its constant presence while I am back in this far away home of mine.

Truths in a Tapestry

2006-10-10T08:08:00.000-07:00

I am consistently amazed at how life weaves us along. As if the world was one large loom; and at the end of all time the only trace of our presence is a tapestry cloaked over the world. I became an aunt for the second time in the wee hours of the morning. I am deeply thankful for the invitation of life this little girl brings. It is the first birth in my life since the rapid succession of losses. It comes at a time when I am forced to remember a good friend who took her life, for her birthday is less than two weeks. Quickly followed by the one year anniversary of her death.

Writing with trepidation; I explore again the weaves of this great tapestry. Standing in new lights from many directions I am forced to pirouette in only one direction so as to avoid dancing in my own shadow. I seek honesty. I seek to create something beautiful and untainted by past dents, present hurt, and future brokenness. I say goodbye. I am not sad, not even a little bit. It is this knowledge of shimmering life accepted and cherished by those who choose to be in my life that propels me to celebrate this moment just as much as the next.

I should be revising poems as if they were puzzle pieces but I want to say one more thing. I just haven't found the words yet. And maybe that is all part of this life; if I cannot find the words couldn't that mean that there isn't anything left to be said? This life offers us a constant reinforcement of our situation. If it is going well, trust me don't question it. It is a beautiful journey; quite possibly as beautiful as this tapestry we will never see.

Cheers - to my new niece Emerson Kate.

I will not sit quietly

2006-10-04T19:27:00.000-07:00

It is with a heavy heart and an angry mind that I approach this entry. While in the grocery store on Monday night I walked past the montage of bony figures that currently decorate the covers of weekly tabloids. This story starts about a magazine article. It is in reference to the current People magazines, "Pressure to be Thin" articles. I used to worship those bony bodies that housed virtual emptiness. For awhile I was a home to a vacant soul. I have since moved away from that neighborhood, to a safer more accepting place. I have found through my own experience of ed-nos (eating disorder not otherwise specified) that there is a haunting curiosity surrounding this disease.

There was an article wrapped up neatly and tucked behind the pictures of a disappearing Nicole Richie. The article chronicled the lives of women who sought help at a treatment center in Coconut Creek, Florida. A highly regarded and respected treatment center called Renfrew. A treatment center I also called home for six weeks. I was challenged when I read this article; wanting so badly to experience the healing that I found in that place. That magic could not be found in the words telling of broken girls, thin girls, skeleton girls. Instead I found everything that Renfrew was not.

I attended Renfrew in the Spring of 2004. When I checked myself in I was 20 lbs above my lowest weight. One could regard me and not tell that I was battling this disease. Though I was physically representational of a normal weight, I was mentally dying. I bring this up only because I was so upset by the showcasing of extremely thin girls. Thin women, men are not the only representation of eating disorders. This is the point that disturbed me so. If the proper kind of attention was tuned into anorexia, bulimia, compulsive overeating, bingeing, then there would not be only super anoretic girls photographed for this spread. There is so much attention on this disease; yet it is so wrongly magnified. I am physically sickened by what I feel right now. I am entirely unable to understand how eating disorders are commercialized as a glamorous addiction.

I want people to be disgusted by this horrible life-robbing disease. Did you know that eating disorders are responsible for more deaths than any other mental illness? Did you know that more people with an eating disorder choose suicide than any other disease? Is it glamorous because there is this infinite control over every aspect, every moment of this life? I have heard it takes discipline, fuck yeah it takes discipline. When was the last time you didn't eat a god damn thing for three days surviving only on coffee? Has your stomach ever hurt so badly from hunger pains that you picked up a tray of strawberries and chewed them only to spit them back out? How about being 20 and aching to die? How about turning 23 and having multiple panic attacks a day because two pots of coffee would rest in an empty stomach undigested? What about making a choice at 24 to die? I laid down on my bed to die the day I turned 24. I was mentally exhausted. I thought I knew everything. I knew that I didn't want to live anymore. I believed I was filth. I have watched people die. I know this disease more than I care to admit. I know it on an academic level and I know it from a personal level. I am alive because of some sort of divine intervention that gave me the strength to focus on the smallest part of me that was not pure disgust. I was sick for 6 years with physical symptoms. But I never remember not being concerned about my body and what went into it. This is a brutal, disgusting, shameful disease that kills your soul. I want to believe that the more people who open up their eyes to the real story behind the socially acceptable protruding chestbone, the sooner we can move toward a path of healing. Until then we will watch girls, boys, women and men die under the hand of a glamorous disease.

It is important that I end this by saying that I do not blame the media for my battle. I write this because I see great importance of seeing the truth behind what is actually being shown. This is not about skinny, sick girls; it is about business and the bottom line. I will continue to wonder though, at what expense will we go to find the highest bidder. I pray that the currency we still use is a dollar and not an innocent's life.

Cigarettes, heart and life

2006-09-29T08:18:00.000-07:00

One year ago today I drove myself to the emergency room because I was having a horrible asthma attack. It was on my way there that I smoked my last cigarette. How sick is that? I remember tasting stale smoke that was trapped in my lungs for a week. It was disgusting enough to keep me from smoking. Perspective changes with time and growth. What deemed more disgusting was at the time I felt pride for at least having smoked one last time before I was admitted. It is amazing what the lure of addiction will make one think. What is even more incredible is the fact that addiction speaks so many different languages on so many different occasions, it is hard to maintain awareness. Success occurs in a state of trained hypervigiliance. Though I am pumped about my not smoking I am even more proud and thankful of the results that I got from Mayo, yesterday.

As I said in a previous post I had what is called a CAT angio. I was anticipating the worst. My family history is damning. My mom had a quadruple bypass at 30. I was 4; I remember flashes, and her grayness. Moreover my grandmother has had multiple double and triple bypasses, and my uncle has had a quintuple bypass. I have been medicated since I was little. I think it was 2nd grade when I first had to take these horrible nuggets of grossness called Choli-bars. Honey would try and mask the bars disgusting flavor of regurgitated raspberry spit mixed with sand. I remember every day at lunch I would go down to the nurses station and pull out my bear full of honey, already gagging from the idea of my nemesis. When I turned 10, I was able to kick the bars and move over to questran. I can't believe that at one point I was excited about switching to a powder form. That was a fleeting feeling. I would mix orange juice and this straight sand concoction in one of those salad dressing mixers. I tried, as hard as a 10 year old could. Then I learned the tricks of the trade. I would pour it down the drain when someone wasn't looking, I would not empty the packet all the way into the juice and throw it away. I was pretty savvy at hiding my sneakiness when need be. The numbers never lied though. My cholesterol levels were monitored regularly, I hadn't plotted all the way through. When my numbers went back up, the dosage got upped. I think I was actually taking the sand juice in the morning before school and then at bedtime. On top of that I would have to eat the hunk of sandy raspberry spit at lunch. Those were rough years. Then when I was 16 I finally was able to take mevacor. All hail pills. That was shortlived as well. For the past 10 years I have been on and off cholesterol meds more than I care to admit. When I turned 26 it seemed a lot closer to 30 than 25. Thirty has been a magic number for me, In this case I thought it would mark a second generational bypass. I wonder if somewhere I wanted that to be the case. I have always loved my mom's scar. I wear it as if it were my own. Pride is multigenerational.

When I had those tests last week I went on my own. I felt as though it was something I needed to do for me and for my heart. I have lived my life as if parts of me compartmentalized will morph into my mom. It has been a long path to learn that I am not her and her experiences are not mine I surely hold them as if they were. But not today, not anymore. It is not her heart that beats in my body, it is my own. It wasn't about my crazy family history when I went in for that test, it was about my heart and it was even more about me. I got through it, and I would never change it; however the next time I need to have that test done I will not go alone. I would be lying if I said wasn't nervous. I felt really alone and I felt really young and I felt so much like myself. It was over almost as soon as it had started. I go back October 3rd for my follow-up with the doctor.

