His eyes are shifting back and forth. Like maybe he's torn between looking us in the eyes and breaking our hearts and running out of town, to another hospital, another time, a place where the Karsnak legacy is nothing more than an old wife's tale. A story (some one else's) mother tells to make sure their kids eat right, exercise, take all their medicine.
It's been awhile since he pulled the papers out of the filing cabinet. Laid them on the faux-wood table. Looked your sister straight in the eyes, "Your mother is dying." Just like that. Like of all the options in his arsenal, he thought pulling the band-aid off quickly was the best one.
The conversation moves around you, without you. For you the time passes silently. Table. Wall clock. Sister's hands. Chair. Chalkboard. Aunt's mouth. Table. table. No one is looking at the papers. Blinding white spots right outside of everyone's peripheral vision. "Okay," he breathes in raggedly. "Are you okay?"
"Okay?" you question as the moment hangs in the air, unfinished. Your head tilts to the left, imploring, "Wait...what's the question again? Is what okay?"
He chuckles. No, it's not a chuckle. It's just a way to push more air out of his lungs, to free up space for something else. Take up more time. "You. Are you okay?"
You want to scream, "Of course not. How could I fucking be okay?" How could you possibly be okay ever again. And it hits you, like a whirlwind. Like a hurricane blowing through your life. Nothing will ever be okay again.
The whole room is waiting for an answer. Even the table. Even the wall clock, with its mocking tick. You are down to the wire and those are 17 seconds you'll never have again. But this is for your mother. This has to be right. You wait for him to meet your eyes. "No. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my dying mother."
Outside, your sister turns to you, mere shades away from angry, "What's going on with you? Huh?"
You want to say that you don't know. But you do. Because you've prayed the same prayer everyday since you turned 17. And now? Now, God is shaping you, piece by piece. Digging into your weaknesses so you can strengthen them. Fear can be conquered. Truth can be taught. Too immature? There's a fix for that; there's a room childhood can't survive. If you didn't trust God, this would be substantial proof that He doesn't exist. But you do. He does. He is shaping you. And when He is done, you will be ready for anything.
28 July 2007
15 July 2007
Godless Morality
One of my primary beliefs in life is that a difference exists between morality and ethics. Morality being a God-defined structure of rules while ethics is a socially-defined structure.
I've been spending a lot of time on this concept, researching ethics and morality, looking for all the knowledge I can find so my conclusions can be complete. My driving for in this is to discover whether or not we can exist in a Godless society. Can we ever have a seperation between the church and the state?
Thomas Jefferson was trying to establish a perfect government when he wrote those words. And the first thing he did was take God out of the equation. But, even by society's rules people are governed by a need for something inexplicable. Eudaimonia. Plato called it "Universal good." Aristotle named it "happiness." The theory states that when you ask a person what they desire, then why, and continue along that line of questioning, the person will eventually stop on the phrase, "to be happy."
But what is becoming increasingly confusing for me is what "happiness" means to social law. I am looking at these answers as a way to broker peace. World peace being the form happiness takes on in society.
My answers only find more questions. If people aren't looking to God for judgement, do they have to find it somewhere else? If everyone has different, even warring, ideas of what "happiness" is, can we all ever be happy at the same time?
So far, it seems like the founding fathers of the USA had the best solution yet. If it's going to halt progress...let's just not talk about it.
One of my other primary beliefs is the best means to an answer is asking all the questions. So, I'm wondering if any out there has any ideas on "World Peace." And, yes, I'm being totally serious. Peace in our time and all that jazz.
I've been spending a lot of time on this concept, researching ethics and morality, looking for all the knowledge I can find so my conclusions can be complete. My driving for in this is to discover whether or not we can exist in a Godless society. Can we ever have a seperation between the church and the state?
"I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature should 'make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof,' thus building a wall of separation between Church & State."
Thomas Jefferson was trying to establish a perfect government when he wrote those words. And the first thing he did was take God out of the equation. But, even by society's rules people are governed by a need for something inexplicable. Eudaimonia. Plato called it "Universal good." Aristotle named it "happiness." The theory states that when you ask a person what they desire, then why, and continue along that line of questioning, the person will eventually stop on the phrase, "to be happy."
But what is becoming increasingly confusing for me is what "happiness" means to social law. I am looking at these answers as a way to broker peace. World peace being the form happiness takes on in society.
My answers only find more questions. If people aren't looking to God for judgement, do they have to find it somewhere else? If everyone has different, even warring, ideas of what "happiness" is, can we all ever be happy at the same time?
So far, it seems like the founding fathers of the USA had the best solution yet. If it's going to halt progress...let's just not talk about it.
One of my other primary beliefs is the best means to an answer is asking all the questions. So, I'm wondering if any out there has any ideas on "World Peace." And, yes, I'm being totally serious. Peace in our time and all that jazz.
17 June 2007
I wonder what she thought as she was leaving. I wonder if she was scared, at peace, or maybe none of these. Maybe everything the doctors said was true. Maybe she was completely out of it, unconscious and unaware. Underneath so much morphine that she didn't know she was dying. But I don't believe that. I believe in a different kind of consciousness, a soul. A kind of awareness that the physical body, however failing, cannot take away. I believe. I believe and believe and it hurts just as much now as it did then.
After my mother's first coma she woke up and she said to us, "I was trying to tell you. I was trying to tell you all I wasn't dying. But you couldn't hear me."
That is the story of my mother's life. Always trying to tell me something but I couldn't hear her. You cannot tell anything at all about a person by watching them die.
After my mother's first coma she woke up and she said to us, "I was trying to tell you. I was trying to tell you all I wasn't dying. But you couldn't hear me."
That is the story of my mother's life. Always trying to tell me something but I couldn't hear her. You cannot tell anything at all about a person by watching them die.
04 June 2007
Writers Block
When I get writer's block it's not usually because I lack characters or plotlines, time, any of those. I find myself lacking the will to write. It is an overwhelming black spiral that wraps around my body and tightens, choking out every part of me that wants to go on.
It's not writer's block at all; it's a burning desire to not even breathe anymore.
I feel insignificant. And not in a "still feel small when you stand beside the ocean" way. I often resort to writing my name over and over again.
Like maybe that will mean something. Maybe centuries from now after my body has become dirt all over again and even the people that remember my name have come and gone, someone just as insignificant to the world as I was will find those thoughts, scattered pages all over the globe, and wonder, "Who was this girl? Was she special?"
It's not writer's block at all; it's a burning desire to not even breathe anymore.
I feel insignificant. And not in a "still feel small when you stand beside the ocean" way. I often resort to writing my name over and over again.
Like maybe that will mean something. Maybe centuries from now after my body has become dirt all over again and even the people that remember my name have come and gone, someone just as insignificant to the world as I was will find those thoughts, scattered pages all over the globe, and wonder, "Who was this girl? Was she special?"
23 April 2007
The difference between living life yourself and watching other people do it.
The reason I don't sign on for many poetry readings is this: poetry is personal. Prose comes to me in many forms, many ways: character mapping, plotting, mostly I begin with didactic purposes. Something that needs to be said, shown, experienced, and I go from there.
But poetry, for me, has always just happened. I can tweak little things, prospective, age, tense, but it will never be the perfect crime. My fingerprints are all over my poetry. The name of the game this week is "Commentary." I'll be exploring the many different ways I write my prose every day this week. But today, we're going to explore how my poetry happens to me.
This piece is called, "Revelations at Friendship & Fairmont." The title is an intersection my bus stopped at every morning on my way in to high school. It was written over the course of my senior year.
Poetry requires a lot of prep work, as well as a good deal of post-work. I don't write and serve. My poems are written in pieces, then cut into smaller pieces and puzzled back together. The first part of "RaFF" I wrote,
But poetry, for me, has always just happened. I can tweak little things, prospective, age, tense, but it will never be the perfect crime. My fingerprints are all over my poetry. The name of the game this week is "Commentary." I'll be exploring the many different ways I write my prose every day this week. But today, we're going to explore how my poetry happens to me.
This piece is called, "Revelations at Friendship & Fairmont." The title is an intersection my bus stopped at every morning on my way in to high school. It was written over the course of my senior year.
Poetry requires a lot of prep work, as well as a good deal of post-work. I don't write and serve. My poems are written in pieces, then cut into smaller pieces and puzzled back together. The first part of "RaFF" I wrote,
"We used to laugh, we used to love.
We used to live page by page.
Flipping past the bad times
for the Sinatra-immersed car rides
&Sunday brunches of our worlds."
It is a direct reference to the years after my parents divorce. Drives back and forth to Harrisburg to visit my mother. Brunch with Dad after he picked us up at the end of "every other weekend."
"We used to sing,
pajama pants flailing about
radios pumping behind us
hairbrushes poised,
in front of ice cream-soaked lips."
Another reference, this time to the weekends my sister and I spent with our mother, dancing on the beds so we'd be at eye level with her.
"Little girls live forever,
like war heroes, and elephants:
they will never forget."
like war heroes, and elephants:
they will never forget."
Both of my grandfathers used to say that: "Little girls live forever." Now, I can see it for what it was: a way to console themselves. They both lost a son at a young age. My Uncle Georgie died when he was just 10. And my father's brother Ronnie, when he was 28.
This was a poem for my sister. It could never be anything else. And when I look at it, even now, I laugh at the foreshadowing.
"We have changed, even though we hate to
we have become our greatest dreams
and our worst nightmares
not always beautiful, or bold, or perfect
but ourselves just the same."
we have become our greatest dreams
and our worst nightmares
not always beautiful, or bold, or perfect
but ourselves just the same."
My sister hates change. We both do. I suppose it's a product of divorce, of too much change too fast for too long. But if our formative years taught us nothing else, they taught us that hating something is not a good enough reason not to do it.
When I looked at what I'd written I marvelled at how my anger had fallen away. The hours I'd cried in the car because I didn't want to see my mother or, adversely, because I didn't want to go back to Pittsburgh with my father. "Our memories," I thought, "have become anecdotes. Funny stories we can pull out at weddings and funerals." So I called them that.
"until these champagne-toast
anecdotes were all we had."
And, just so no one else could forget that I can't forget, I put in the heartbroken pieces too.
"until the one day life
became about all the right notes
became about all the right notes
&we didn’t have them anymore.
We were choking on the dream,
We were choking on the dream,
we were dying just to live
hearts broken & packed into boxes
with old pajama pants
then kissed quiet."
I added the next part because of a conversation my sister and I had constantly. She believes that one of two things will happen to children of divorce: 1,they will be more determined to make their marriage/family work and thus have an overwhelming focus on family or 2, they will have no desire to marry/have children at all. I put in allusions to the families we watched blossom in our play room. Then I put in slightly darker themes because, yes, we did grow up.
"we were kissing boys with kool-aid stained smiles
[Closed mouth] Like Lucy kissed Desi.
Like Wilma kissed Fred. Like Barbie kissed Ken.
Until one day we just stopped.
Mouths fell open, Kool-aid became tonic,
Our cheeks blushed with gin. Hands moved south,
&we ran out of pages to flip."
That brings us to the last piece I wrote for this poem, one line, my revelation at the end of all this digging into my past:
"Nothing can be beautiful
until it can be understood."
I wasn't angry. I was older, wiser, different, but our lives shaped our souls, and they are good souls, with kind hearts and motives that will get us far. So you cut your losses, and you let them fall away.
The poem in its full and final form is below. If their are any in depth questions or, if there's a favorite piece (poetry OR prose) you'd like to see commentary on, you can comment here or e-mail me at Jackleen.Rebottini@gmail.com
Revelations at Friendship and Fairmont
Little girls live forever,
like war heroes, and elephants:
they will never forget
instead, they get forgotten themselves;
hearts broken & packed into boxes
with old pajama pants
Little girls live forever,
like war heroes, and elephants:
they will never forget
instead, they get forgotten themselves;
hearts broken & packed into boxes
with old pajama pants
then kissed quiet.
We used to laugh, we used to love
we used to live page by page
flipping past the bad times
for the Sinatra-immersed car rides
&Sunday brunches of our worlds
until these champagne-toast
until these champagne-toast
anecdotes were all we had.
We used to sing,
We used to sing,
pajama pants flailing about
radios pumping behind us,
hairbrushes poised in front of
ice cream-soaked lips
ice cream-soaked lips
until the one day life
became about all the right notes
became about all the right notes
&we didn’t have them anymore.
We were choking on the dream
--dying just to live
We were choking on the dream
--dying just to live
kissing boys with kool-aid stained smiles
[Closed mouth] Like Lucy kissed Desi.
Like Wilma kissed Fred. Like Barbie kissed Ken.
Until one day we just stopped.
Mouths fell open, Kool-aid became tonic,
Our cheeks blushed with gin. Hands moved south,
And we ran out of pages to flip.
It turns out nothing can be beautiful
until it can be understood;
until it can be understood;
We have changed, even though we hate to
we have become our greatest dreams
and our worst nightmares
not always beautiful, or bold, or perfect
but ourselves just the same.
we have become our greatest dreams
and our worst nightmares
not always beautiful, or bold, or perfect
but ourselves just the same.
10 April 2007
There is, within each of us, the potential and power to improve the world for ourselves and our familes.
The U.S. Senate begins debate today on a bill that would expand the number of stem cell lines that are eligible for federally-funded research. Research that would take us giant leaps ahead towards cures for diseases such as Parkinson’s, diabetes, spinal cord damage, leukemia (and other cancers), stroke, as well as many severe birth defects. Cell therapy is also used in experiments to graft new skin cells to treat serious burn victims, and to grow new corneas for the sight-impaired.