It was yesterday though that I met with my otalryngologist (ear, nose and throat doctor). He was the doctor who scolded me for not taking care of my heart weeks upon weeks ago. Today was a different story, my sinuses first of all feel 10000 times better, and he said they looked good as well. He then asked if I had been to see a cardiologist. I told him I had and told him of the tests. He then asked if I had the results and I told him I would find out on the third. He left the room for a moment. He came back with papers in hand. They were the results reporting no calcification in any of my arteries. My heart is a healthy heart, all of my arteries are clear. There are not any blockages anywhere. The slate was wiped clean for me. I thought for so long that actions I had taken in my youth had left severe repercussions; and it turns out it wasn't like that at all.

To sum all of this up; I am happy, healthy, and I am not broken. So much depends upon a year.

Blossoms

2006-09-26T08:02:00.000-07:00

I had a rough day yesterday. The swelling of grief can burst when one seems to be the most content. Memories of friends, alive and gone, were all the rage yesterday. I yearned for an old comfort, the touch of a friend, a smile from my childhood, a picture taken quietly in a moment of bliss. That’s what I wanted last night. I shy away from talking about my grief because it seems like a beaten topic. It is possible that it is just such a constant on my mind that I feel if I talk about it, it is redundant. Though this is my path. I watched that new television show last night, Brothers and Sisters. I love Calista Flockhart; old Ally McBeal moments make me smile. Though it was in this show that I realized I wanted a big family, lots of children. I am surely getting ahead of myself here. I think I generally need to be attached to someone who would help me on this level of procreation; oh God, mom, if you're reading this, I am of course still a virgin.

It is in these moments of loneliness that I dream. Though, not the dreams that are encountered during sleep. Ones instead that are confronted with eyes wide open, fully aware of and able to be manipulated. Those kind of dreams keep my focus when I feel the rest of the world is a blur, and I can’t fit anywhere.

These are days that I reach out to my friends. I have never had a support system like I do right now; at home, at work, across the country. I am lucky. And I am having a slumber party tonight. Why do we stop doing things that offered so much comfort when we were children? I loved, lived, and breathed slumber parties when I was waist high. Then they stopped right around the time that I needed them the most. College brings about broken hearts, changed paths, life altering events; I didn’t have many girlfriends during this time. Now, is a different story. I seek them out now. I cherish these budding blossoms, and tend to them, as they can be as fragile as the human heart. These girls are my heart. Living through moments of loneliness is a nice reminder that in the end I am not truly alone. At all. Again, I am sure I am losing your interest in my sappy gratitude, but God for once it’s a nice change of pace.

Out of My Mind

2006-09-25T20:10:00.000-07:00

I like it when I am hovering a little bit above my head. I enjoy the lack of worry that I feel when I sit silent above my world. You call me crazy, I won't argue. I have found that I think a lot. I used to say I think too much. By used to I mean yesterday. I now think i simply think, a lot. Too much, sounds negative. I am tired of making excuses for who I am and what I do that is different from you. Has anyone considered that the non-thinkers are the ones who are in the wrong, in the red, in the ocean without a preserver? I have but only today. I try and define myself minute by minute pigeon holing my current experiences with my peers. Odd. I think I am annoyed with this. I think I will stop. Why are you reading this? Are you following this, it is probably the same reason why i write. To be understood, to understand. I know this is a lot of ditherings, but there is a lot going on in my mind that should, for once, stay in there. Quietly learning, I am protecting myself. If I am dragging you through a path that you don't want to go through I do not beg you to stay, instead I will plead with you to go and not become jaded. Can you feel my loneliness? That is what this must be, I am writing to you... An indefinable you, one you, who actually does not exist. Yet I continue as if you will respond with my thoughts. It has been a lonely day, a lonely couple of days. My roommates are not at home nor have they been for a few days. There is only so much conversation I can extract from Alex on Jeopardy!

Loneliness is not bad. I do not write about this because i seek companionship. I write this as an observation of myself. It is normal. Somewhat interesting to be coming from my mouth. Cheers to loneliness, and the reflection it offers of my joy found in good conversation and loving friends.

Thank you!

Efforts of Poem #4

2006-09-21T07:28:00.000-07:00

I thought this poem was going to be the death of me. Very challenging in light of the 20 aspects that had to be included. I will post the poem here. If you stumble over something please know that it was probably some weird requirement that I had a little more than a difficult time trying to integrate. I am though in the end very satisfied by what I was able to manipulate out of myself. As much of a challenge these exercises are it is amazing to me the amount of joy and sense of accomplishment I have after my piece of work has concluded.

Adam's Rib

Rainbow in the water, it glides,
This fish,
Painted an eternity
Ago. You exist to fill
My soul.

My soul on the exterior is a canvas, my crazy
Ideas filter into the dreams
Of my days. Nights transformed
By watercolors etched
Into skin
Painfully, breathing I laugh.

While dreaming, you talk to me,
I think Mandee, that’s silly
Fish don’t speak.
I will wake on a beach, the taste
Of the sweet salt tells me
I am not dreaming.

The waves offer violent
Comfort; push, pull
I smell the wisdom
Coming from far away
Carried on the wake
Of Atlas who shrugged and
Dropped the ball, and
Caused the tide
That carried you.

Crying out, the sky throws
My words back to earth
“Painted bodies will swim among the heavens!”
The orchestra from Anuhi came on with a crescendo
Breaking in time, like Atlantis
For all to hear

Ancient symbol of luck and perseverance
decorates my ribs
Not Adam’s from Eden
From where Eve arrived,
Simply mine, numbers 7
Through 12, the artist touches his work
Maybe not touches, but instead
Touched
By his own brilliance.

A sage, I find myself
Seeking your slippery presence.
Skin, scales grip me like a jasmine’s blossoming
Perfume: Intense, unmistakable.

I wrap my body around your image,
Circling me, you weep overwhelmed
our beauty combined blunders forward,
An echo of grace

Like you, I am destined
For greatness. Finding the majestic waterfall
Desire strikes, a pun arises, like the instinct within,
Carp as in koi, as in carpe diem!
I jump, your wings unfold
We tumble like the stories told
Morphing, twisting, a dragon
We become. Legend lives on!

A prism existing between water and sun
Elements at work.

Monday, Monday

2006-09-18T08:12:00.000-07:00

RSVP, every morning, 7 am, outermost table, iced venti soy latte in hand; I sit. I see the two most scrappiest, broken birds this morning; like every other morning. I react the same way every time. I stop typing and stare. Little creatures escaped from hell, too evil to have wings, they trot, uncomfortably. I am still staring, the man behind them winks at me. I have to remember to keep my staring in check. I smile and nod in the direction of the odd little reptilian forks with black bodies attached; hoping he will get the message. Sidetracked already, and the clock is ticking.

I was intending to use this morning as a brainstorming session for poem #4. It is not an easy one. It is called 20 poetry projects; in other words a laundry list of things that need to be included in some creatively intertwined way. I wince. I can already say that this morning is not the morning that I will decide on a topic worthy of this kind of commitment. My mind is somewhere else. My grandfather would have been 91 today. Instead he has been at rest since 89y10m15d. It is that season again where I feel a great nostalgia, and the eye opening ways of the creation of life, followed closely by fear of loss. Are these not the great themes of life; loss and love, holding on and letting go, coming and going?

I have appointments at Mayo clinic this week. My first big heart tests. They now have a procedure that is a CAT scan angiogram. The original angiogram is the process of going in through the groin and threading a tube into your heart and then injecting dye. Once that has been completed a series of pictures are taken. These pictures show any arteries that have more than 60% blockage. Technologically speaking, the fact that this is now can be performed as a non-invasive procedure, is incredible. It works really only for those patients though who have not had any prior heart surgery. For example, my mom cannot have this type of CAT scan because the wires from her bypass would distort the images. So this procedure works simply. They inject me with dye, that part stays the same and so does the series of pictures that are taken. However, they are taking by the radiology approach. To top it off, I am my cardiologists youngest patient. I think that I make him nervous.

I know this posting is pretty random; my head is a little random. I am still preoccupied by the black birds that have no tails. Oh, how i love Mondays.