As a member of a democracy, you are not just a citizen, you are a participating member of the government. It is your responsibility to ensure your needs are met, your principals are valued, your ideals are supported. Anything less than active participation in the decisions that so clearly affect your life, your quality of life, is simply negligent.
I am asking you all to take a moment to read the information below, and if you agree, let your local Senator know. [For those around me, this is either Casey or Spector, and I have included the information at the bottom.]
The two ammendments to the Health Services Act going to the floor for debate as of today: S.5 and S.30. The Stem Cell Research Enhancement Act (S.5) would expand the number of stem cell lines currently eligible for federally-funded research to include:
-Cells donated from invitro clinics that were not required (the excess embryos left after successful fertility treatments.)
These would be embryos that had never been implanted and would otherwise be discarded.
The lawful owner of the unused cells would donate with written, informed consent, and receive no incentive (financial or otherwise).
The second bill, S.30 would require the Secretary of Health and Human Services to develop techniques for the isolation, derivation, production, or testing of pluripotent stem cells rather than totipotent cells.
This bill is a small step forward. And, while I will not begrudge even the baby steps, it needs to be understood that this bill does not open half the doors S.5 does.
Totipotent cells have not yet undergone ANY specialization. This means they can give rise to any type of cell including those that form placenta and supporting tissues that are the catalysts for human development.
Pluripotent cells have undergone degrees of specialization, they can form any type of cell the would appear in the body but NOT the catalyst cells that may control the cellular outcome of pluripotent cells. We could be missing out on an opportunity to observe, in a sense, when good cells go bad.
Most of you already know, my mother passed away last June due to complications from her diabetes. She died believing in a cure that she never got to see. I choose, every day, to continue to believe, to continue to fight towards that cure. For me, it is a personal struggle, one I have entered willingly for the long haul. But even the most basic support helps:
The five minutes it would take you to call your Senator. The two minutes it would take to copy the ADA's form letter and mail it to the provided addresses. The ten minutes it took you to read this letter and say to yourself, "I can make this better: I can help give hope to the millions of people dying needlessly from diseases we have the potential to cure."
Decisions get made by people who show up; it doesn't matter how intelligent you are or how much you care if you never do anything about it. You've gotten this far. You've taken the time to learn the facts. So why not take just a little more time, make a little more effort, and change someone's world?
Sen. Specter (202) 224-4254, E-mail Sen. Specter
Sen. Casey (202) 224-6324, E-mail Sen. Casey
President Bush (202) 456-1414
ADA FORM LETTER
Dear [Decision Maker],
As your constituent and someone affected by diabetes I urge you to vote for the Stem Cell Research Enhancement Act (S. 5).
Diabetes is a serious disease and it has no cure. According to many leading scientists, stem cell research has great potential for a cure or improved treatments for diabetes. The hope this research provides is critical to me and the nearly 21 million American children and adults with diabetes."The Stem Cell Research Enhancement Act" would expand the current federal policy on embryonic stem cell research by allowing federal funding for stem cell lines derived after August 2001. This bill places clear and strong ethical requirements on what stem cells could be used for research. A similar bill passed the House in January with strong bi-partisan support, and I hope you will do your part to make sure this bill passes the Senate with a veto-proof margin! Embryonic stem cell research has already produced important advances. Continuing and expanding this research would provide the hope of a cure to patients with type 1 diabetes and improved treatment options for all people with diabetes.
Again, I hope you will support the Stem Cell Research Enhancement Act (S. 5).
Sincerely,
[Your Name]
[Your Address]
[City, State ZIP]
MAILING ADDRESSES
The Honorable Robert P. Casey
United States Senate
383 Russell Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C. 20510-3804
The Honorable Arlen Specter
United States Senate
711 Hart Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C. 20510-3802
Regardless of your action from this point forward, I sincerely thank you all for your time and attention to this matter.
God Bless,
Jackleen
The U.S. Senate begins debate today on a bill that would expand the number of stem cell lines that are eligible for federally-funded research. Research that would take us giant leaps ahead towards cures for diseases such as Parkinson’s, diabetes, spinal cord damage, leukemia (and other cancers), stroke, as well as many severe birth defects. Cell therapy is also used in experiments to graft new skin cells to treat serious burn victims, and to grow new corneas for the sight-impaired.
As a member of a democracy, you are not just a citizen, you are a participating member of the government. It is your responsibility to ensure your needs are met, your principals are valued, your ideals are supported. Anything less than active participation in the decisions that so clearly affect your life, your quality of life, is simply negligent.
I am asking you all to take a moment to read the information below, and if you agree, let your local Senator know. [For those around me, this is either Casey or Spector, and I have included the information at the bottom.]
The two ammendments to the Health Services Act going to the floor for debate as of today: S.5 and S.30. The Stem Cell Research Enhancement Act (S.5) would expand the number of stem cell lines currently eligible for federally-funded research to include:
-Cells donated from invitro clinics that were not required (the excess embryos left after successful fertility treatments.)
These would be embryos that had never been implanted and would otherwise be discarded.
The lawful owner of the unused cells would donate with written, informed consent, and receive no incentive (financial or otherwise).
The second bill, S.30 would require the Secretary of Health and Human Services to develop techniques for the isolation, derivation, production, or testing of pluripotent stem cells rather than totipotent cells.
This bill is a small step forward. And, while I will not begrudge even the baby steps, it needs to be understood that this bill does not open half the doors S.5 does.
Totipotent cells have not yet undergone ANY specialization. This means they can give rise to any type of cell including those that form placenta and supporting tissues that are the catalysts for human development.
Pluripotent cells have undergone degrees of specialization, they can form any type of cell the would appear in the body but NOT the catalyst cells that may control the cellular outcome of pluripotent cells. We could be missing out on an opportunity to observe, in a sense, when good cells go bad.
Most of you already know, my mother passed away last June due to complications from her diabetes. She died believing in a cure that she never got to see. I choose, every day, to continue to believe, to continue to fight towards that cure. For me, it is a personal struggle, one I have entered willingly for the long haul. But even the most basic support helps:
The five minutes it would take you to call your Senator. The two minutes it would take to copy the ADA's form letter and mail it to the provided addresses. The ten minutes it took you to read this letter and say to yourself, "I can make this better: I can help give hope to the millions of people dying needlessly from diseases we have the potential to cure."
Decisions get made by people who show up; it doesn't matter how intelligent you are or how much you care if you never do anything about it. You've gotten this far. You've taken the time to learn the facts. So why not take just a little more time, make a little more effort, and change someone's world?
Sen. Specter (202) 224-4254, E-mail Sen. Specter
Sen. Casey (202) 224-6324, E-mail Sen. Casey
President Bush (202) 456-1414
ADA FORM LETTER
Dear [Decision Maker],
As your constituent and someone affected by diabetes I urge you to vote for the Stem Cell Research Enhancement Act (S. 5).
Diabetes is a serious disease and it has no cure. According to many leading scientists, stem cell research has great potential for a cure or improved treatments for diabetes. The hope this research provides is critical to me and the nearly 21 million American children and adults with diabetes."The Stem Cell Research Enhancement Act" would expand the current federal policy on embryonic stem cell research by allowing federal funding for stem cell lines derived after August 2001. This bill places clear and strong ethical requirements on what stem cells could be used for research. A similar bill passed the House in January with strong bi-partisan support, and I hope you will do your part to make sure this bill passes the Senate with a veto-proof margin! Embryonic stem cell research has already produced important advances. Continuing and expanding this research would provide the hope of a cure to patients with type 1 diabetes and improved treatment options for all people with diabetes.
Again, I hope you will support the Stem Cell Research Enhancement Act (S. 5).
Sincerely,
[Your Name]
[Your Address]
[City, State ZIP]
MAILING ADDRESSES
The Honorable Robert P. Casey
United States Senate
383 Russell Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C. 20510-3804
The Honorable Arlen Specter
United States Senate
711 Hart Senate Office Building
Washington, D.C. 20510-3802
Regardless of your action from this point forward, I sincerely thank you all for your time and attention to this matter.
God Bless,
Jackleen
08 April 2007
Just
At the end of the day, I just want to matter.
I just want to feel like I matter to the world.
To the people in it.
I just want to feel
I just want to feel like I matter to the world.
To the people in it.
I just want to feel
04 April 2007
If you are wrong about what, you are also wrong about why and how.
Point of view is one of my favorite tools I get to use as a writer. I don’t consider it “point of view” as much as I consider it “voice.” You can get away with a lot more in first person than you can in third. Second person is tricky because the slightest push too far can isolate your audience. For example: everyone wants to understand why Hitler did what he did, but hardly anyone wants to feel like they’re having a heart-to-heart with the guy.
Run was written in 3rd person limited for the first 6 chapters. Then, I heard the song “White Balloons” by Steven Ashbrook on Veronica Mars. There was a line,
“& the world keeps spinning
on and on around you”
It was something I was sure Ella’s character would notice about life. It was her internal monologue, her voice. Suddenly, I wanted to hear what she sounded like in 2nd person. But, because I’m OCD: in considering a point of view change, I had to try them all.
THIRD PERSON LIMITED
Every time she breaths, the paper gown crunches in her ears. She can’t get away from it. She wants to. Wants to float up, into the fluorescent lights and watch some other girl live some other life.
She wants to wake up and believe in a world that doesn’t read like an episode of Law & Order.
THIRD PERSON OMNISCIENT
The girl is perfect. She is perfect and looking up at him with those soft, perfect eyes, begging him to love her.
“Please, please. I know you can—”
He can. He does. “I love you. I love you. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou,” he mumbles until the words blur together and become something else entirely. Background music to the best night of their lives.
She watches his eyes fall away from her own and starts to panic more urgently. He isn’t listening. He doesn’t hear her, or understand and. She gives a rugged push to his chest and bellows with everything in her, “STOP!” The force of the push sends her back into the floor with a loud crack. Her next words come softer, more desperate, “Please. Please don’t do this.”
FIRST PERSON
Right foot. Left foot. I am keeping my eyes on the prize. I know I can make it. I will reach the red lighted letters of the ER before I bleed out. My hand shoots forward, into the dark. I hope it looks reckless. I hope that, if people are looking, they are seeing a girl teetering on the edge. They are telling themselves I am dangerous, probably high, or at least trigger-happy. The gun is in the bag. The gun is in the bag. The gun is—my knees give out and I hit the concrete instantly. “Eyes on the prize,” I tell myself but it’s no use. I can feel his sperm crusting into my skin. Becoming a scar, a stain that won’t bleach out. I’m never going to make it. I am never going to survive this.
Third Person Omniscient was no good for me. I had already chosen tense: present continuous. And it was just too hard, too emotional for me, to write two completely separate minds at the exact same time. [It’s the same reason I can’t watch 24.]
First Person was too scary for me. Perhaps because the lines between real life and fiction blur so often for me. [The scene in Closer where Julia Roberts’ character admits her affair to her husband literally made me vomit the first time I watched it.] The words that came to me while I wrote in first person were too blunt, too cold, too calculating. Too much tension to be a good story. Still, I set the concept of first person aside in case I needed it.
Third Person Limited was comfortable, and it worked, kept distance between the character and the real world. But the more I thought about it, the less I wanted distance. I wanted people to read the story like they were living it. I mean, that’s why I had chosen present continuous tense.
SECOND PERSON
You fumble around the words and inhale. Exhale. You know it doesn’t sound at all like you believe them. These people. These people want to believe that hell is a proportional response and they haunt themselves with images of brimstone and eternal fire; it keeps them from the big sins and eases their minds about the minor ones. But you are haunted by more than imagination. You are haunted by cold, hard truth.
You won’t close your eyes anymore until you have to. Until sleep is dragging you under and the physical pain has dulled to an itch, easy to ignore. Hell is. Hell is. Like truth is, and God is, and you are. Hell is real, and it is waiting for you at the close of every eyelid. It will take every moment it can get. A blink here, a daydream there, the whispers of your classmates as your head lulls onto your desk in the middle of Social Studies.
I chose 2nd person for one reason only, really. It was more poetic than any of the others. Second person is like relaxing after a long day at work. Easing into my favorite chair and surveying the landscape. “Ah…home again, home again.”
Run was written in 3rd person limited for the first 6 chapters. Then, I heard the song “White Balloons” by Steven Ashbrook on Veronica Mars. There was a line,
“& the world keeps spinning
on and on around you”
It was something I was sure Ella’s character would notice about life. It was her internal monologue, her voice. Suddenly, I wanted to hear what she sounded like in 2nd person. But, because I’m OCD: in considering a point of view change, I had to try them all.
THIRD PERSON LIMITED
Every time she breaths, the paper gown crunches in her ears. She can’t get away from it. She wants to. Wants to float up, into the fluorescent lights and watch some other girl live some other life.
She wants to wake up and believe in a world that doesn’t read like an episode of Law & Order.
THIRD PERSON OMNISCIENT
The girl is perfect. She is perfect and looking up at him with those soft, perfect eyes, begging him to love her.
“Please, please. I know you can—”
He can. He does. “I love you. I love you. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou,” he mumbles until the words blur together and become something else entirely. Background music to the best night of their lives.
She watches his eyes fall away from her own and starts to panic more urgently. He isn’t listening. He doesn’t hear her, or understand and. She gives a rugged push to his chest and bellows with everything in her, “STOP!” The force of the push sends her back into the floor with a loud crack. Her next words come softer, more desperate, “Please. Please don’t do this.”
FIRST PERSON
Right foot. Left foot. I am keeping my eyes on the prize. I know I can make it. I will reach the red lighted letters of the ER before I bleed out. My hand shoots forward, into the dark. I hope it looks reckless. I hope that, if people are looking, they are seeing a girl teetering on the edge. They are telling themselves I am dangerous, probably high, or at least trigger-happy. The gun is in the bag. The gun is in the bag. The gun is—my knees give out and I hit the concrete instantly. “Eyes on the prize,” I tell myself but it’s no use. I can feel his sperm crusting into my skin. Becoming a scar, a stain that won’t bleach out. I’m never going to make it. I am never going to survive this.
Third Person Omniscient was no good for me. I had already chosen tense: present continuous. And it was just too hard, too emotional for me, to write two completely separate minds at the exact same time. [It’s the same reason I can’t watch 24.]
First Person was too scary for me. Perhaps because the lines between real life and fiction blur so often for me. [The scene in Closer where Julia Roberts’ character admits her affair to her husband literally made me vomit the first time I watched it.] The words that came to me while I wrote in first person were too blunt, too cold, too calculating. Too much tension to be a good story. Still, I set the concept of first person aside in case I needed it.
Third Person Limited was comfortable, and it worked, kept distance between the character and the real world. But the more I thought about it, the less I wanted distance. I wanted people to read the story like they were living it. I mean, that’s why I had chosen present continuous tense.
SECOND PERSON
You fumble around the words and inhale. Exhale. You know it doesn’t sound at all like you believe them. These people. These people want to believe that hell is a proportional response and they haunt themselves with images of brimstone and eternal fire; it keeps them from the big sins and eases their minds about the minor ones. But you are haunted by more than imagination. You are haunted by cold, hard truth.
You won’t close your eyes anymore until you have to. Until sleep is dragging you under and the physical pain has dulled to an itch, easy to ignore. Hell is. Hell is. Like truth is, and God is, and you are. Hell is real, and it is waiting for you at the close of every eyelid. It will take every moment it can get. A blink here, a daydream there, the whispers of your classmates as your head lulls onto your desk in the middle of Social Studies.
I chose 2nd person for one reason only, really. It was more poetic than any of the others. Second person is like relaxing after a long day at work. Easing into my favorite chair and surveying the landscape. “Ah…home again, home again.”
03 April 2007
Then, I'm gonna stop doing jello shots and move out of the RV.
It has been suggested to me that I take my blog from amateur to professional.
As it is now, I log into Blogger, type my post in the window, change the font to Georgia, and publish. I don’t proof read, as I’m sure most of you can tell. And most of the time my posts are cathartic ranting instead of anything substantial.
In this new version of “Unified Theories” there would be spell check. And…purpose. Posts would be planned, and mapped. They would be thought out like my prose.
It’s just something I’m playing with. [I’m waiting to see if there’s anyway I can get someone to pay me for the extra hours it would take to make this more than an hobby.] Right now, as far as I can tell, my blog is read by some friends, people that stumble in either through AIM, or one of the websites I belong to. This undertaking would be (mostly) to further my career, a means of getting my name out there. My posts would take on a more single-minded goal.
I’m saying that I would talk about writing more than anything else. Not to say that I wouldn’t still write about personal aspects of my life. Who I am is a large part of what I do, what I write…why I write.
But still, it would be a change. It would be a challenge. Now comes the part where I decide whether or not I’m up for it.
As it is now, I log into Blogger, type my post in the window, change the font to Georgia, and publish. I don’t proof read, as I’m sure most of you can tell. And most of the time my posts are cathartic ranting instead of anything substantial.
In this new version of “Unified Theories” there would be spell check. And…purpose. Posts would be planned, and mapped. They would be thought out like my prose.
It’s just something I’m playing with. [I’m waiting to see if there’s anyway I can get someone to pay me for the extra hours it would take to make this more than an hobby.] Right now, as far as I can tell, my blog is read by some friends, people that stumble in either through AIM, or one of the websites I belong to. This undertaking would be (mostly) to further my career, a means of getting my name out there. My posts would take on a more single-minded goal.
I’m saying that I would talk about writing more than anything else. Not to say that I wouldn’t still write about personal aspects of my life. Who I am is a large part of what I do, what I write…why I write.
But still, it would be a change. It would be a challenge. Now comes the part where I decide whether or not I’m up for it.
26 March 2007
Semantics
The editing is done on the first three chapters of Run. At least, that's what they tell me. The thing is? I still feel like arguing. The pages are not good enough. Too much prologue not enough pins-and-needles. I wish the book was finished and not being written in an assembly line. I wish I could finishing thinking new thoughts before they were pulling me back to the old ones.
But the worst part is: I'm writing a novel about a girl that could have been me and isn't. A girl that could have been lots of girls, and is.
They are writing a book they can market. Believe it or not, there aren't many points where those paths cross eachother.
Not every person's gut lurches when they think about a 13 year-old girl being pinned against a discolored carpet by the skin of her throat. I read that she can feel the rough bristles edging into her bones and my back goes rigid. "Get her out of there," I think. "Not again. Not again." And panic builds, my heart races but other people just read the lines. They just keep skimming the pages, waiting for the crescendo.
Writing for other people is distinctly different--harder--than writing for yourself. I write what I need to picture the scene in my mind. And then, they hand back the pages and say, "I didn't see it." Or, "I saw too much. It's just. Too much." It's nothing like being an English major was. All "That's so!great" and "OMG, I totally got that imagery!" The best and brightest from highschool lit mags worldwide feeding eachother's delusions.
For my publisher, the emphasis is on the nine rigid fingers pressing down on her collarbone, the ones leaving the bruises. But for me the harrowing part is the right thumb, relaxing into her breast. Like it's easy. Natural. A fluid line of motion instead of brute force, and fear. Like that tenth finger doesn't even realize the 118 lbs struggling up against it.
But the worst part is: I'm writing a novel about a girl that could have been me and isn't. A girl that could have been lots of girls, and is.
They are writing a book they can market. Believe it or not, there aren't many points where those paths cross eachother.
Not every person's gut lurches when they think about a 13 year-old girl being pinned against a discolored carpet by the skin of her throat. I read that she can feel the rough bristles edging into her bones and my back goes rigid. "Get her out of there," I think. "Not again. Not again." And panic builds, my heart races but other people just read the lines. They just keep skimming the pages, waiting for the crescendo.
Writing for other people is distinctly different--harder--than writing for yourself. I write what I need to picture the scene in my mind. And then, they hand back the pages and say, "I didn't see it." Or, "I saw too much. It's just. Too much." It's nothing like being an English major was. All "That's so!great" and "OMG, I totally got that imagery!" The best and brightest from highschool lit mags worldwide feeding eachother's delusions.
For my publisher, the emphasis is on the nine rigid fingers pressing down on her collarbone, the ones leaving the bruises. But for me the harrowing part is the right thumb, relaxing into her breast. Like it's easy. Natural. A fluid line of motion instead of brute force, and fear. Like that tenth finger doesn't even realize the 118 lbs struggling up against it.
24 March 2007
Second Hand Goods
We used to spend all day at the batting cages. Hitting pitch after pitch and making each other laugh through the cages. You never let me stand inside the fence with you. Not since that time I leaned in over home plate, "I love you." And the ball nailed me in my hipbone.
We used to recite tired old jokes to each other during car trips when we got bored. "What's the guy's name on first base?"
"No, What's on second."
"I'm not asking you who's on second."
"Who's on first."
"I don't know."
"He's on third; we're not talking about him."
We could do the whole routine. I try it every now and again with my friends but none of them know anything past "Who's on first?"
We used to go every where, one place right after the next. My pick, then yours. You always let me pick first.That's how I ended up with so many shoes that summer and you still needed a new tennis racket. You wanted to teach me golf but I was too stubborn to learn anything new. You wanted to show my the stars but I wouldn't leave the city without an itinerary.
When we fought, I was harsh and demanding. In the end, I ruined you. You told me that once. That I had ruined you for other girls. And I laughed, but secretly I was proud. I had at least one person that would always remember me.
I do not believe that our joy or our pain end with our physical life. I believe that those that kill themselves live out their pain in their after life. I'm not sure it's a permanent thing, but I do believe it's something they have to face. I also believe that I put you there. I saw the pieces of you that were already broken and I didn't fix them.
Isn't that it's own crime? Seeing suffering and not doing anything to ease it? I am terrified that none of my good deeds are not going to be redeeming enough to fix the things I put you through. The things I walked away from because I had too much of my own pain. I am scared that God is going to ask me why I did not drop my change into more empty coffee cups, or offer more soaking wet strangers rides home after class. I am afraid God is going to say, "Every time you shut out one of My children, you shut Me out as well. Why didn't you want Me in your life?"
Even now, in your death, I am haunted by your presence in my life. I wished you away so far that you moved cross country. And when that wasn't far enough, you left life. Even now, you aren't far enough away. I hate myself for wishing you weren't happy without me. I should have told you I forgave you. I should have told you that despite my tragic flaws and how much I hated you at the end, I always loved you. Always. And I feel betrayed because you told me once that we "didn't do endings."
But then, I guess we don't. Because you are gone. Forever. For good. And here I am, remembering, thinking, daydreaming. About how things would be if...
We used to recite tired old jokes to each other during car trips when we got bored. "What's the guy's name on first base?"
"No, What's on second."
"I'm not asking you who's on second."
"Who's on first."
"I don't know."
"He's on third; we're not talking about him."
We could do the whole routine. I try it every now and again with my friends but none of them know anything past "Who's on first?"
We used to go every where, one place right after the next. My pick, then yours. You always let me pick first.That's how I ended up with so many shoes that summer and you still needed a new tennis racket. You wanted to teach me golf but I was too stubborn to learn anything new. You wanted to show my the stars but I wouldn't leave the city without an itinerary.
When we fought, I was harsh and demanding. In the end, I ruined you. You told me that once. That I had ruined you for other girls. And I laughed, but secretly I was proud. I had at least one person that would always remember me.
I do not believe that our joy or our pain end with our physical life. I believe that those that kill themselves live out their pain in their after life. I'm not sure it's a permanent thing, but I do believe it's something they have to face. I also believe that I put you there. I saw the pieces of you that were already broken and I didn't fix them.
Isn't that it's own crime? Seeing suffering and not doing anything to ease it? I am terrified that none of my good deeds are not going to be redeeming enough to fix the things I put you through. The things I walked away from because I had too much of my own pain. I am scared that God is going to ask me why I did not drop my change into more empty coffee cups, or offer more soaking wet strangers rides home after class. I am afraid God is going to say, "Every time you shut out one of My children, you shut Me out as well. Why didn't you want Me in your life?"
Even now, in your death, I am haunted by your presence in my life. I wished you away so far that you moved cross country. And when that wasn't far enough, you left life. Even now, you aren't far enough away. I hate myself for wishing you weren't happy without me. I should have told you I forgave you. I should have told you that despite my tragic flaws and how much I hated you at the end, I always loved you. Always. And I feel betrayed because you told me once that we "didn't do endings."
But then, I guess we don't. Because you are gone. Forever. For good. And here I am, remembering, thinking, daydreaming. About how things would be if...
13 March 2007
Who is dying and What are they dying for?
"Life doesn't mean anything if death has no purpose."
"Correct."
"I mean--"
"Those are twin phrases, B. no purpose and lacking meaning? The same."
"I'm trying to tell you that we suffer for a reason."
"Oh fuck OFF. You suffer like 14 year-old girls suffer when their older brother's friends don't think they're sexy. I'm not going to discuss God with someone that hasn't experienced enough of life to know Him."
"That's some pretty solid judgement from your non-judgemental new leaf."
"Just. Answer this for me: what purpose have you given your death and what purpose has that given your life? Or did you do it the other way around? Living before you were dying? Living like you were dying?"
"Correct me if I'm wrong but, three years ago, you said that "Live like you are dying" is actually a vocation, a call to live like the Kingdom of Heaven is ours and we are going to leave this life for a more permanant, eternal one."
"I did say that."
"Then don't ask what I'm dying for. I'm dying for that."
"No."
"What the hell?"
"We die for ourselves, B. Eternal life, that's all about God."
"Correct."
"I mean--"
"Those are twin phrases, B. no purpose and lacking meaning? The same."
"I'm trying to tell you that we suffer for a reason."
"Oh fuck OFF. You suffer like 14 year-old girls suffer when their older brother's friends don't think they're sexy. I'm not going to discuss God with someone that hasn't experienced enough of life to know Him."
"That's some pretty solid judgement from your non-judgemental new leaf."
"Just. Answer this for me: what purpose have you given your death and what purpose has that given your life? Or did you do it the other way around? Living before you were dying? Living like you were dying?"
"Correct me if I'm wrong but, three years ago, you said that "Live like you are dying" is actually a vocation, a call to live like the Kingdom of Heaven is ours and we are going to leave this life for a more permanant, eternal one."
"I did say that."
"Then don't ask what I'm dying for. I'm dying for that."
"No."
"What the hell?"
"We die for ourselves, B. Eternal life, that's all about God."
02 March 2007
10 things I've learned about myself this year
1.] I'm no longer any good at being impulsive. "But we'd just...buy a ticket at the airport? Without four weeks of planning? I don't think I can do that."
2.] I would rather start walking home and have several buses pass me by than stand around waiting for a bus.
3.] I read books with "The biggest words ever in really little letters" about "stuff that bores most people to tears. You know what's worse? I think you like it."
4.] I do like it.
5.] I make plans at the beginning of the week thinking, "I'll be able to sleep between work and class. I won't be too tired. I can get 20 hours out of a day."
6.] I can't. And my friends are always the last to know. "So...we aren't going?" "Are you...asleep? In my chair? At 3 in the afternoon?"
7.] I can hold a grudge like nobody's business.
8.] I do want my own family. Husband, children, the works. I just don't know how to want it well.