I am a shitty mom, literally

2006-09-14T08:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was exhausted. Though I have no children, I have two dogs. I guess maybe I could say that I do have children. This point was driven home when I walked into my house after work yesterday. I have a puppy that I am crate training. If I could paint for you the picture that was presented before me upon opening my door; I do not know if you would continue to read any of my future blogs. I feel that this is a risk I must take. I unlocked the door and found myself knocked over the head with the most pungent stench. I was not aware until that moment that an odor could take physical form. I was gagging before I even knew what had happened. I look at my little baby girl inside her kennel. She is squealing and covered in shit. I knew there was some sort of reason behind the term puglet. I look at her. She looks at me, I am at a loss for actions. Explosive diarrhea, that is the assumption I come to. Please focus on the word explosive. There was poo dripping from places that seemed to defy laws of physics. For example, off of the top of the kennel, on the wall above the kennel, on the speakers surrounding the kennel, on her back, in her eye, in her mouth. Are you getting the idea? I am still unsure of what to do. It wasn't even so much as to where the shit was, it came to be where it wasn't. I could not find an answer to that question. I walked into the kitchen and turned on the water in the sink. I let it fill up. I open the front door, and leave the screen door closed. Little Lallibella Foo Foo is still squealing in her cage. I then hear a sound I had not anticipated on hearing; my own laughter, in between gags. I am laughing. I mean, really? Is this actually happening. Yes, yes it was.

I grab Lalli out of her cage while Frodo sits at the screen door barking at every shadow, rabbit, rock, cloud that passes by. He is my guard dog, he just hasn't realized that specifiedshadow/rabbit/rock/cloud will not attack me . I am washing Lalli in the sink. I am tapping my foot to the beat of Frodo's barks, he does have good rhythm. I start to shampoo the little shit covered puglet, when my foot is no longer tapping. At this point, puglet tries to make an escape and jumps on me. I am now wet and covered in shit too. I am laughing harder. But this distraction wears off when I realize Frodo has vacated his look out post to go all Kujo on this little kid down stairs. I drop everything, Sorry little Lalli. The water is still running. IApparently I am too, down the stairs. I look at this kid, cornered and terrified on his bike. I tell him that I didn't think Frodo would bite him. His fear did not leave his face but instead became a little more intense. I then wonder who he is more afraid of; my little dog, or me, sopping wet, my hair dredded with dog hair and water, and me layered in shit upon more shit. I am mortified, but still I laugh. I then have to try and catch Frodo. He wants to play ring around the rosy with me and this kid. I finally win... Lalli has been howling for about 3 minutes now. I remember the water is still running. Awesome. I leave the kid who is now quite possibly traumatized for life and return to my shit home.

That really was the highlight of the whole event. I ended up cleaning the cage for an hour, Lalli ended up smelling like coconuts, and Frodo decided to get ferocious with his squeaky fox. I cleaned the house, and the smell left. But for some reason, I could not shake this happiness. I still laugh when I think about it. I could easily have been upset, and overwhelmed, disgusted, etc... Instead I was by myself bursting into fits of laughter.

If anyone would like to say that their dog(s) are not their children, ask them if they have ever cleaned up their pet's vomit, diarrhea (explosive or not), helped them eat, gotten up in the middle of the night only to love them until they fall back asleep. If they answer no, then maybe it is I that am crazy. At the end of the day when I have two beautiful baby pugs snuggling on either side of me, I cannot tell you the love that I feel and the happiness that swells from somewhere within. Whether or not they are my babies, I am certainly their mom.

mobile once again

2006-09-13T07:56:00.000-07:00

There is comfort in familiarity of the past. I am at Starbucks with my laptop. Not a specific Starbucks, but one of the many. I am getting acquainted with my new baby. Last evening unfolded with a man inquiring about the ad for my 1994 Honda prelude. It was the second time he will have looked at it. I have never had the experience of taking responsibility for the actual selling and handing over the keys of a car to someone else. In step with everything else in my life I feel as if I just made another leap into adulthood. I negotiated, he negotiated, an overall successful transaction. I was handed cash. In step with the promise I had made myself I went straight to the Mac store. I found it, the one. I got the black MacBook and am thrilled with it. I had an Apple about 8 years ago and have recently become more and more intrigued by their ability to anticipate the needs of its user. I may find myself outsmarted by a laptop. I eagerly await this challenge.

And here I am blogging before work. How fantastic!

Since the welcoming of the new puppy I have been up at 6 every morning. I was just using that time to get to work an hour early. My mornings, now, will take a very leisurely turn. A turn that is owned a little bit more by me then by what expectations are laid out before me. So here I am in a familiar spot, comfortable, and oh so mine. I anticipate that this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

I had planned to put whatever money was left unspent after the laptop purchase towards my tattoo fund. However, after everything was said and done, I received $1.16 in change. So for selling my car I got a kickass laptop, and a speck of water that will exist above my rib. It is impressive how far a dollar will stretch these days. :) Happy Wednesday! It sure will be for me.

Poem #2

2006-09-07T12:44:00.000-07:00

What I am beginning to understand about poetry is that each poem is just a riddle. The more layers, imagery, confusion that can be found in a line, a word, the better the poem becomes. It forces the reader to read the piece again and again. I kinda really dig it. It is harder for me than essayesque type writing; but it is also oddly comforting to try and figure out what it is that I actually am trying to say. Anyway, my second piece, I know you were waiting with baited breath. The fury of excitement beats around you. Wait no more my friend, here it is

The Cornfield

I open the curtain.
A gold wall gaps.

I pass.
Journey to the heart.

Peers planted,
towering stalks surround.

Companions found in solitude,
a world I ruled.

Righteous ruler;
a child, a daughter.

A maze of maize
made these memories.

Impending doom,
the stalks will fall.

Two tons of steel;
my kingdom it takes away.

Taadaa, Happy September!

A New Constant

2006-08-31T11:07:00.000-07:00

I am simply amazed by the tides of life; and the waves of change that wash over all of us. Recently I have been waltzing down memory lane, wondering how life would be different if...
I had to change that way of thinking because there is no future in yesterday. So I started wondering about life when:
I leave Arizona, for good
I am loved fully for who I am, not what I aim to become
I am the only one my nieces will confide in
I am all that my brothers have

These thoughts are all relative and wavy. Will I ever leave Arizona permanently, I cannot say. I am though, looking at opportunities outside this Grand Canyon State. My best friend is pregnant. I have no words for this news. She thinks that by telling me this beautiful news, it will bring me to her. For the first time I didn't argue with her; after all I am applying to grad schools in North Carolina.

That is another thing, I am applying to grad school. I made a decision of where I want to be in my life and what I can see myself doing. Ever since my first residency at Goddard I have wanted to teach there. With an MFA I can do just that. I can write and teach on a college level. This is what I want to do. I have been told that I could succeed in other areas, and I have often believed that I was not doing myself justice by pursuing these lucrative avenues. I see now, that I can have it all, by doing it my way. My achievements will be great, whether it is a short story that never sees the light of a printing press, a child, an impactful relationship with a student. These are all things that remind me that money is not all; and it certainly is not my driving force. Though, I do not live as if money was not important. This is an area that I aim to become more congruent in. I am proud of where I am. I have had some awesome experiences figuring out what it is that I am supposed to be doing. I am not sorry for taking many different paths. They were all the right path at the right time.

I now have two pugs and am reminded that all beings are unique. Little Lalli is certainly not the same as a Frodo. I wouldn't expect that. What amazes me is how unique they both are, and how uniquely they are both so obviously my dogs. I am happy with my life.

Consistently happy.

Rattlesnake Omens

2006-08-29T11:07:00.001-07:00

I stopped traffic this morning. Not in the, "hey look at me" way... But in the "wow, there is a rattlesnake crossing the street in front of me." He was about 3 feet long and I had no intention of running this guy over. Sure he strikes, and is poisonous, but can't people be just as venemous? It seemed as if the people who had to wait behind me had a little bit of this streak in them and had they been given the chance to strike at me they proabably would have. I didn't think their inconvenience was worth the life of a wild animal.