9.] The person I am the angriest with is myself. (I forgive. I just don't forgive me. I'm supposed to know better. I think that maybe I hold myself to my father's expectations and everyone else to mine.)
10.] My expectations? Everyone's human. Flawed. Deep grooves and scars all over that we can't erase or ignore. It's ugly, hideous. And it makes us absolutely beautiful. I don't expect anyone to be more than human (flawed.ugly.scarred.absolutely perfect.). Cause that's just asking to be disappointed.
2.] I would rather start walking home and have several buses pass me by than stand around waiting for a bus.
3.] I read books with "The biggest words ever in really little letters" about "stuff that bores most people to tears. You know what's worse? I think you like it."
4.] I do like it.
5.] I make plans at the beginning of the week thinking, "I'll be able to sleep between work and class. I won't be too tired. I can get 20 hours out of a day."
6.] I can't. And my friends are always the last to know. "So...we aren't going?" "Are you...asleep? In my chair? At 3 in the afternoon?"
7.] I can hold a grudge like nobody's business.
8.] I do want my own family. Husband, children, the works. I just don't know how to want it well.
9.] The person I am the angriest with is myself. (I forgive. I just don't forgive me. I'm supposed to know better. I think that maybe I hold myself to my father's expectations and everyone else to mine.)
10.] My expectations? Everyone's human. Flawed. Deep grooves and scars all over that we can't erase or ignore. It's ugly, hideous. And it makes us absolutely beautiful. I don't expect anyone to be more than human (flawed.ugly.scarred.absolutely perfect.). Cause that's just asking to be disappointed.
15 February 2007
White balloons disappear into the blue.
"If it hurts, it's supposed to and the world keeps spinning on and on around you..."
You tell yourself you're okay. You tell yourself--you tell yourself that you can breathe. In, then out, then in again. You're fine. Fine. And you're sick of people saying otherwise. Even if your chest feels like there's a huge rock on it, pressing into you. Cutting into the soft tissue of your lungs.
Even if your dreams just went from visions of your dead mother to visions of your own death. A quiet drawn-out affair...everyone around you is sad, missing you already sorry you'll miss out on so much life. But you aren't sad, you tell them, because you get to see God, and more importantly, your mother, and Papap, and Kurt Cobain. You tell your sister it's okay that you won't have marriage and children and growing old because you never wanted it anyway. And then it's all too personal. It's all too much and you can't--breathe. Just breathe. When you wake up, gasping, your first thought is that if you die in bed your sister will find you. You have to keep breathing.
Except when you don't. Except when you fill the tub up with water and just lay there, looking up at the ceiling, listening to the bass of your step-brother's guitar. There used to be a radio in the bathroom but it went into your mother's hospital bed months ago and never came back out. Like so many other things. So many pieces, floating off the walls of those tiny cubicles. You wonder how many people were broken in those rooms. You wonder if going back means collecting the pieces you left there...if maybe you can be whole again.
You wake up gasping and your first thought is that if you're found dead, naked, in your bathtub, your father will never hear the end of it. How hard is it to keep breathing anyway?
You don't close your eyes. Not until the pain is searing and the nausea is flooding over and you have to because there's no other way. You don't like being haunted, not at all. It's nothing like your goth phase promised it would be. When your eyes close, you only ever see yourself anyway, so what's the point? There you are, hair matted to your head, inches thicker than you used to be. And when did you stop seeing yourself? When did you stop looking in mirrors, and windows, and what are you so afraid to see? You try to tell yourself you'll be okay. You tell yourself you are okay. Because you are. Because sooner or later that rock is going to get lighter.
You never forget to breathe. You never pick up your phone hoping that it's her or put on her winter coat just to breathe her perfume. And you certainly never wonder how heaven could be real when her idea of heaven is all the little things she was forced to leave behind, Pitt games and cuddling and good books. Frank Sinatra on the radio and talking to her sisters on the phone.
You never question it. Never wonder where she is if all that is still here. Except, of course, when you do.
You wake up screaming and your first thought is that if you died walking across the street, or falling off a ladder, or breaking up a gang fight, those would all be perfectly reasonable ways to die.
Your second thought is that you shouldn't be searching for reasonable ways to die. You should be focusing on your breathing. On how perfectly fine you are. Fine.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
"They say it's okay to break down. And the world keeps spinning on and on around you."
You tell yourself you're okay. You tell yourself--you tell yourself that you can breathe. In, then out, then in again. You're fine. Fine. And you're sick of people saying otherwise. Even if your chest feels like there's a huge rock on it, pressing into you. Cutting into the soft tissue of your lungs.
Even if your dreams just went from visions of your dead mother to visions of your own death. A quiet drawn-out affair...everyone around you is sad, missing you already sorry you'll miss out on so much life. But you aren't sad, you tell them, because you get to see God, and more importantly, your mother, and Papap, and Kurt Cobain. You tell your sister it's okay that you won't have marriage and children and growing old because you never wanted it anyway. And then it's all too personal. It's all too much and you can't--breathe. Just breathe. When you wake up, gasping, your first thought is that if you die in bed your sister will find you. You have to keep breathing.
Except when you don't. Except when you fill the tub up with water and just lay there, looking up at the ceiling, listening to the bass of your step-brother's guitar. There used to be a radio in the bathroom but it went into your mother's hospital bed months ago and never came back out. Like so many other things. So many pieces, floating off the walls of those tiny cubicles. You wonder how many people were broken in those rooms. You wonder if going back means collecting the pieces you left there...if maybe you can be whole again.
You wake up gasping and your first thought is that if you're found dead, naked, in your bathtub, your father will never hear the end of it. How hard is it to keep breathing anyway?
You don't close your eyes. Not until the pain is searing and the nausea is flooding over and you have to because there's no other way. You don't like being haunted, not at all. It's nothing like your goth phase promised it would be. When your eyes close, you only ever see yourself anyway, so what's the point? There you are, hair matted to your head, inches thicker than you used to be. And when did you stop seeing yourself? When did you stop looking in mirrors, and windows, and what are you so afraid to see? You try to tell yourself you'll be okay. You tell yourself you are okay. Because you are. Because sooner or later that rock is going to get lighter.
You never forget to breathe. You never pick up your phone hoping that it's her or put on her winter coat just to breathe her perfume. And you certainly never wonder how heaven could be real when her idea of heaven is all the little things she was forced to leave behind, Pitt games and cuddling and good books. Frank Sinatra on the radio and talking to her sisters on the phone.
You never question it. Never wonder where she is if all that is still here. Except, of course, when you do.
You wake up screaming and your first thought is that if you died walking across the street, or falling off a ladder, or breaking up a gang fight, those would all be perfectly reasonable ways to die.
Your second thought is that you shouldn't be searching for reasonable ways to die. You should be focusing on your breathing. On how perfectly fine you are. Fine.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
"They say it's okay to break down. And the world keeps spinning on and on around you."
05 February 2007
WARNING: This is not happy. Don't expect to feel good if you read it.
There is a moment in our lives when we choose what we want to become.
OR, if there isn't, instead
There is a moment in our lives when we realize what we have become.
Or maybe we get lucky, we get both. Realization and choice. Knowledge, and power. It's what keeps the Earth orbiting the Sun.
When my mother got sick (I just noticed that I always say "Got sick" and not "Died" but that's what she did. She died. Therefore, )
When my mother died, my choices narrowed down to: 1.] The girl that runs away and asks other people to handle the problem. 2.] The girl that doesn't let her brave-face falter and soothes the broken souls.
I chose door number one at first. Afterwards, I find myself changing, morphing into the girl behind door number two. A lifetime of, "There is a God." "There is a heaven." "Mom always wanted to see Elvis play live." And, the worst betrayal of all, "She didn't live a long life, but it was a full one." Sometimes, that lie stings as it leaves my mouth. It burns the back of my teeth and I want to vomit, over and over, until the words are gone forever.
I have started to hate words because I have started to see that they are never enough. I want the words to fix the world. I want the world to fill the voids I see in others, because I have long since learned to love my voids.
I want to keep feeling this pain, this torture, in the pit of my stomach so I never forget. I want to always remember that night when she turned to me before her last coma and said "I'm fine, sweetie, I'm fine."
At first, it was me calling to her. Begging my mother to open her eyes because I had just turned away for a minute, to find my cellphone, and it wouldn't be fair if that was our last moment. She didn't respond and tears started to fall from my eyes. "Mom? If you can do this. If you can fight this, shake this, whatever, then you have to do it NOW, okay?"
She started coughing and her arms reached up, following the sound of my voice. "Mom?" I asked because, until she responded, verbally, everything could just be the chemical reactions of a comatose body (even the doctors said.)
"Baby, my baby. She's my baby," and then there was crying. So much crying and I was back at her side trying to calm her. "My baby. He wants to take my baby."
"I'm right here, Mommy. I'm right here." We had been through this before, with her last coma, as she relived her life. If it was happening again, it was a good sign. My mom's crying eventually quieted and I leaned into her bedside, content.
"Mom?" I asked, when her breath became ragged again.
"What?" she groaned, like I was hurting her.
I was quiet for a while, trying to decide if I should really say what I was thinking. "You're uh. You're dying, Mama..."
She groaned again and her eyes focused on me. I wondered if she could even really see me, or she was just guessing. "I'm fine, baby." The words were muffled, strangled, distorted...but I could just make them out.
"It doesn't look like you're fine, Mom." I said, the same words I said when she had her first stroke to Walk the Line. Before she admitted she wasn't fine and, "Get help, baby, get help." I expected them to work again.
"I know, Baby, I know," she was starting to sound more awake, "I'm gonna be fine."
"Are you fine or are you gonna be fine, Mom? Because there's a difference."
"I'm gonna be fine, baby."
I choked back my sob, "Yeah, that's what I thought."
I lost her for a while then, back into dilerium. I rubbed her shoulder, not harshly, but solid, like a massage, "Mom, MOM, stay with me."
When she came back she said, "What?" And her voice sounded so lucid, I thought maybe she was back. I thought her "I'm gonna be fine," had been a flash from the future, a miracle in the making. God's way of telling me to hold on.
But then her eyes rolled away from me again and my heart clenched. I settled for, "Are you in any pain?"
"No baby, no pain."
"You have to tell me, Mom. You have to tell me so I know what to do."
"It hurts, Jackleen." And my heart started up again, moving too fast, taking in too much oxygen because it had been hours. HOURS since she said my name like I was in the room. In more than mumbled ramblings about her baby girl.
"Where does it hurt?" I asked, trying to determine if it was a stroke, or a heart attack, or a problem with her cathater, the infection in her leg, my hold on her right hand...
"It's hard to breathe."
"Do you want me to get someone?"
"No. Stay with me." It was a groggy command, the kind I'd heard from her so many times before.
"Okay, but then you have to stay with me too."
"Not leaving. M'not leaving."
"Okay then," I whispered grabbing her hand in mine and settling back into my chair.
"Don't leave me. Don't leave me." So I held on tighter, willing her to believe in my staying power.
"I'm not going anywhere." So I curled inwards, half on her bed, half on my chair and closed my eyes. And I practiced what I would tell everyone in the morning: "She went peacefully. In her sleep. I was watching her and her breathing just stilled. Then I called her name and she didn't respond and I just...knew." But I couldn't do it. I couldn't keep my promise.
Fifteen or so minutes later and the sound of her breathing had become too much for me. A bubbling, crackling sound like she was drowning and I wasn't stopping it. And the guilt set in, "Mom? I'm calling Grandma. If you don't wake up right now, I'm calling Grandma." Because threatening God had worked so well before. But I needed to know she understood. Scratch that, I needed to BELIEVE she understood. It was selfish, and wrong, especially since I didn't follow through with what she asked of me, too much of a chicken to let her go gently into that great night.
She began to choke and I started screaming for the nurses. No one was coming and I could hear her choking. I could see white foam rising in her mouth. I pulled her upwards, harshly, onto me. When the nurses finally got in they said, "She's throwing up." And I looked down at myself, noticing for the first time that I was covered in it. Believing for the first time that she was really dying. Believing for the first time that I had to get my grandparents down here. Get her family around her and stop pretending things were going to get better.
When my grandmother got there she made me go home. "Get a shower, change your clothes, then, if you want to, you can come back." But I knew I wasn't coming back. I knew, even as I said "I don't want to go," I was grateful for the out. Grateful for the opportunity to run.
I will always hate myself for not being strong enough to follow through with the plan. I will always hate myself for not having the perfect words that would ease everyone's mind, and give my mother the peace she begged for.
Of all the people I have ever walked out on. Ever left when things got hard (and there have been many)...she is the one I will always hate myself for. The one I will spend the rest of my life making up for.
Mom, that night, it is the reason I have realized what I am. The reason I am fighting so hard for a change.
OR, if there isn't, instead
There is a moment in our lives when we realize what we have become.
Or maybe we get lucky, we get both. Realization and choice. Knowledge, and power. It's what keeps the Earth orbiting the Sun.
When my mother got sick (I just noticed that I always say "Got sick" and not "Died" but that's what she did. She died. Therefore, )
When my mother died, my choices narrowed down to: 1.] The girl that runs away and asks other people to handle the problem. 2.] The girl that doesn't let her brave-face falter and soothes the broken souls.
I chose door number one at first. Afterwards, I find myself changing, morphing into the girl behind door number two. A lifetime of, "There is a God." "There is a heaven." "Mom always wanted to see Elvis play live." And, the worst betrayal of all, "She didn't live a long life, but it was a full one." Sometimes, that lie stings as it leaves my mouth. It burns the back of my teeth and I want to vomit, over and over, until the words are gone forever.
I have started to hate words because I have started to see that they are never enough. I want the words to fix the world. I want the world to fill the voids I see in others, because I have long since learned to love my voids.
I want to keep feeling this pain, this torture, in the pit of my stomach so I never forget. I want to always remember that night when she turned to me before her last coma and said "I'm fine, sweetie, I'm fine."
At first, it was me calling to her. Begging my mother to open her eyes because I had just turned away for a minute, to find my cellphone, and it wouldn't be fair if that was our last moment. She didn't respond and tears started to fall from my eyes. "Mom? If you can do this. If you can fight this, shake this, whatever, then you have to do it NOW, okay?"
She started coughing and her arms reached up, following the sound of my voice. "Mom?" I asked because, until she responded, verbally, everything could just be the chemical reactions of a comatose body (even the doctors said.)
"Baby, my baby. She's my baby," and then there was crying. So much crying and I was back at her side trying to calm her. "My baby. He wants to take my baby."
"I'm right here, Mommy. I'm right here." We had been through this before, with her last coma, as she relived her life. If it was happening again, it was a good sign. My mom's crying eventually quieted and I leaned into her bedside, content.
"Mom?" I asked, when her breath became ragged again.
"What?" she groaned, like I was hurting her.
I was quiet for a while, trying to decide if I should really say what I was thinking. "You're uh. You're dying, Mama..."
She groaned again and her eyes focused on me. I wondered if she could even really see me, or she was just guessing. "I'm fine, baby." The words were muffled, strangled, distorted...but I could just make them out.
"It doesn't look like you're fine, Mom." I said, the same words I said when she had her first stroke to Walk the Line. Before she admitted she wasn't fine and, "Get help, baby, get help." I expected them to work again.
"I know, Baby, I know," she was starting to sound more awake, "I'm gonna be fine."
"Are you fine or are you gonna be fine, Mom? Because there's a difference."
"I'm gonna be fine, baby."
I choked back my sob, "Yeah, that's what I thought."
I lost her for a while then, back into dilerium. I rubbed her shoulder, not harshly, but solid, like a massage, "Mom, MOM, stay with me."
When she came back she said, "What?" And her voice sounded so lucid, I thought maybe she was back. I thought her "I'm gonna be fine," had been a flash from the future, a miracle in the making. God's way of telling me to hold on.
But then her eyes rolled away from me again and my heart clenched. I settled for, "Are you in any pain?"
"No baby, no pain."
"You have to tell me, Mom. You have to tell me so I know what to do."
"It hurts, Jackleen." And my heart started up again, moving too fast, taking in too much oxygen because it had been hours. HOURS since she said my name like I was in the room. In more than mumbled ramblings about her baby girl.
"Where does it hurt?" I asked, trying to determine if it was a stroke, or a heart attack, or a problem with her cathater, the infection in her leg, my hold on her right hand...
"It's hard to breathe."
"Do you want me to get someone?"
"No. Stay with me." It was a groggy command, the kind I'd heard from her so many times before.
"Okay, but then you have to stay with me too."
"Not leaving. M'not leaving."
"Okay then," I whispered grabbing her hand in mine and settling back into my chair.
"Don't leave me. Don't leave me." So I held on tighter, willing her to believe in my staying power.
"I'm not going anywhere." So I curled inwards, half on her bed, half on my chair and closed my eyes. And I practiced what I would tell everyone in the morning: "She went peacefully. In her sleep. I was watching her and her breathing just stilled. Then I called her name and she didn't respond and I just...knew." But I couldn't do it. I couldn't keep my promise.
Fifteen or so minutes later and the sound of her breathing had become too much for me. A bubbling, crackling sound like she was drowning and I wasn't stopping it. And the guilt set in, "Mom? I'm calling Grandma. If you don't wake up right now, I'm calling Grandma." Because threatening God had worked so well before. But I needed to know she understood. Scratch that, I needed to BELIEVE she understood. It was selfish, and wrong, especially since I didn't follow through with what she asked of me, too much of a chicken to let her go gently into that great night.
She began to choke and I started screaming for the nurses. No one was coming and I could hear her choking. I could see white foam rising in her mouth. I pulled her upwards, harshly, onto me. When the nurses finally got in they said, "She's throwing up." And I looked down at myself, noticing for the first time that I was covered in it. Believing for the first time that she was really dying. Believing for the first time that I had to get my grandparents down here. Get her family around her and stop pretending things were going to get better.
When my grandmother got there she made me go home. "Get a shower, change your clothes, then, if you want to, you can come back." But I knew I wasn't coming back. I knew, even as I said "I don't want to go," I was grateful for the out. Grateful for the opportunity to run.
I will always hate myself for not being strong enough to follow through with the plan. I will always hate myself for not having the perfect words that would ease everyone's mind, and give my mother the peace she begged for.
Of all the people I have ever walked out on. Ever left when things got hard (and there have been many)...she is the one I will always hate myself for. The one I will spend the rest of my life making up for.
Mom, that night, it is the reason I have realized what I am. The reason I am fighting so hard for a change.
29 January 2007
Letters to Mama
Sometimes, I think of something really great to tell you and I get all the way through the thought before I remember that I can't. I feel so broken. I know I keep shutting people out and I know that you cringe everytime I pull away. I know that you would say what you've said so many times before, "Stop keeping so many secrets. People like to see your soul every once in a while, just to make sure you still have one." And I miss you for it. I miss your voice.
Because you knew what to say to make me feel better. You believed in my future more than I do. You believed in my ability to love more than I do.
You believed in me. Always and with reckless abandon. And that is so hard to live without.
I remember the day before you woke up after your first coma. I leaned over you and said, "Mom...I need you to fight this. I need you to come back and tell me this isn't all my fault." And you did. And I felt like such an egregious ass. I should've been able to take care of you, not begging you to take care of me.
"You can't blame yourself, and I know you'll want to. You gave me six great months. Six months with my baby girl. Six months with a girl I thought I lost years ago."
"Stop, please, Mom...don't do this. Don't say--" she cut me off before the "good-bye" fell out.
"You are growing into the woman I always knew you'd be. You are becoming someone I am proud to have had a part in."
"Mom, please."
"You want me to stop because you don't believe it's true." It wasn't a question. She knew. "Well too bad; it is. And I'm going to say it everyday until you believe it."
There is no one to say it now. There are a lot of holes no one else is filling. And some days it is harder than others to be without your.
Sometimes, I can get by just on knowing what you'd say. Other days I need more than that.
A/N: If this were a regular post, I would have stopped at "You believed in me. Always and with reckless abandon. And that is so hard to live without." But it's not. It's a letter to my mother. I typed it out of the journal I write her letters in and shared it with you all because it is the only risk I have left to take.
My last days, my last words, my last memories with my mother are my best kept secrets. [Sometimes the only way back in from "too far out" is too much of the other extreme.]
Because you knew what to say to make me feel better. You believed in my future more than I do. You believed in my ability to love more than I do.
You believed in me. Always and with reckless abandon. And that is so hard to live without.
I remember the day before you woke up after your first coma. I leaned over you and said, "Mom...I need you to fight this. I need you to come back and tell me this isn't all my fault." And you did. And I felt like such an egregious ass. I should've been able to take care of you, not begging you to take care of me.
"You can't blame yourself, and I know you'll want to. You gave me six great months. Six months with my baby girl. Six months with a girl I thought I lost years ago."
"Stop, please, Mom...don't do this. Don't say--" she cut me off before the "good-bye" fell out.
"You are growing into the woman I always knew you'd be. You are becoming someone I am proud to have had a part in."
"Mom, please."
"You want me to stop because you don't believe it's true." It wasn't a question. She knew. "Well too bad; it is. And I'm going to say it everyday until you believe it."
There is no one to say it now. There are a lot of holes no one else is filling. And some days it is harder than others to be without your.
Sometimes, I can get by just on knowing what you'd say. Other days I need more than that.
A/N: If this were a regular post, I would have stopped at "You believed in me. Always and with reckless abandon. And that is so hard to live without." But it's not. It's a letter to my mother. I typed it out of the journal I write her letters in and shared it with you all because it is the only risk I have left to take.
My last days, my last words, my last memories with my mother are my best kept secrets. [Sometimes the only way back in from "too far out" is too much of the other extreme.]
21 January 2007
Broken Fairytales
I may take someone's hand in marriage, but I would never take their name. This is what I am. A rock. Unchanging. And my name is a huge part of them.
I move forward without ever moving on. Somewhere, I am still 4 years old and waiting for my mother to pick me up on one of the weekends she never shows. Somewhere, I am 8 and saying "Good-bye" to my grandfather. I am 13 and looking up at grey eyes, begging for my life. I am 14, pressing my lips against his, asking him to fix me. I am 16 and walking away from him, from his lies, his child, his soon to be wife. I am 19 and saying "Good-bye" to my mother one last time while the entire world looks on and wonders, "Is this it? Is this what breaks her?"
Somewhere, I will always be all these things and the only part that will change as I grow older will be my ability to tuck them away, to let these pieces exist inside of me without becoming me, without tearing me apart like they do now.
Someday, my heart will heal and I will chisel the rock away and just be human again. I will stop following rules and my fascination with secrets will grow less morbid.
Someday, all this hope will pay off...
I move forward without ever moving on. Somewhere, I am still 4 years old and waiting for my mother to pick me up on one of the weekends she never shows. Somewhere, I am 8 and saying "Good-bye" to my grandfather. I am 13 and looking up at grey eyes, begging for my life. I am 14, pressing my lips against his, asking him to fix me. I am 16 and walking away from him, from his lies, his child, his soon to be wife. I am 19 and saying "Good-bye" to my mother one last time while the entire world looks on and wonders, "Is this it? Is this what breaks her?"
Somewhere, I will always be all these things and the only part that will change as I grow older will be my ability to tuck them away, to let these pieces exist inside of me without becoming me, without tearing me apart like they do now.
Someday, my heart will heal and I will chisel the rock away and just be human again. I will stop following rules and my fascination with secrets will grow less morbid.
Someday, all this hope will pay off...
04 January 2007
Quelle est la specialite de la maison?
I was going out last night and my father stopped me, "You're wearing that?" He emphasized "That" like he might vomit at any moment so I looked down at my outfit. It wasn't revealing. In fact, it was grey tweed pants and an olive-colored Oxford. The sexiest thing on me at the time were 4" heels. Or maybe the diamond hoops. No, it was the shoes.
"What is wrong with my clothes?" I asked, truly confused.
"They're a little boring. Don't you think?"
My father has recently become concerned that my grandchild quota will not be reached. Or something. Or...maybe it's not a selfish fear at all, maybe he's just worried, like my mother was, that I never let anyone in and thus am doomed to die utterly alone with the exception of 34 cats that I will talk to like we're old friends and my body won't be discovered until said cats, having starved due to my untimely death, begin to feast on my rotting corpse.
"Good. I was going for boring."
I don't think my father has ever expected those words from me. Afterall, I was the bad daughter. The one that always "forgot" to call and say where I was or when I was coming back.
"I don't want to give off the wrong impression, Dad. There are no keg parties in my future. No waiting up for last call, or club hopping, or weekend gambling trips to Atlantic City. This outfit says, "Want to come home with me? Might I suggest you bring a book to read while I work on my novel and watch copious amounts of The West Wing on DVD. By the by, have you ever seen News Radio?" And that is EXACTLY the impression I'm looking to deliver."
"I think the suitors shall be disappointed."
"Oh, they always are. Don't worry though, I see plenty of grand-kittens on your future."
He cringes and I laugh. On the inside, I laugh. Because if I laugh out loud he'll know I'm joking and I kind of like watching him sweat it out. Honestly, I have no intention of being alone and closed off forever. I'm working on it. Really. It takes more time than you'd think.
"What is wrong with my clothes?" I asked, truly confused.
"They're a little boring. Don't you think?"
My father has recently become concerned that my grandchild quota will not be reached. Or something. Or...maybe it's not a selfish fear at all, maybe he's just worried, like my mother was, that I never let anyone in and thus am doomed to die utterly alone with the exception of 34 cats that I will talk to like we're old friends and my body won't be discovered until said cats, having starved due to my untimely death, begin to feast on my rotting corpse.
"Good. I was going for boring."
I don't think my father has ever expected those words from me. Afterall, I was the bad daughter. The one that always "forgot" to call and say where I was or when I was coming back.
"I don't want to give off the wrong impression, Dad. There are no keg parties in my future. No waiting up for last call, or club hopping, or weekend gambling trips to Atlantic City. This outfit says, "Want to come home with me? Might I suggest you bring a book to read while I work on my novel and watch copious amounts of The West Wing on DVD. By the by, have you ever seen News Radio?" And that is EXACTLY the impression I'm looking to deliver."
"I think the suitors shall be disappointed."
"Oh, they always are. Don't worry though, I see plenty of grand-kittens on your future."
He cringes and I laugh. On the inside, I laugh. Because if I laugh out loud he'll know I'm joking and I kind of like watching him sweat it out. Honestly, I have no intention of being alone and closed off forever. I'm working on it. Really. It takes more time than you'd think.
02 January 2007
New Year's Laughs
So, some not-really-related-but-ultimately-all-about-the-same-thing rantings of a crazy lady. (me, of course...I'm the only crazy person I trust...that's funny, you'll see why later.)
I think it's funny that Republicans are quoting Democrats with gusto. No malice, just a calm understanding that something has gone horribly wrong in this country. And the Democrats can fix it? Right. I'm thinking that's the kind of thinking that got Bush "elected" the first time. "Holy shit, did you see what Clinton did. Let's not give Gore the chance to follow his lead."
I'm scared. I'm scared that Americans are going to elect any Democrat that's thrown their way because they don't know any better.
I'm terrified that I'm living in a nation that doesn't seem to known any better.