I was driving into the Mayo Clinic when this little creature presented himself to me. I was intrigued, I called my mom. She has this book, Animal Speak, it tells of the omens that certain animals hold. Though I expected a sort of lashing omen; I received an eye opener. Snakes represent the sense of smell. This alone was enough to make me stop, literally stop in my tracks, and listen to the rest of the words my mom spoke. She continued that rattle snakes in particular represent healing, and more specifically rapid healing. I believe my mom and I got simultaneous chills. There were words of blossoming creativity, and matters that health issues would be easily resolved. I was wondering if I heard her right. I was remembering that if it hadn't been for me that rattlesnake would not have gotten to the other side of the road alive.

I am reminded that sometimes it is important to slow down. We hear this enough in regards to life, but do we pay heed. I think not nearly enough. I was able to have a little bit of hope restored this morning. It is amazing what life presents if we take a moment and remember that this is a life after all. And a life should be lived, moment by moment.

Homework #1

2006-08-27T15:31:00.000-07:00

Ashtray
I used you.
Filled you with the dust of dreams,
my dreams,
her dreams.

I used you to use
me.
I was understood
when I tapped my insecurities
into your gaping mouth.

Never to be emptied
you filled up on empty moments,
lost time.
Notches carved into you,
adding to the lost minutes of my life.
Moments I willingly gave,
moments you will hastily takeaway.

A life of mine
I shared with a friend
over a casual smoke,
we paused
to resume
where we left off.

She and I
seperated
by life,
would connect easily over your hunger
miles apart.
You smiled your jack-o-lantern smile
at our secrets.

Damned we were
by your eagerness to be filled.
tales of laughter,
tales of tears,
were yours to bear witness.
I stopped seeing you
eight weeks
before she stopped seeing.

She stopped her life
and I wonder if she became
the ash we smoked
in your presence.

I miss you
like I miss her.

It burns and falls
away
only to be remembered
in those moments of insecurity.
Moments which I no longer hide
with a firestick and a container
to catch
the tears of my inhalations.

back to school

2006-08-25T16:29:00.000-07:00

Can't hold on
strong
enough

strong hold
on
everything

lights of the night
usher me
in

back in class
back in time
writing my mind

poetry attempt
marks
insecurity

greater than
maximum
security

chained and down
buried far away
i break

free

A Heartfelt Anniversary

2006-08-03T10:37:00.000-07:00

Today marks the one year anniversary of my grandfather, HB's, death. One year has gone by without silly arguments, trusted smiles, and fluttering eyelashes. His shadow is strong. I think of him daily. I remember some details of that day; but they do not linger like I thought they would. I thought when I would recall HB's passing I would automatically call up the images of the phone call informing me of his death, saying goodbye to his lifeless body, and yes, even what I was wearing. I can tell you that now when I think of his absence, that which resonates is the hollowness of a great life once lived. I no longer remember what I wore that day; and I do remember the phone call, and of course I remember seeing the body which at one point held a magnificent soul. Yet, those are not the memories that make me ache. What makes me ache is fear. I fear that I did not learn all I could have from him. I fear that my children will never know this man and that I will inadequately be able to teach them what he so eloquently taught me. Few people understood him. I think that was his way of weeding through people he didn't want to waste time on. He was never as careless with me as he could be with others. He was a tender grandfather with great love and solid loyalty. I was a very lucky granddaughter.

In ways I am comforted. Such as right now, it simply baffles me that it has been a year since this man was alive. I miss him but his absence does not seem as if it has been that long. Which to me means that in certain ways he is still living within me. I am lucky for that realization. I believe that my specificity has improved greatly. He taught me that word when I was 7. I would continue to grow up constantly being reminded how important it was for one to be specific. Not just for others sake, but one should never waste their words, breath and life saying things that have already been said.

He wrote letters to many people. At his memorial I met a man who had known HB for more than 50 years; only to have been in each other's presence a dozen times, and spoke on the phone even less. In an age where it seems impossible to think of how a relationship, a friendship could grow out of such parameters I am reminded of the simplicity and power that is found in a hand written letter. They corresponded weekly if not more; once receiving a letter from the other, each would immediately sit down and compose a letter and have it in the mail in time for the next pick up. I miss that sort of connectedness. I ache for it, like I ache for my grandfather. In mourning his loss; I have found myself more able to give way to my younger self, and put away parts of my childhood.

A dear friend of mine recently lost a grandparent and in words of comfort her sister told her that this kind of loss seems to be a rite of passage for those of us who were able to grow into adulthood with these octogenarians. What a gift, and what a loss, but again the greatness is what needs to be remembered. In the last weeks of his life my uncle was able to capture HB's songs, humor, and personality on a CD. I listen occasionally to remind myself of immortality, and what it means to be great; even if it is just in the eyes of a grandchild. When I remember my grandfather I am simultaneously reminded of my childhood. I could not ask for anything more sweet.

Evil Twins

2006-07-21T15:10:00.000-07:00

Everyone has a doppelganger; or so "they" say. I am in accordance with those who believe. But I am a rarity, for I have seen my doppelganger. If you are unfamiliar with this term, a doppelganger is someone who is your identical look alike. It is important to note that the word origin can be traced to Germany; where there is an addition to the definition. In its native language a doppelganger represents that of an evil twin; seeing your own could even be interpreted as an omen of death.

I found mine; but she hasn't found me. The irony is that we live 50 miles from each other; but in completely different worlds. My doppelganger leads me to believe that there is truth rooted in the idea of an evil representation of self. She currently resides in our federal prison. I am not aware of her actions that she participated in to land in that sort of hell; I just know that she is there. I saw here picture; 3 years ago. She was part of a female chain gang that was assigned to work at a local cemetery. Prisoners were to bury bodies of those who did not have enough money for a proper funeral. The picture shows my double, crying, wearing the cartoonish black and white uniform that is typical of a prisoner. Though I don't know what she looks like when she is not crying, she is a dead ringer for me when she is. That was not an intentional pun.

I like that my doppelganger is contained. Well, I guess I like to believe that she is. It has been three years since I saw her picture, my picture. Her sentence could be over. She could have escaped. Now that is a worrisome situation. I do not know why I felt compelled to write about doppelgangers, I guess I felt as if I should get the word out. If you see someone who looks like you, don't chase after them, they could be your doppelganger. They could be your evil twin; or worse, you could be theirs.

Cultural Defiance

2006-07-14T12:26:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking for a long time about tattoos and their meaning to me and to my life. I think of symbols and body modification and representing myself. I want a piece, I have wanted a piece since I began to get reacquainted with myself. I remember the overwhelming desire to stand for something; to have something stand to me as a reminder everyday of who I was and where I have come from. I remember this desire when I left Renfrew. I know this desire now. I do not believe I need to present an argument, after all this is my body. I respect others ideals on how my body should look, but if I listen to those ideals, how is that different than what I did to end up at Renfrew? How could something so beautiful take away from my beauty as an individual? I believe only in enhancement.

I find it greatly ironic the levels of cultural acceptance in body modification. I live in a city where it is not uncommon to change one's physical appearance; curves, silhouette, facial attributes. Not only is it uncommon it is revered. Yet, if I want to decorate my body because I am proud of my body and what is mine naturally, and I am looking to enhance my curves by lines of fluidity as opposed to saline pouches, I am being defiant. Well, then I praise my defiance, and those that know me will snicker in my defiant streak. I stand for things, but mainly I stand for myself.

I met with the artist that I am going to have the work done by last night. I walked away feeling not defiant at all. I felt as though this is the next logical path for me and my body. It is the only thing that made sense. I am exhilarated and I am scared, but I am ready.

Sick vs. Healthy

2006-07-11T18:07:00.000-07:00

I recently read a question in one of those silly "would you rather..." books.

Would you rather look healthy and be sick or look sick and be healthy?

Now this question was obvious to me. Of course I would rather be healthy. I found it curious though that I have received answers favoring both sides. I understand the desire to fit a certain aesthetic. I get it, but at the expense of your life? Maybe some of them took the question as the flu, would you rather have the flu but look healthy or look like you have the flu and be healthy? Even then I have a hard time excusing the desire to look better than to feel better. The other option that I have thought about comes from the possibility that some of these people have never been really sick.