I saw a t-shirt in a store window in Canada that said, "Canada: living the American dream without violence since 1867." And my friend started to laugh but I couldn't. It was the saddest thing I'd ever seen.
Or maybe it wasn't. It certainly wasn't more depressing than reading Chad Herrman's words, "We have the government and media we deserve."
"When morals and ethics are relative, the language we use to communicate them, and indeed everything else, crumbles. Ideals fall apart."
"...we lay waste to our promise and possibility."
I don't know. All I do know is that my ancestors came here for a better life. They came here with dreams of America. And right now America is letting me down. Not just the government, but the citizens. Especially the citizens...who can wax poetic about how Britney Spears isn't wearing any underwear and NOT KNOW Saddam Hussein was killed?
Maybe it's my fault too though. Because I dropped out of my Political Science major even though I was good. People ask me to this day why I'm not going into politics anymore.
"You were so good at it. So convincing."
Because politics is all about convincing people they can trust you, or they can't trust you (it just depends which side you're playing that day.)
I got out of PoliSci, out of US Government classes, I stopped studying history because it became impeccably clear to me:
The reason we have racism, and sexism, and (above all others) nationalism is that people (in their unwavering stupidity mostly...only) trust other people LIKE themselves. And it becomes ugly, OF COURSE, it becomes ugly. It's narcissism, squared. We tell ourselves that if people could grow up in towns like ours, with parents like ours, teachers like ours, ideals and opportunities like ours, they will come out of it with the same wholesome values. [If we could only get those nine year-old gun-runners in Fallujah to take up baseball and praise Jesus on Sundays.] It's the biggest lie we could tell ourselves. It's the concept that we can stop history from repeating itself by making a different history repeat itself. That's all I was learning in college: how to follow a different example, a "better" example. It's was so stupid: the world needs new ideas, not the best of the old ones. God...it was complete and utter bullshit.
America needs more people to decide they can change things. More people to say, "Stop bitching...it's a democracy, you get exactly what you give." Expect more? Then GIVE more. CARE more. So I will give more, and care more, but I won't do it at the expense of myself. So yeah, I dropped out of school last year, and no, I don't think I should have to justify it to the Dean, or my father, or my best friends, or anyone else for that matter. But I did. "I only want to answer for my sins on judgement day...not everyone else's."
"I got sick of telling people what they could be. I got sick of lying to earn people's trust. It was backwards."
"I didn't want a career of telling the weak I could make them stronger. They needed to do it themselves. Rely on themselves."
You want to fail? You want to fall? You want to waste away watching Ryan Seacrest cover the music awards? Fine, that's the beauty of capitalism...you get to decide who you will be.
I think it's funny that Republicans are quoting Democrats with gusto. No malice, just a calm understanding that something has gone horribly wrong in this country. And the Democrats can fix it? Right. I'm thinking that's the kind of thinking that got Bush "elected" the first time. "Holy shit, did you see what Clinton did. Let's not give Gore the chance to follow his lead."
I'm scared. I'm scared that Americans are going to elect any Democrat that's thrown their way because they don't know any better.
I'm terrified that I'm living in a nation that doesn't seem to known any better.
I saw a t-shirt in a store window in Canada that said, "Canada: living the American dream without violence since 1867." And my friend started to laugh but I couldn't. It was the saddest thing I'd ever seen.
Or maybe it wasn't. It certainly wasn't more depressing than reading Chad Herrman's words, "We have the government and media we deserve."
"When morals and ethics are relative, the language we use to communicate them, and indeed everything else, crumbles. Ideals fall apart."
"...we lay waste to our promise and possibility."
I don't know. All I do know is that my ancestors came here for a better life. They came here with dreams of America. And right now America is letting me down. Not just the government, but the citizens. Especially the citizens...who can wax poetic about how Britney Spears isn't wearing any underwear and NOT KNOW Saddam Hussein was killed?
Maybe it's my fault too though. Because I dropped out of my Political Science major even though I was good. People ask me to this day why I'm not going into politics anymore.
"You were so good at it. So convincing."
Because politics is all about convincing people they can trust you, or they can't trust you (it just depends which side you're playing that day.)
I got out of PoliSci, out of US Government classes, I stopped studying history because it became impeccably clear to me:
The reason we have racism, and sexism, and (above all others) nationalism is that people (in their unwavering stupidity mostly...only) trust other people LIKE themselves. And it becomes ugly, OF COURSE, it becomes ugly. It's narcissism, squared. We tell ourselves that if people could grow up in towns like ours, with parents like ours, teachers like ours, ideals and opportunities like ours, they will come out of it with the same wholesome values. [If we could only get those nine year-old gun-runners in Fallujah to take up baseball and praise Jesus on Sundays.] It's the biggest lie we could tell ourselves. It's the concept that we can stop history from repeating itself by making a different history repeat itself. That's all I was learning in college: how to follow a different example, a "better" example. It's was so stupid: the world needs new ideas, not the best of the old ones. God...it was complete and utter bullshit.
America needs more people to decide they can change things. More people to say, "Stop bitching...it's a democracy, you get exactly what you give." Expect more? Then GIVE more. CARE more. So I will give more, and care more, but I won't do it at the expense of myself. So yeah, I dropped out of school last year, and no, I don't think I should have to justify it to the Dean, or my father, or my best friends, or anyone else for that matter. But I did. "I only want to answer for my sins on judgement day...not everyone else's."
"I got sick of telling people what they could be. I got sick of lying to earn people's trust. It was backwards."
"I didn't want a career of telling the weak I could make them stronger. They needed to do it themselves. Rely on themselves."
You want to fail? You want to fall? You want to waste away watching Ryan Seacrest cover the music awards? Fine, that's the beauty of capitalism...you get to decide who you will be.
22 December 2006
Maybe
The thing about spending six months caring for someone else recklessly is that it changes you. You spend 24 hours each day making sure they feel comfortable, loved, secure. And they do. And the funny thing is, so do you. And, just like that, everything is different.
You start to think that maybe you can write it all down and hand it off on a flyer like the Mormons do, "Life is too short for anger. Life is too short to not say, "Thank you." Life is too short and if you think about it too long you'll stop seeing all the reasons to keep living. So stop thinking life is short and start thinking about what a little time can do. Maybe we can think about 24 people, one hour each day, and change the world." But no one ever reads those, so you focus on what you CAN do. You can spend 20 minutes each day focusing on 72 different people. You can say "I miss you," or "Thank you," or "I'm glad you called," when you mean it, even if it makes you uncomfortable. You can whisper your truths like they are secrets and watch what people do with them.
You spend 20 minutes convincing your cousin that there is a small amount of happiness that we carry around inside of ourselves. "It's there," you tell him, "and as long as it's there, we can never be really miserable."
You start thinking that having to convince yourself that you are flawed is its own pain. And for the first time in a long time, you don't want to be broken anymore. You want to be whole, and stand tall, and show everyone that the light at the end of darkness is real, and waiting for them too.
You stop looking for windows to crawl out of and start looking for cracks in everyone else's walls that you can push yourself through. This life is short and you'll be damned if you waste any of it doing nothing. You'll be damned if you'll waste a second of it causing hurt when it's just as simple to make someone smile, to make someone feel secure, or loved, or even just appreciated.
You think that most twentysomething are convinced they are invincible. Frued says we all believe in our immortality. But you don't. You can't. You've seen death, and not just the kind that takes you to God. You've seen innner, personal death...the kind that takes you away and takes you nowhere at the same time.
You've seen what you've seen. You've heard what you've heard. And all the secrets to living long, to living well, are being revealed everyday, you just have to keep looking.
So you keep looking. I keep looking. And no matter how ugly it gets, I never look away. Because this is all the life I get, and I'm going to live the hell out of it.
You start to think that maybe you can write it all down and hand it off on a flyer like the Mormons do, "Life is too short for anger. Life is too short to not say, "Thank you." Life is too short and if you think about it too long you'll stop seeing all the reasons to keep living. So stop thinking life is short and start thinking about what a little time can do. Maybe we can think about 24 people, one hour each day, and change the world." But no one ever reads those, so you focus on what you CAN do. You can spend 20 minutes each day focusing on 72 different people. You can say "I miss you," or "Thank you," or "I'm glad you called," when you mean it, even if it makes you uncomfortable. You can whisper your truths like they are secrets and watch what people do with them.
You spend 20 minutes convincing your cousin that there is a small amount of happiness that we carry around inside of ourselves. "It's there," you tell him, "and as long as it's there, we can never be really miserable."
You start thinking that having to convince yourself that you are flawed is its own pain. And for the first time in a long time, you don't want to be broken anymore. You want to be whole, and stand tall, and show everyone that the light at the end of darkness is real, and waiting for them too.
You stop looking for windows to crawl out of and start looking for cracks in everyone else's walls that you can push yourself through. This life is short and you'll be damned if you waste any of it doing nothing. You'll be damned if you'll waste a second of it causing hurt when it's just as simple to make someone smile, to make someone feel secure, or loved, or even just appreciated.
You think that most twentysomething are convinced they are invincible. Frued says we all believe in our immortality. But you don't. You can't. You've seen death, and not just the kind that takes you to God. You've seen innner, personal death...the kind that takes you away and takes you nowhere at the same time.
You've seen what you've seen. You've heard what you've heard. And all the secrets to living long, to living well, are being revealed everyday, you just have to keep looking.
So you keep looking. I keep looking. And no matter how ugly it gets, I never look away. Because this is all the life I get, and I'm going to live the hell out of it.
12 December 2006
It's not somebody who's seen the light
Being trustworthy means people will, probably trust you. It doesn't mean that they will love you. It means they will call on you when their burdens become too great and they will want your advice, your laughter, your acceptance...because they trust you to provide it.
They will tell you their secrets and trust you to keep them. And you will. And you will carry them inside of you. You will live them, and become them. And people will say, "They are SO trustworthy. SO wonderful. SUCH A GREAT FRIEND." And your worth will be determined by their need.
But needing someone is not the same as loving someong. It's not even close. But it's the closest you'll ever get.
That is what will happen if you let people trust you. You will sacrifice yourself, and still be completely alone.
They will tell you their secrets and trust you to keep them. And you will. And you will carry them inside of you. You will live them, and become them. And people will say, "They are SO trustworthy. SO wonderful. SUCH A GREAT FRIEND." And your worth will be determined by their need.
But needing someone is not the same as loving someong. It's not even close. But it's the closest you'll ever get.
That is what will happen if you let people trust you. You will sacrifice yourself, and still be completely alone.
29 October 2006
Amleth
You know in Act 5, Scene 1 of Hamlet, when Laertes and Hamlet throw themselves into Ophelia's grave?
I totally get that now.
I used to think it was a little melodramatic. But. I fought so hard to stay with my mother. And when they told me she was dead I could barely move. I went into the room where her body was, and I leaned over her. And there were so many other people in the room but no one was talking. They were just watching. And I wanted to be strong. I wanted to make jokes about her getting to see Elvis perform live. But mostly, I wanted to cling to her and listen to her hollow chest until my heart stopped too. I wanted to cry into her like I had so many times before...until I couldn't distinguish one pain from another. I had never felt that dead before. Not even when that man had tried his damnedest to kill me all those years ago.
It's a different kind of death, the kind that is so personal no one else can facilitate it. The kind of inner-death that's between you and God.
I totally get that now.
I used to think it was a little melodramatic. But. I fought so hard to stay with my mother. And when they told me she was dead I could barely move. I went into the room where her body was, and I leaned over her. And there were so many other people in the room but no one was talking. They were just watching. And I wanted to be strong. I wanted to make jokes about her getting to see Elvis perform live. But mostly, I wanted to cling to her and listen to her hollow chest until my heart stopped too. I wanted to cry into her like I had so many times before...until I couldn't distinguish one pain from another. I had never felt that dead before. Not even when that man had tried his damnedest to kill me all those years ago.
It's a different kind of death, the kind that is so personal no one else can facilitate it. The kind of inner-death that's between you and God.
"When the Creator had finished thinking he said, "I have thought. Behold.""
I shop compulsively. Not for shoes or handbags like other girls. Not because it's Clinique-free-gift time. Not because shiny, pretty things make me feel better about where I am in my life. I buy books like they're crank. When I find a good one, my hands start shaking a little bit and my eyes dart around nervously. Like any second someone is going to walk up to me and demand I put the book down, walk away...empty handed. Libraries will not do. These books, they are pieces of brilliance. And they will be mine. And I will read them until my vision gets fuzzy and my eyes are bloodshot and my boss has to ask if I'm feeling okay. "Did you get enough sleep?" Only to be disappointed by my slow shake, "No. s'reading. Couldn't stop 'til the...best part."
Really? Did you need to know?
I believe in magic, even if it's just the kind we make for ourselves. I enjoy the little things in life like good coffee, flowers, and rain. I believe the best conversations are the ones that you can remember the jokes from days later. Laughter is a huge part of my life. Corny bar jokes are my favorite.
But, somedays I enjoy being melancholy just as much as I enjoy laughter. I am not afraid of my dark side.
I get bored easily and have a penchant for leaving things unfinished. I give blood every 56 days because I don't think there's ever a moment where we can look at our lives and say we've done too much for others. I enjoy comfortable silences but I don't enjoy being forced to carry the conversation. I love confidence but hate arrogance.
I need a healthy balance of time around others and time alone wtih my thoughts. I'm energetic, assertive and, at times, argumentative. I enjoy debate but I don't like the dirty side of it. I see no room for personal insults in arguments.
I pray every night because I believe God is listening to us, at every moment, every day. I believe that when we do not get what we ask of Him it is because we are asking for the wrong things.