I have been in and out of the hospital since I was a kid. If it wasn't my abnormally high cholesterol, than it was my earth rattling wheezes. If it wasn't a horrible ear infection then it was a horribly high fever that wouldn't break. I know hospitals, I know ER's. Well the newest problem (by new I mean the past 10 years) happens to involve my sinuses, all of them. Apparently they are full, 100% full. I have had some pretty tough sinus headaches in my life but I cannot tell you the amount of pressure that my head now exudes. Not only do I feel like my head will explode but that I will surely detonate everything around me, as well. I should have a WARNING:EXPLOSIVE sticker adhered to me at all times.

I had a rough surgery this past November, it was my 4th surgery. There were a lot of complications and I am obviously still feeling the effects. I still have a stent in my left sinus. I also now have a hole in my left orbital wall (the bone under your eye) that wasn't there before. I have the scar from where the iv pumped 2 liters of fluid in me when I lost more than that in blood. Needless to say I have gone looking for another doctor. I thought I had found one, until today. I waited 2 hours for an appointment that all I needed was for him to hand me a piece of paper to hand to the receptionist to schedule my now 5th surgery. Umm, okay, I could be over reacting, I am generally a patient person. However, he continued to go over the CAT scans with me that he had already talked about the last appointment. He hadn't gone over the notes from the last surgery, as a matter of fact he hadn't even requested them from my previous doctor. For the first time I am scared of being in the hands of a doctor. I had thought there would be no better place to be. Yet, this is my brain and my eyes that we are talking about.

I feel alone in this experience. I am not one to complain though I recently had it pointed out to me that I am not as good at hiding my frustration and pain as I once was. So here I sit asking you the next time you play that damn Would you rather game... Think about the exception`to the rule. You just may never know where you end up.

To your health!

Did I just sell out?

2006-07-10T19:57:00.000-07:00

So, I just created my myspace profile. I am not sure how I feel about it, yet. Thankfully, I don't need to make any major decisions about it immediately.

I want to be more connected right now, I crave a community that I don't have to constantly entertain. I have a hot/cold desire to get in touch with those that I spent my child and adolescent days with. I ache for the smells of the first morning of summer vacation: fresh cut grass, lilacs, and fruity pebbles. I miss the first days of high school when what was worn on the first day dictated your place in the popularity hierarchy; I have great style, but was never popular. I wonder what that means.

What I find most disconcerting about my creating a myspace profile is that while I will be electronically connecting to old friends, I will be missing real opportunities to live this life, my life. Can both actions be done? I am sure; but I am compulsive and obsessive, and above all I am a homebody. This combination does not bode well for me to do anything but become a myspace addict; an addict that will need more than a twelve step program to give up layout designs, groups, and high school alums, among other myspace staples.

Yet, after I have created my myspace page I am blogging; something I haven't done in a while. Maybe this myspace thing won't be so bad. After all, I get to see pictures of my beautiful sister, keep tabs on my fabulous roommate, and catch up with fellow goddard grads. I think there will be many surprises in store. And if not, nothing was lost.

The mechanical echo of suicide

2006-05-31T15:28:00.000-07:00

I am sad. In my head I feel broken. I miss my friend. I feel betrayed. I am supposed to believe that i could not have done anything for her. I have alluded to Kate in previous posts. The one who killed herself. I find myself apologizing when I speak about her. Who wants to share in my sadness. I feel like this is mine alone to bear. I wonder if that's how she felt. Her sadness was only her own. Was it an inability to trust her friends? Or is it my inability to trust myself that I am more to my friends than a sounding board. Maybe my inability to move forward or my inability to share this with anyone lies in my own self-loathing. Why can't I seperate her death from my problems? Am I making myself a victim again, or am I grieving?

I was trying to find Kate's obituary online last week and i stumbled across an article in Georgetown University's paper. The headline read, "second year law student found dead in home". It was such a cold article. I don't remember if it had her name or not; it did state suicide. I don't recall if it mentioned she was found hanging in her bathroom. Funny, because these are the images that I constantly recall. How can an article written in December make her death real to me today? It wasn't enough for me to speak to her friends, her sister; but an article found through search engine, Google solidified this reality. The line now between life and death is blurred through technology.

I found out about Kate's death via the message board on my friendster account. I thought we were better friends than that. I was assured later by her sister that it was simply a sad oversight that my new phone number hadn't yet made it into Kate's cell phone. This makes sense because I had emailed it to her just a couple of weeks before. I found Kate and I's mutual friends and found support through email. I would search every inch of Kate's profile to see if there were any clues that could have forshadowed this tragedy. All that was blaringly ironic was the little button that said, "Send Kate a Message Now" and that she had been signed on in the last 72 hours. Oh God it was still so fresh. I guess now it has been about 6 months and I still look at it once in awhile. In truth I am sure that I will look at it for as long as it remains on line.

I find that technology in this situation is comforting in one moment and haunting in the next. I am trying to seek constant answers to a question that will never be answered. When Kate took her life she took with her all the understanding that went along with her actions. The depth of pain is dizzying to me. Honestly, I don't know how I'm coping with it. I hurt, and sometimes when I find myself crying about weird things, I think in those instances I am trying only to find an excuse to mourn my friend.

I wish us both peace

the night i said goodbye

2006-05-17T15:54:00.000-07:00

I am trying something different. I am going to practice a little fiction. I need to explore this part of my writing. Thanks for understanding!!!

10:17pm
When I said goodnight to you I knew the curtain was dropping quickly on your life. I didn't think it was time for our show to be over. I begged for an encore, and you begged for peace. I should have listened to your heart but I could not hear it over my own. Your body is still warm beside me. But I know what's to come and I don't know if I can bear it. You told me to be strong and carry on in my life. I told you I would make you proud. I listen to your shallow breaths and I want to breathe for you.

12:20am
How do I let you go? What I mean by that, is how do I not go crazy without you? Now its my turn for shallow breaths. I should be the one dying; I am not strong enough for this. You were always the stronger one. How come you are leaving me? How can you do this to me? Why would you hurt me like this; all I ever did was love you. I hate you.

12:33am
I have to move around. I walk from the living room to the kitchen and around the coffee table you always hit with your shin. I remember hearing you swear under your breath, "God damn, son of a bitch, fucking table!". You used to have such a strong whisper. Now I read your lips when you try to speak. Again, I can't breathe. I know that I should be with you, laying with you. I know that you need me now more than you have ever needed anything in your life. And yet, I am unable to do anything about that. You wanna know the worst part about all of this, you understand. You get why I am not right next to you holding you. You know that more than anything it is breaking me not to be by your side. But I can't do it. Oh shit, I am going to be sick. What am I going to do without you? What am I going to do? I am losing my life too.

1:04am
I hear you crying and for a moment I am paralyzed. I wonder if this is it. I am frightened. I am not a little scared, I am terrified of what I am supposed to be doing right now. I was not meant to be with you. How am I supposed to comfort you when I cannot begin to acknowledge what is happening? You are dying and I am living. There is nothing right with that fact. There is nothing right in knowing that you are dying. I am rocking in my dark kitchen, our dark kitchen. The cat is under the table swishing his tail as if it were a pendulum. I count 5 swings and I get up. I am walking to you. I will be the man you think that I am.

1:49am
I lie beside you and hold your hand. I rub the ridge where your wedding ring used to fit. You lost so much weight we had to put it on a chain and hang it around your neck. I picked out that ring for you on the 1 year anniversary of our first date. It took me three more years to propose. You know this story already. I never told you though that I knew I would spend the rest of my life with you halfway through my chicken marsala that first night. And here we are, you are spending the rest of your life with me; it feels like the rest of my life is already spent. I beg God not to take you. I have never been a religious man but if there is something that can allow me to keep you a bit longer I will try.

2:28am
Your sleep comes in waves. I watch you open your eyes. I think you are checking on me. How fitting for you to worry about me right now. You were always the worrier. I used to tell you to let it go. Why can't I take my own advice? I hear hollowness in my old thoughts. I know that I said earlier that I hated you; but it is me that I hate. I am a weak man. I cannot let you leave but I cannot keep you here. I do not know what to tell Maddie and Joey. Oh my god, do not die on me. Please God, please God, please God...

3:18am
I am losing you. After everything, I am losing. I am not a bad man. You are the most beautiful woman; spirit and physical. My breath still catches when I see you. Your words have soothed me from the very beginning. We have lost a lot. I hear you tell the kids that we all have our own angels to guide us, show us, take us and hold us. You were my angel. You saved me and I cannot save you. I will hold you now.

3:57am
Your breathing is becoming raspy and you try to open your eyes. I speak to you now. I tell you that I will never love another like I love you. I kiss that spot behind your ear that always drove you crazy. I want to believe I saw a glimmer of a smirk. Most of all I want to believe in Heaven, I tell you I want to believe in you. You squeeze my hand. I assure you that I will be the best father to our children. I will make sure they have your kindness, after all it is your heart they have. I promise you that we will always be a family. I see a tear slide out of your closed eye. You can hear me... I break right now. Oh God, I love you. I say this to you over and over while I rock you. I sob into you. I do not want right now to end, no matter how painful it is. I am so frightened to take the next step. I am so frightened to say goodbye.

6:16
You died early Wednesday morning in my arms. I cradled you until I heard one of the kids downstairs. I looked up to see Maddie. She was standing on the other side of the room. I wanted to cry for my daughter, for my son. I wanted to cry for me. All I could do was cry for my wife that I held in my arms, whose light vanished long before it should have. Maddie broke the silence, she told me to stop crying. She said, "Daddy, mama is sitting upstairs on my bed and she told me to tell you to let go." She walked over to me, and put her hand on her mom's lifeless body. She said goodbye. It is not so easy for me. I close my eyes while you are still in my arms. I dream of you and I reach out my hand. You grab it, I can feel you holding my hand. Don't ever let go, i say again and again.

It's okay Daddy, I am here and I won't ever let go. My daughter is the first thing I see when i open my tired eyes. She has her mother's soothing voice. Joey is behind her standing with the strength of a man at the tender age of 11. I lay their mother down on her bed, and i pick up my kids. We sit there for a very long time trying to hold on to every fleeting second.

...in wonderland

2006-05-09T20:41:00.000-07:00

I caught myself writing about the ways I don't measure up; trying to make a good story out of it. I forgot about imperfection. In less than a week I forgot that I don't need to be perfect. I already cut my marionette strings, but the body never forgets. It is time for my fine line walking to become a bit smudged. I think too much, too many metaphors.

I watched Alice in Wonderland on Saturday night. It must have been at least 15 years since I had seen it last. I remembered watching it for the very first time. I was 4 and living on a farm with my mom and dad, as well as: Elliot, our goat; 16 cows;2 cats, Samson and Delilah; Hickory and Cassidy, our golden retriever and german shepard, repsectively. Oh yeah, there were 11 puppies mothered by Hickory and fathered by Cassidy. I learned about Alice and her cat Dinah the day that it became spring. It was the morning I woke up and all the trees had leaves on them. Just like that, overnight, it was spring. Alice's flowers were singing about a golden afternoon while I was weaving through the gold-flecked cornfields on my own afternoon. The caterpillar was questioning Alice on a mushroom while my mom and I would be picking mushrooms down the street. Not only did I remember the Cheshire cat, but I whispered goodnight to him every quarter. It is not just about the great memories during this time in my life. I had great feelings. The Mad Hatter reminded me of the joy that surfaced in my early years. I found my own definition of nostalgia. I find it in the way my eyes close and my head shakes softly; I find it in the way I catch my breath and I feel it in my small nod of appreciation for beautiful life moments. I nod in acceptance and appreciation for the many memories that ride the wave of nostalgia.

I can navigate this wonderland, after all, I created it.

Pugs Rule

2006-05-07T21:37:00.000-07:00

cool slideshow.

hodgepodge for 200, Alex

2006-05-03T18:12:00.000-07:00

I am listening to a new cd my mom got for me. The singer is Mindy Smith and I can tell I like her already. It is nice that my mom knows me so well. I also bought a new book today called Never Let Me Go; I want to read it right now. I am in a mood. One where I want to do everything and all at once. It is a feeling reminiscent of getting out of school for summer, that moment right when the bell goes off and you are free for three whole months. The options are swarming in front of me. I am just so tired right now. I had a horrible allergy attack this morning and it took a lot out of me.

However, right now is sublime, kinda like summer. I am drinking a summer brew by Sam Adams. I took a shower when I got home to wash the work funk off of me. I am anticipating my exciting night that will surely consist of Jeopardy!, reading, Lost, more reading, possible more writing. I really revel in my time. I am contemplating what to say and what to write; something, anything to keep you, the reader enchanted by my words. I am at a loss. Or I am at a gain. I am okay and happy therefore not soaking up the drama that I generally create in my wake. It is nice for once to appreciate my boorish tendencies. I really like saying I am okay. I am okay. hehe, it makes me smile. What a comfort to know that I am okay (haha I said it again) alright I am rambling in silly directions. Time to watch Jeopardy!

goodnight alistar

2006-05-01T18:07:00.000-07:00

I was reminded today of life. I awoke fresh from a dream where there were many large deer, with antlers and all. I also had a couple hazy glimpses of baby fawns. I walked this morning careful not to step on the tiniest, fresh yellow flowers between the just sprung dandelions. I would have assured you that these were not here yesterday. May 1st, hello life and beauty and spring, blossoms, blue skies, hummingbirds, bees, and shady patches. Hello Life!

I read something this morning about saying goodbye to parts of myself. It is okay to bury parts of me. We shed our old skin with old pain. I do not need to hold on any longer to these negative ideas, images, thoughts about myself. It reminds me of this poem called, A Dark Garden, by Brian Andreas from Story People:

I once had a garden filled with flowers that grew only on dark thoughts
but they need constant attention & one day I decided I had better things
to do.

In this idea of shedding the negative and accepting the positive I was reminded for the second time today about life. It is this life, and only this life, that we have. I have a finite amount of time to make a difference in my life. I do not want to be a good person, I want to be great. This search cannot be one of mediocrity. Sometimes I expect that it will be an easy journey. I am then reminded in the most powerful ways that this life is not to be negotiated so easily. Today's sign came from my friend Kate's best friend in childhood and in life. Kate took her own life in November. It remains as tragic and shocking as it was in those first few moments upon finding out. She was my love. I have never met Jean, nor have I ever spoken with her. It is through this miraculous web of technology that I can be contacted by friends of Kate. Anyhow, she reached out to say hello and to hopefully touch someone who has been as crippled by this loss as she has. She succeeded. It is through Kate's death that I know I must choose life; every day. There was a time in my life where I was bound by my inability to make a choice. In order for me to continue surviving and thriving, I must remind myself daily that I have a choice. If it is necessary for me to examine the root of Kate's actions, that she felt she had no choice, to remember that pain and crises is temporary, than I will visit that painful memory everyday for the rest of my life.

My dad put Alistar down today. And life is celebrated once more through its passing. A chapter closes. I miss him already. Is it awful to say though, that part of me will miss most of what he symbolized: my innocence, my blossoming, my set-backs and my growth. I was a teenager when I greeted Albo. I say goodbye to him as a woman on the other side of her mid-twenties.

Today's overwhelming theme was life, and the celebration of it. I am not to forget to celebrate. My wish is that you won't forget either.

little bros, poppo's, and albo's

2006-04-30T12:36:00.000-07:00

I am an older sister to two little boys. Ayden is 3 and a half. Amari is sixteen months. I watched them last night as my stepmom took my dad to the hospital. Amari was asleep by the time I got there, so was Ayden; but he would be waking up soon. I was worried about my dad; but it is also a hard thing to get upset when you create such a wall of denial. My dad has been this stable rock for my entire life; good or bad I could go to him. Last night he was sick; and I think he was probably a little worried. My dad doesn't "do" sick. It does not fit into his schedule. It was one of the very few times I could consider my dad vulnerable. However, that thought was quickly fleeting. It was my dad; he is tough,he's going to be fine. It is so strange to grow up and not realize you are really growing up. I mean as children, we all have this responsibility to care for our parents when they need us. I just find it crazy that I am already at that age, where the idea is not as preposterous as it once appeared.