I am (almost) always willing to try again. I love board games and animals. I enjoy watching tv while doing hundreds of other things.
But, somedays I enjoy being melancholy just as much as I enjoy laughter. I am not afraid of my dark side.
I get bored easily and have a penchant for leaving things unfinished. I give blood every 56 days because I don't think there's ever a moment where we can look at our lives and say we've done too much for others. I enjoy comfortable silences but I don't enjoy being forced to carry the conversation. I love confidence but hate arrogance.
I need a healthy balance of time around others and time alone wtih my thoughts. I'm energetic, assertive and, at times, argumentative. I enjoy debate but I don't like the dirty side of it. I see no room for personal insults in arguments.
I pray every night because I believe God is listening to us, at every moment, every day. I believe that when we do not get what we ask of Him it is because we are asking for the wrong things.
I am (almost) always willing to try again. I love board games and animals. I enjoy watching tv while doing hundreds of other things.
19 October 2006
Warriors in Pink.
Okay, I know it's horrible. And, blah, blah, blah (let's reference the hurricane Katrina post for my disclaimer and move the hell on).
I'm so fucking sick of breast cancer survivors. Of their "warriors in pink" and fancy fundraising techniques. "I am a woman. I will raise my children. I will reach the top of my career path. And I will do it all while battling breast cancer. You can do it too, ladies. JUST BELIEVE!" [Okay, I believe. Now will you shut the fuck up?]
Even the Breast Cancer People admit their disease isn't the most invasive, the most deadly, the biggest threat. See:
-More women in the US are living with breast cancer than any other cancer, excluding skin cancer.
-Breast cancer is the second leading cause of cancer death for women in the U.S, after lung cancer. No, I'm sorry. YOU CANNOT JUST EXCLUDE STATISTICS. Isn't this what atheists get on Christians backs for all the time? "You can't just ignore the Bible?" Well, Breast Cancer Advocates: YOU CAN'T JUST IGNORE MORTALITY RATES.
My-Army-friend-who-watches-the-gilmore-girls has pointed out to me that I'm jsut upset because my mother died from something other than breast cancer. And, at some level, he's right. More people are at risk for Diabetes than breast cancer. More people currently suffer from Diabetes than Breast cancer. And, ultimately, more people will die from Diabetes than Brest Cancer. So, yeah, color me pissed. BUT MOSTLY, I'm just sick of the pink banners EVERYWHERE. I'm sick of how somehow, a crusade to inform women about a deadly disease (AND WAY TO GO WITH THAT, REALLY. WOMEN, AND THE PEOPLE THAT LOVE THEM EVERYWHERE, THANK YOU.) has suddenly become a psuedo-feminist movement. Surviving breast cancer is just one more thing we, the super-women of generation-now can do.
So, I guess my boredom with Breast Cancer Survivors has less to do with my dead mother and more to do with my disgust with women that don't need anything but "the chance to be themselves."We get it, okay...out of the kitchen, into the world. We can do it. We can do anything. Can we maybe do something else now?
I'm so fucking sick of breast cancer survivors. Of their "warriors in pink" and fancy fundraising techniques. "I am a woman. I will raise my children. I will reach the top of my career path. And I will do it all while battling breast cancer. You can do it too, ladies. JUST BELIEVE!" [Okay, I believe. Now will you shut the fuck up?]
Even the Breast Cancer People admit their disease isn't the most invasive, the most deadly, the biggest threat. See:
-More women in the US are living with breast cancer than any other cancer, excluding skin cancer.
-Breast cancer is the second leading cause of cancer death for women in the U.S, after lung cancer. No, I'm sorry. YOU CANNOT JUST EXCLUDE STATISTICS. Isn't this what atheists get on Christians backs for all the time? "You can't just ignore the Bible?" Well, Breast Cancer Advocates: YOU CAN'T JUST IGNORE MORTALITY RATES.
My-Army-friend-who-watches-the-gilmore-girls has pointed out to me that I'm jsut upset because my mother died from something other than breast cancer. And, at some level, he's right. More people are at risk for Diabetes than breast cancer. More people currently suffer from Diabetes than Breast cancer. And, ultimately, more people will die from Diabetes than Brest Cancer. So, yeah, color me pissed. BUT MOSTLY, I'm just sick of the pink banners EVERYWHERE. I'm sick of how somehow, a crusade to inform women about a deadly disease (AND WAY TO GO WITH THAT, REALLY. WOMEN, AND THE PEOPLE THAT LOVE THEM EVERYWHERE, THANK YOU.) has suddenly become a psuedo-feminist movement. Surviving breast cancer is just one more thing we, the super-women of generation-now can do.
So, I guess my boredom with Breast Cancer Survivors has less to do with my dead mother and more to do with my disgust with women that don't need anything but "the chance to be themselves."We get it, okay...out of the kitchen, into the world. We can do it. We can do anything. Can we maybe do something else now?
28 September 2006
The thing is.
People keep pushing me. And they keep picking at me and smiling at me and saying things like, "Oh, you don't really mean that."
They keep expecting me to crack...fill the room with warm-and-fuzzies and admit that what I really need is someone to love me. There was a time when I did need that. We are past that point.
They keep expecting me to crack...fill the room with warm-and-fuzzies and admit that what I really need is someone to love me. There was a time when I did need that. We are past that point.
23 September 2006
Feel.
I feel sick right now. My body is all tingly and my head is throbbing. I cried alot today. Because I am pa-the-tic. And weak. And my life is a lie. Let me tell you, this, right here? Fun place to be.
Anyway, back to the sick: I can't decide if I'm really sick and the headache, sniffles, watery-eyes, and over-heated sensations are all real. Or if I'm just sick of myself.
I know this is probably taboo, or whatever, but I really expected...I really WANTED to die with my mother. I didn't want to have to pick up and move on. Cold and closed off from the world? That's not strength. It's fear in metal armor.
In my newest book, one of the characters says, "We laugh, we make love, we move on. But we never forget. We never forgive. I still hate him for what he did to me and he still hates me for what I did to him."
Then, later, she elaborates, "We never let it go...we just love eachother more than we hate eachother most days. I suppose that's all anyone can ask for."
I know I'm a writer. I know because when I'm writing a really good scene my stomach gets tied into knots and I shake, and I feel like throwing up a little because suddenly I'm not ME, I'm my character, scared, unsure, living my life on the blank page. And it's the best kind of high.
One of my coworkers said to me the other day, "This time next year you'll be a little stronger." But I'm sick of being strong. Just one time. ONE TIME. I want to be the girl that needs looked after. The girl that makes them all say, "Watch out for her...she's fragile."
Anyway, back to the sick: I can't decide if I'm really sick and the headache, sniffles, watery-eyes, and over-heated sensations are all real. Or if I'm just sick of myself.
I know this is probably taboo, or whatever, but I really expected...I really WANTED to die with my mother. I didn't want to have to pick up and move on. Cold and closed off from the world? That's not strength. It's fear in metal armor.
In my newest book, one of the characters says, "We laugh, we make love, we move on. But we never forget. We never forgive. I still hate him for what he did to me and he still hates me for what I did to him."
Then, later, she elaborates, "We never let it go...we just love eachother more than we hate eachother most days. I suppose that's all anyone can ask for."
I know I'm a writer. I know because when I'm writing a really good scene my stomach gets tied into knots and I shake, and I feel like throwing up a little because suddenly I'm not ME, I'm my character, scared, unsure, living my life on the blank page. And it's the best kind of high.
One of my coworkers said to me the other day, "This time next year you'll be a little stronger." But I'm sick of being strong. Just one time. ONE TIME. I want to be the girl that needs looked after. The girl that makes them all say, "Watch out for her...she's fragile."
11 September 2006
The Future, written in past tense.
I looked up my long lost dog on the internet today. She's happy there, at the Border Collie Rescue. Maybe she's already forgotten the pain we gave to her. Maybe she's already found other, more-lovable and worthy companions. [Yes, I do this with everyone that leaves my life.] My friends (I should say friend. I just have the one now, if we're being honest.) ask me why I do this, torture myself with the pain. And, I don't have an answer. I mean, I think sometimes I just like the pain...the dull ache in my heart everytime I see someone I should know but don't anymore.
Years ago, I was miserable. I was acting out. I was this horrible, angry, bitter, selfish little monster. And I revelled in it. I had no reason to be so miserable. But now...now life has got up with that pain. And all I can do is remember what I was and NOT WANT TO BE THAT AGAIN. I'm fighting it. I'm fighting it with all I have, and it's hard. Too hard, sometimes. But I don't want to be broken anymore. So I smile; it releases endorphines that make you happy. I "Fake it til I make it."
The things is, I'm happy she's happy there. I'm glad I made the right choice. I hope all the things I said above are true. My biggest concern was that she was going to wonder around, looking for us...looking for her family...and die of a broken heart. Anis Nin said we see the world as we are, not as it is. And I completely agree with that. I see everything completely broken, because I am. I see Jenny searching for family, because I am. I am waiting to see how life continues without her in it.
Tonight, my aunt said, "You'll have your own dog, someday." I could hear it in her voice, the implied, "You'll have your own family someday." She wants me to start planning, start preparing, for the future she believes is going to come. And I'm still caught up with wondering when I will stop expecting to hear my mother's voice on the phone EVERYTIME I pick it up. I still feel like. I still feel like my life is on pause. Like I'm just waiting for her to get better so we can start living again. And I know that's crazy because she's gone. She's dead. And she cannot recover from that. But that only begs the question: can I recover from it?
Years ago, I was miserable. I was acting out. I was this horrible, angry, bitter, selfish little monster. And I revelled in it. I had no reason to be so miserable. But now...now life has got up with that pain. And all I can do is remember what I was and NOT WANT TO BE THAT AGAIN. I'm fighting it. I'm fighting it with all I have, and it's hard. Too hard, sometimes. But I don't want to be broken anymore. So I smile; it releases endorphines that make you happy. I "Fake it til I make it."
The things is, I'm happy she's happy there. I'm glad I made the right choice. I hope all the things I said above are true. My biggest concern was that she was going to wonder around, looking for us...looking for her family...and die of a broken heart. Anis Nin said we see the world as we are, not as it is. And I completely agree with that. I see everything completely broken, because I am. I see Jenny searching for family, because I am. I am waiting to see how life continues without her in it.
Tonight, my aunt said, "You'll have your own dog, someday." I could hear it in her voice, the implied, "You'll have your own family someday." She wants me to start planning, start preparing, for the future she believes is going to come. And I'm still caught up with wondering when I will stop expecting to hear my mother's voice on the phone EVERYTIME I pick it up. I still feel like. I still feel like my life is on pause. Like I'm just waiting for her to get better so we can start living again. And I know that's crazy because she's gone. She's dead. And she cannot recover from that. But that only begs the question: can I recover from it?
04 September 2006
A Treat, For You, On Labor Day.
IT IS A PO-EM. It's a whole lotta fiction. I call it "Then, Perhaps." It was inspired by taking lines from my saved IMs and trying to line them up.
With my deepest regrets for ruining the story, the phrases are:
"Please, blow my mind with your Econo-Wash stories. Lotto Tickets sold, quarters traded for tokens." --Me, to Bryan, because he was mad that I didn't ask about his day.
"Just fucking say it: You used to be too good for me. We both knew." --Sean, to me, about how he was moving to Montana (or something) and moving on with his life WITHOUT me. And how it would hurt me, a lot, once he was gone. (BTW, he was wrong. I'm happy. &I hope he is too.)
"I can no longer think of witty things to say." --Me, to Ladd, about becoming stupid now that I'm not in school.
"Strippers must wait. There is rent to be paid." -- John-My-Army-Friend-Who-Watches-The-Gilmore-Girls (That's his Indian name) about strip clubs.
"STOP HIDING BEHIND YOUR ANGRY AWAY MESSAGE! NOW! I KNOW YOU'RE THERE!" -- my cousin, demanding my presense.
"We don't sleep together anymore. Don't you love me? You didn't even realize I was gone, I bet." -- Ella, pretending to be my Raggedy Ann Doll, which she KIDNAPPED.
Now, the PO-EM.
We don’t sleep together anymore
Because I can no longer think
Of witty things to say.
Instead, I let your cynicism go untouched.
And twirl my hair around my finger.
Then ask about a movie we haven’t seen yet.
We are running out of movies.
You don’t kiss my collar bone anymore
Because you don’t know where I put it
Underneath the rest of me.
You try to kiss other places
But none of them feel the same. And I hate change,
And you are starting to hate me.
You miss my sharp edges, the way
I used to be too good for you. But you won’t say so.
We are even now.
I don’t let you ask about me anymore
Because there is nothing left to tell:
You know it all.
Instead, I beg that you tell me more
About your day, the wild adventures you have
At the Econo-Wash, with quarters and lotto tickets.
You have had your fill of quirky customers but
There is rent to pay.
We don’t stop saying, “I love you”
Because you claim to still feel it
And I only know what happens until
That point. After, you probably ask me to leave.
And I have no where to go. Then,
Perhaps, we will fight, loudly, words with meaning
And you will push me into the mattress and
Peel my clothes off while screaming,
“Stop hiding! Stop hiding where I can’t find you.”
Then, perhaps, I will stop hiding.
What say you, the masses?
With my deepest regrets for ruining the story, the phrases are:
"Please, blow my mind with your Econo-Wash stories. Lotto Tickets sold, quarters traded for tokens." --Me, to Bryan, because he was mad that I didn't ask about his day.
"Just fucking say it: You used to be too good for me. We both knew." --Sean, to me, about how he was moving to Montana (or something) and moving on with his life WITHOUT me. And how it would hurt me, a lot, once he was gone. (BTW, he was wrong. I'm happy. &I hope he is too.)