"Hi manda panda," Ayden interrupted my thoughts with his sleepy drawl. He had my heart and he knew it. I gave him a big hug.
"How bout some dinner please, manda panda?" Melting as he spoke I squeezed him a bit harder and started making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
"Where is mama?" he asked. Kids are smart and intuitive; much more than anyone gives them credit for. I told him that Dada was sick and that his mom took him to the doctors. It was apparent that was all the information he needed since he turned immediately back to his sandwich. We played for a little bit. Ayden played the guitar for me. We watched the Wiggles. It was past 9:30 at this point, way past Ayden's bedtime. I tucked him into his big boy bed, and shut off the light. The fan was on slow, causing a comfortable caress of air. I put the gate up so he could not run out of his room.

I turned on the television and queued up the TiVo record. Amari's cries are heard through the monitor and I think he will fall back asleep. He doesn't. I get up and go into his room only to find Ayden standing right next to Amari's bed saying, "get up amari? get up?" I tell ayden to leave amaris room. I hold Amari and calm him down. He falls asleep in seconds. Ayden apparently knows how to climb the babygate. We play this game on and off all night.

Pam (my stepmom) gets home shortly after 11pm. We talk for a little bit about my dad and how he is doing. We figured that they would probably admit him at this point. We all try and get some sleep. I wake up this morning to find out Alistar, the dog I brought out here when I came to go to college, is taking a turn for the worse. He was diagnosed with cancer a couple weeks ago. He has these tumors on his body that are exploding. He is marking the white carpet and tile floors with blood spots. The stains don't bother anyone; the bleeding does. I pet and hug the big albo. He is such an amazing dog. I hate death and dying. I am tired of its hovering over so many things that I love only to take them away quickly and silently.

I pick my dad up from the hospital. He calls me his pride and joy; I am beaming. I am glad I did not see him in a hospital gown. I think that may have been too hard. It is hard enough seeing the plastic bracelets around his wrist. The nurses congregate to say goodbye. He always has driven the women crazy. I am glad he is okay but I am sad that the spell of the insurmountable father is gone. Pam, my dad and I sat around back at the house hugging and loving Albo. I sit now hoping that wasn't the last time that I would ever see him. I am heartbroken. It seems a lifetime ago that we were together; my dad, albo and I. Almost 8 years ago. My dad is now remarried with children. I am still here and Alistar is becoming a shadow of himself. Time keeps its continuum. We all hold on to those thoughts of innocence, and purity, hope and renewal. We all just hold on.

a compromise

2006-04-27T20:01:00.000-07:00

The reality has not settled; I am winning. We are winning. I think it may have taken 6 years to be the healthiest thus far. Or more accurately I am the healthiest I have been in 6 years. These are not coincidences. I sit right now in control of my life. I came to the table and we came to a compromise without the compromise being either one of us. I am excited about being responsible for myself first and learning what I like. How fun to believe and trust in one's self. Bear with me folks, I have lived my life as if I were a second class citizen. I am no more. Frodo, my pug, is pushing his dinnerstained muzzle into the back of my neck. It is time for me to have my dinner. I am really at ease, and happy with the outcome of tonight. Thank you!

writing as a snapshot

2006-04-27T10:49:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking...a lot. My thoughts range from self, to others, through windy roads of memories. I think about actions, both taken and passed over. I think about writing and why I write. My mind flickers at this thought. Right now it seems more important than ever to answer this question. I write to search for meaning in my thoughts. While being a thinker of thoughts :) there are a lot of things to sort through; it seems writing is the perfect filter. If I get bored writing about it then it's probably a waste of my time to be the least bit concerned about it. So here I am; trying to figure out what is important. I think I have got the basics. It is important for me to believe in myself and my actions, trust myself, and listen to the sometimes hidden messages that can be uncovered only through writing. It is important for me to write, everyday. Whether or not, this is to improve my craft; whether or not I write here or in my journal, I must continue to write. I find my truth in my own words. I believe me when I write. So I ask again, Why do I write? I write to understand and to be understood. I write so I can photograph my temporary reality. My feelings are fleeting and always changing, as are my situations. I learn from the temporary hopelessness as well as the temporary hopefulness; either way I continue to learn. I am whole when I am writing.

accidental shortcuts

2006-04-26T11:30:00.000-07:00

I cried for you this morning. I cannot tell if they were tears of disappointment, frustration, shame, or loneliness. I suspect they were a little bit of everything. I miss you. I thought we could really do this. I found my passion and you lost yours, the cruel reality of irony. We walk forward; not together, or side by side, we walk on.

I dream of you every night. You love me, you leave me, you hate me, you kiss me. I wake up in the morning confused and tormented and so much in love. I am sad. There is no other way around it. I keep thinking of going back and changing things; if I could, but would that have made any difference? Somehow I think I just found an accidental shortcut. I would have traveled the road with you.

I do not even know if I can call it a break up. I don't know what to say other than I lost you. And I hate to lose. But I need to be loved; passionately, deeply, unconditionally. I feel that your love for me has waned in all of those areas. Watching you sort your love for me was one of the most painful things I have witnessed. I want you but it can't be at the cost of me. You knew that before I did. You always know.

I want to hold on; but I can't convince you to take part in something you are not sure you want to do. I can't afford the unknowing. I came to you asking, but we both know there was more demanding. I hid it behind my tear stained cheeks, and my many apologies. I disguised my demands, but they were met with devastating consequences.

This is so hard for me to write, I question every word as if you will read it. You may, you may deliberately not. I am asking you to believe in passion, and love, and that undying sense of longing that at one time or another you had for me. Can you bring that back? Would you want to?

Maybe later I will talk about me. I just miss you and can at least focus some of my energy here instead of bombarding you with partially thought out emails.

Back to life

a blog of imperfection

2006-04-24T20:41:00.000-07:00

I am getting older; my priorities are shifting. I would prefer to come home and write for hours instead of hitting the local bar. The once intimidating white screen provides a challenge. A challenge that I am up to. I like this letting go of perfection. I have become comfortable with this "non-perfection" experiment. I think I am actually doing everything better. I am taking more risks. I am making my life more livable to me. I am going to be proud of my life. All of this because I let go of people's expectations of me, and chose to focus on my own expectations. I never realized just how influenced I was by everyone and anyone's opinion (stated or assumed). I assure you that it was not a healthy influence. It was like hearing my negative self-talk in stereo. I set myself up to fall. What changed?

I am tired...of convincing people I am okay. You see, I played the victim for so long and sometimes old behaviors creep in and I will grasp for the comfort of self-inflicted misery. Though I am standing on my own now. I am a survivor. I will thrive. It is my turn to believe in something. Right now I choose to believe in the power of me. I robbed myself of the strength that was inherently mine; again I set myself up to fail. I am giving it back; I will stand up for what I believe in. I am accepting responsibility for my success and my mistakes. I choose to stand here and face my life. I have stopped running. I am tired of being sick.

I have arrived

Not my bad luck

2006-04-22T09:12:00.000-07:00

I write with you in my mind. You sit quietly perched atop 6 years of memories. My memories, our memories, your hearthache and mine; my memory doesnt lie. I think of today and you are far away playing games, and celebrating the end of bachelorhood for a good friend. I am here writing of you and wishing for me to be just a little bit more myself. I stand by the idea that I am much better alone, I operate well when it is just me. I have a hard time with relationships, not just ours. I have put my girls in some pretty hard places as well.

As you sit and gaze upon these memories that have shaped me, shifted me, broken and rebuilt me; I ask to be understood. I will fight for what I want. I will be strong when I should know better. I should not have entered in when you were not ready. I focused so much time trying to make you ready that I lost my way. I still fought and strained, just for all of the wrong things. I should have fought for us in the longrun not in the shortrun. I understand now. Do you?

The mirror in Heathers bathroom just fell off the wall. I called my mom to make sure that the bad luck is not mine. Since i was not in the room nor was I responsible for it, the bad luck is not mine, she says. I hang up the phone, I am still nervous.

How to paint...

2006-04-19T19:55:00.000-07:00

I have been painting for about 8 months. I don't paint landscapes, nor do I paint seascapes. Abstract paint baffles me, as well. I prefer to paint people...into corners. Here is your guide to paint like a pro in just 20 steps.

1. Come to an understanding that you have decided that there is one person you want to spend the rest of your life with.
2. Know this person; it would be preferable if you had a history with this person that was maybe a little tumultuous.
3. Really, really know that this is it and you are willing to sacrifice anything to make it work
4. Now call up this person, and reintroduce yourself into said persons life.
5. Make sure they are either going through a breakup, just went through a breakup, or are debating a breakup
6. Really be there for them, listen to their heartache (there will be some, they couldn't always love you)
7. Rally yourself for the kicker
8. Simply say, " I am ready"
9. At this point hopefully they exclaim in elatedness "oh thank god!"
9a. If they do jump for joy then you should simply stick to drawing; also please reference #2. Did you fib about the "tumultuous" factor? yep, i thought so
Okay for the rest of the Matisse's out there, keep up. On to the new number 9.
9. "umm, ready for what?" let the brushstrokes begin. Soft and slow, remember be gentle with the brush...
10. You tell them exactly how you feel and how you have never been understood by anyone like this person understood you.
11. As we move into the more intense feelings i suggest choosing your colors wisely; fall in love, believe in it, live in it, and begin to have expectations, though said person needs to take some time due to #2 and #5
12. Disregard their requests, and use a bigger paintbrush to make wider strokes.
13. Believe the love that you feel really has to be the same thing opposed person is feeling, they are obviously lying to themselves.
14. Start paying attention to the details; constantly give this person your power, how else can you show how serious you are. Do you want them to be disappointed in any decision you make? Simply choose not to decide.
15. Take a step back from your painting, do you notice what's missing? Blame the other, again, said person. Remember you gave them all of the power. You are powerless.
16. Seek refuge in person's arms. Again we go back to the painting with small, but intense strokes.
17. Ask for opinion regarding painting; after all, you are painting this picture for them, you want to make sure they like it.
18. If they hesitate for even half a second, offer to paint something, anything else. You never want to disappoint.
19. Continue these steps until you become invisible and referenced person can no longer do anything because he/she is standing in a corner with wet paint all around.
20. Regard your work with great clarity

*About the author*
Amanda, who has come off her most recent work, claims her painting has proven to be life changing. She recommends you put down the paintbrushes and skip to #20. What did you paint? Did it destroy you or other; or both? Remove your blinders and start to listen to that actual needs of your partner. If you are lucky enough to have a person that you have survived #2 & #5 with and can smile and love each other, find a way to talk and to cherish. Amanda lives in Scottsdale, AZ with her pug and her regret for having ever picked up a paintbrush.

Sentences of no relation

2006-04-18T21:01:00.000-07:00

I have a bloody nose. I ate a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. My inhaler tastes like the fresh smell of cement. I can't focus. I have a papertowel hanging out of my nose. I like the sound of Shawn Colvins voice. The hippopotamus no longer squeeks. I have an Easter basket that i cant look at. I dreamt that I went crazy last night. I get a new car this week. I was a lot more excited last week. I am much more challenged this week. My little brother gave me a tattoo. I wore a tee shirt yesterday that used to belong to my grandfather. I miss my grandfather. Lindsay Lohan really does have a sexy voice. Apparently you cannot focus either if you are keepig up with my randomness. My eyes are tired, my body is lonely, my head wants to cry. I am writing right now, and i have been writing in my journal multiple times a day, I am in training. I am abandoning my search for perfection. I am allowing myself to work at an average level. Nothing special. I am doing this so I can just get back to writing. I am teaching myself how I write. I am learning to be specific. I am learning;always learning.

I asked questions today and stood up for myself not in defense but in offense. I will win my life.

Yes, the tissue is still hanging out of my nose.

picking up the crumbles

2006-04-17T21:34:00.000-07:00

First is shock. Things freeze, the world falls away; I can't breathe.

The next thing I know my phone is ringing, my alarm is going off; shit, my taxes are due. It is my friend's birthday and her gift is on my dresser; must remember to call her and sing "happy birthday". Life walks on. As much as I want to hold on to my mistakes; i have to let them go. They are no longer my burden to bear. They are simply a part of my past. I am questioning everything about me, no longer settling for the unknown, the "I don't knows". I am better than that. I owe myself an explanation. If I cannot give him the answers I better damn well be able to give myself the answers.

So I write, and I write about today, because the possibility of tomorrow hurts. But today was good. I did it. I got the job done. I went to work, I laughed, and I didn't die of shame or embarassment. I didn't even choke on my regrets. Instead, I focused on why I am ashamed, embarassed, and find myself in so many situations I end up regretting. I foresee much focusing in my future.

And in case you were wondering, I did get my taxes in. Even before midnight.

heart out of service

2006-04-16T21:06:00.000-07:00

I cannot write my heart. This is new for me. It is broken, my heart; not my writing. I am not supposed to be thinking about my heart. I am supposed to be doing a fearless moral inventory. How can fearless be in my vocabulary when everything right now is so frightening. I am so frighteningly alone. And I did this. I am alone because i thought my love for someone else would save me. Instead in a night(or many nights and days) it was destroyed. At what point did it become so hard to accept myself, to love myself, to offer myself forgiveness? Why is there so much self-hatred and so much self destruction in all that I do? Why do I always find myself asking these questions? I dont care to ask questions any longer. I want the change. I want to believe in myself. What would that be like? I want to know, and I want to know it from experience. But right now I am crumbling.

Loss and Gain

2006-04-03T19:04:00.000-07:00

I whispered a goodbye to my grandfather on a Wednesday after he had already passed. I screamed for a dear friend to give me her life back on a Tuesday. Thursday morning I called my Mum Mum; Grandad told me I missed her, she left in her sleep. I have heard death comes in waves of threes and sevens. I ache for the truth to lie in trines.

I have thought about death my entire life; my death, the cessation of my being. I could never consider the loss of my family. I never had to. August 3rd, 2005; that was the first time I was faced with this surreal pain. With my grandfather's passing, I felt loss, my own loss, yet there was a sense of renewel. I would miss him but he led a strong life and let go on his own terms. His dying on a Wednesday surprised me, he always said, "some Tuesday". I wanted to believe he was referencing his own death; foreseeing that one unknown. But it turns out that was the day my friend Kate would take her own life, 14 Tuesdays later. I can and have said goodbye to HB, but it is Kate's absence that brings a terrible ache and the complete inability to feel anything but her absolute absence.

Kate and I met in the JFK airport on our way to China. She told me that her inner magic 8 ball said our soulmate status was "decidedly so". How does one argue with that logic? I never did. Kate saved my life in China; and I couldn't save her. We both made choices, we both had the chance to choose. I chose my existence on my terms, she chose to live on in memories. I think she felt safer there. Can I blame her for her choice? No, not at all; but I miss my friend.

My grandmother passed away March 2nd. I sat on my floor and cried. I pitied myself. I want to say I was strong and I took it with grace. But I didn't. I cried for my losses, and the way they affected me. I cried for the way that all of these deaths hurt me. I cried because I did not know how to comfort myself and I didn't know anybody who I could go through the depths of my feelings with. The tide of emotions could have drowned me on their own. Though at some point I realized that it was not me who died. I kept living. I keep living.

These losses echo loudly everyday for me. It is true there is sadness in my life, but it is equally true that I have never appreciated my life like I do today and will tomorrow. I still cry, but I laugh now with smiling eyes. I suffered as everyone around me has. I realized in moments to victimize myself that death is the one pain every human being will encounter. In my effort to distinguish myself through my pain, I had to love myself for my humanness. I am not so different.

Though I feel a loss that I will carry with me for the rest of my life, I came to understand a truth that may have saved my spirit. I will never be alone. As a person I seek a community, truth be told that is why I am here. Hello, my name is Amanda and I am human. Welcome to my blog!