"I can no longer think of witty things to say." --Me, to Ladd, about becoming stupid now that I'm not in school.
"Strippers must wait. There is rent to be paid." -- John-My-Army-Friend-Who-Watches-The-Gilmore-Girls (That's his Indian name) about strip clubs.
"STOP HIDING BEHIND YOUR ANGRY AWAY MESSAGE! NOW! I KNOW YOU'RE THERE!" -- my cousin, demanding my presense.
"We don't sleep together anymore. Don't you love me? You didn't even realize I was gone, I bet." -- Ella, pretending to be my Raggedy Ann Doll, which she KIDNAPPED.
Now, the PO-EM.
We don’t sleep together anymore
Because I can no longer think
Of witty things to say.
Instead, I let your cynicism go untouched.
And twirl my hair around my finger.
Then ask about a movie we haven’t seen yet.
We are running out of movies.
You don’t kiss my collar bone anymore
Because you don’t know where I put it
Underneath the rest of me.
You try to kiss other places
But none of them feel the same. And I hate change,
And you are starting to hate me.
You miss my sharp edges, the way
I used to be too good for you. But you won’t say so.
We are even now.
I don’t let you ask about me anymore
Because there is nothing left to tell:
You know it all.
Instead, I beg that you tell me more
About your day, the wild adventures you have
At the Econo-Wash, with quarters and lotto tickets.
You have had your fill of quirky customers but
There is rent to pay.
We don’t stop saying, “I love you”
Because you claim to still feel it
And I only know what happens until
That point. After, you probably ask me to leave.
And I have no where to go. Then,
Perhaps, we will fight, loudly, words with meaning
And you will push me into the mattress and
Peel my clothes off while screaming,
“Stop hiding! Stop hiding where I can’t find you.”
Then, perhaps, I will stop hiding.
What say you, the masses?
06 August 2006
God is on my list.
Right before my mother died she got this peaceful look on her face. For days-no...WEEKS-before that moment it was pained, suffering, scared. But the moments right before her death? Absolutely tranquil. This makes me certain there is a God. Also, I consider it highly probable that he is good. And this gives me comfort. So, if you think the idea of God is something we create to make ourselves feel better, this would ALSO be a prime example of that. You can walk that path, but mine's better...promise.
Here's the thing...if there's no heaven, no hell then we die and we never have to worry about what we did or did not attone for. Because there is a big empty nothing. I don't like that concept too much.
I like the idea that our suffering means something. I like the idea that at the end of it all we get something for our faith. I don't even need for it to be eternal life in God's Kingdom. Maybe it's just an acknowledgement, a pat on the back, an apology. Moral-atheists think this is selfish and, therefore, wrong. Maybe it is. But it's mine.
The thing is here on Earth, we live in real-time. And real-time sucks. Real-time didn't know my mother was having massive brain-killing strokes until it was too late to fix them. So, YES, I have to believe there is a better world where things like that don't happen. I have to believe that because if there isn't; if this is all there is, it isn't worth living. I used to tell people "The best secrets are kept." But now I wish they weren't. I used to say, "The most important revelations come seconds too late."
Those are the facts: God is who God is, and we will never know who that is until it's too late to change our minds about Him.
Here's the thing...if there's no heaven, no hell then we die and we never have to worry about what we did or did not attone for. Because there is a big empty nothing. I don't like that concept too much.
I like the idea that our suffering means something. I like the idea that at the end of it all we get something for our faith. I don't even need for it to be eternal life in God's Kingdom. Maybe it's just an acknowledgement, a pat on the back, an apology. Moral-atheists think this is selfish and, therefore, wrong. Maybe it is. But it's mine.
The thing is here on Earth, we live in real-time. And real-time sucks. Real-time didn't know my mother was having massive brain-killing strokes until it was too late to fix them. So, YES, I have to believe there is a better world where things like that don't happen. I have to believe that because if there isn't; if this is all there is, it isn't worth living. I used to tell people "The best secrets are kept." But now I wish they weren't. I used to say, "The most important revelations come seconds too late."
Those are the facts: God is who God is, and we will never know who that is until it's too late to change our minds about Him.
02 August 2006
Before and After.
A poem about the life I'm living right now. In two parts, as realizations always are.
Part One, Before .
Before, when everything was in its place
You said, “Do not come to watch me die.”
But I always knew: I would watch as your chest stilled,
Then danced once more. You would never leave us
Unless we left you first. I never leave first.
Before, I dreamt that God
Would watch me as your chest stilled:
He would see, and harbor immediate regret.
Lightening would flash admist us, and you would arise,
We would hold hands, and tell the world, “This is what faith can do.”
I watch you as your breaths became shallower,
I try to do the same to my own
But they won’t quit.
I kiss you—eyelids, shoulder, lips—
Trying to cling to you with everything I have, and you recognize it.
You flutter open, gasping to replace the air you gave, already, to God
Then whisper, “Not today,” to eveyone that has gathered
And they wander away, leaving us to our plans and dreams.
I climb into you and let you hold me,
The way I hadn’t before, the way that feels like good-bye but isn't.
And you smile, and we have forever, just like this.
Part Two, After .
After, they say, “It will hurt less in time.”
But I no longer have time before me, just behind.
Time chills me to my core with great disdain.
After, all I have is before.
There is no now, there is no future.
There are just those moments, the ones full of despair,
And the moments before, the moments that weren’t yours,
But should have been.
Before, you had told me dreams don’t die.
After, it became clear, my dreams had never gotten their chance to live.
Part One, Before .
Before, when everything was in its place
You said, “Do not come to watch me die.”
But I always knew: I would watch as your chest stilled,
Then danced once more. You would never leave us
Unless we left you first. I never leave first.
Before, I dreamt that God
Would watch me as your chest stilled:
He would see, and harbor immediate regret.
Lightening would flash admist us, and you would arise,
We would hold hands, and tell the world, “This is what faith can do.”
I watch you as your breaths became shallower,
I try to do the same to my own
But they won’t quit.
I kiss you—eyelids, shoulder, lips—
Trying to cling to you with everything I have, and you recognize it.
You flutter open, gasping to replace the air you gave, already, to God
Then whisper, “Not today,” to eveyone that has gathered
And they wander away, leaving us to our plans and dreams.
I climb into you and let you hold me,
The way I hadn’t before, the way that feels like good-bye but isn't.
And you smile, and we have forever, just like this.
Part Two, After .
After, they say, “It will hurt less in time.”
But I no longer have time before me, just behind.
Time chills me to my core with great disdain.
After, all I have is before.
There is no now, there is no future.
There are just those moments, the ones full of despair,
And the moments before, the moments that weren’t yours,
But should have been.
Before, you had told me dreams don’t die.
After, it became clear, my dreams had never gotten their chance to live.
31 July 2006
Responsibilities
I'm looking for a job. Sometimes. When I'm not busy thinking about other things. Like how I'm never going to see my mother again. In 2008, when Hilary runs for President, she isn't going to say, "You're being silly." when I tell people girls shouldn't be President. And this year, on the 25th, no one is going to curl up with me and tell me the story of the day I was born.
I'm never going to get one of her random phone calls or cards just to say how grateful she feels to have me in her life. She will never meet the man I choose to spend forever with. She will never see me graduate, or get my first real job, or birthe her grandchildren.
I try to get through it with what is, quite possibly, the most ridiculous exercise I've ever had: I wake up and tell myself, "I can go ___ days without seeing her." It's 9 p.m. and proof is positive: I can survive 38 days without speaking to my mom. But as the numbers get higher I realize, more and more, the manta is harder to say. I lay in bed at night and wonder can I? Can I really go the 39th day? When 38 was harder than anything else I've ever been through.
Then it spreads, I stop thinking in terms of days and I remember that I'll be without her for the rest of my life. And I know, I know by the hollow feeling in my gut that I can't go the rest of my life. I'm not strong enough. My entire life was flipped upside down when my dad and I parted ways and I moved in with her. I learned so much. I learned her.
My room is full of her stuff. Boxes and boxes of her things that I'm struggling to find a place for in my life. But nothing seems like it fits. I feel like I'm four all over wearing one of her dresses and a string of pearls. Wobbling in her red pumps, while she looks on with that smile...that smile of hers that everyone says I have but I don't ever see anymore. I feel like I don't fit in any of it. Like I won't ever fit anywhere again...
I'm never going to get one of her random phone calls or cards just to say how grateful she feels to have me in her life. She will never meet the man I choose to spend forever with. She will never see me graduate, or get my first real job, or birthe her grandchildren.
I try to get through it with what is, quite possibly, the most ridiculous exercise I've ever had: I wake up and tell myself, "I can go ___ days without seeing her." It's 9 p.m. and proof is positive: I can survive 38 days without speaking to my mom. But as the numbers get higher I realize, more and more, the manta is harder to say. I lay in bed at night and wonder can I? Can I really go the 39th day? When 38 was harder than anything else I've ever been through.
Then it spreads, I stop thinking in terms of days and I remember that I'll be without her for the rest of my life. And I know, I know by the hollow feeling in my gut that I can't go the rest of my life. I'm not strong enough. My entire life was flipped upside down when my dad and I parted ways and I moved in with her. I learned so much. I learned her.
My room is full of her stuff. Boxes and boxes of her things that I'm struggling to find a place for in my life. But nothing seems like it fits. I feel like I'm four all over wearing one of her dresses and a string of pearls. Wobbling in her red pumps, while she looks on with that smile...that smile of hers that everyone says I have but I don't ever see anymore. I feel like I don't fit in any of it. Like I won't ever fit anywhere again...
30 July 2006
Someday we all run out of chances.
I haven't written since April. There hasn't been much time. My mother had a stroke which followed with a long line on other hospital visits and stays. She was getting better then she wasn't then she was again. But she really wasn't. She passed away June 24th. That's the short version. The long version is too hard to tell right now. Reserved only for friends. The good ones. The ones that come to funerals even if it's been a while. The ones that let you cry when you run out of words. The ones that show up at your house with your favorite funny movies because "That's just what friends do for eachother."
I was never that type of friend before, I don't think. But everything changes when you go through something like death. I learned alot from her bedside. I learned to reach out more, to live wiser and gentler, to be bold. I learned that life's too short to wait for tomorrows that may never come.
I learned that if you love someone, if you care about them, you have to keep telling them...even if you're not sure they're listening, even when you're positive that they aren't. Because someday, we all run out of chances...and we have to revel in backwards thought, all the memories, all the moments that came before.
I was never that type of friend before, I don't think. But everything changes when you go through something like death. I learned alot from her bedside. I learned to reach out more, to live wiser and gentler, to be bold. I learned that life's too short to wait for tomorrows that may never come.
I learned that if you love someone, if you care about them, you have to keep telling them...even if you're not sure they're listening, even when you're positive that they aren't. Because someday, we all run out of chances...and we have to revel in backwards thought, all the memories, all the moments that came before.
30 November 2005
I GOT PUNK'D
Me: So what are we doing before the movie?
J: I promised a friend of mine we'd visit her at work.
Me: Is it a place we can grab dinner?
J: (Dismissively, and most misleading) Yeah...
Me: Okay.
------twenty minutes later------
Me: (Looking around) John? Is your friend a stripper?
J: She prefers "Professional dancer." I think you'll like her; (she) calls herself Italia.
I just opened the car door and said, "Well played, well played."
J: I promised a friend of mine we'd visit her at work.
Me: Is it a place we can grab dinner?
J: (Dismissively, and most misleading) Yeah...
Me: Okay.
------twenty minutes later------
Me: (Looking around) John? Is your friend a stripper?
J: She prefers "Professional dancer." I think you'll like her; (she) calls herself Italia.
I just opened the car door and said, "Well played, well played."
21 November 2005
Where's censorship when you want it?
Nerve would like me to be well informed about reproductive rights. Well, actually, I think their audience was slightly better than one. Anyway, I read this article on the 15th and, yet again, had to take a moment to shake my head back and forth and make that "abadabadabada" sound. Not because it was politically staggering. Because it implies that my generation, and the generation after mine (do we still name these things? Cause I could use some help here, generic generation-naming people.) are too stupid to know what they are signing up for. And the ironic part is that she is trying to gain our support with this crap. I wasn't expecting to like everything I read, I liked Nerve's overall concept and that was enough for me. But, God, did this lady burn me up.
The article in question is about an organization called "Feminists for Life." They, much like they're name implies, are feminists...and pro-life. They (if I'm reading this right, and by all means, click the link and find out for yourself) take their politics back, way back, to the only power feminist I generally (don't get excited Molly, I said generally) agreed with: Susan B. Anthony. Then the writer gives her a power quote, "When a woman destroys the life of her unborn child, it is a sign that, by education or circumstances, she has been greatly wronged." Um, kinda Susan, kinda.
I would take it out there another level, and this is probably because I'm a part of this new "middle ground" generation: when a woman wants to destroy the life of her child, it is a sign she has been wronged by society. But, in all fairness, she may not have been wronged by society at all, she may just have heard other people talking about how they, or their sister, or their generic third-party friend were wronged by society and thought, "Oh, a bandwagon, pretty!" Anyway, you get the point. FFL would like us to know women don't have to choose between motherhood and the rest of our lives. So file every time you ever heard THAT one (which, for me, is never) under "masculine myth" right along side whatever other lies feminists claim 'they (the people in charge of perpetuating said myth)' told us (I never had the MM explained to me, just thrown in my direction at a rapid speed.)
I would not attach myself to this group (FFL) for two main reasons: The "feminist" part of the title. I am not (although, some friends harbor doubts and feel I may be closeted.) a feminist. In my mind feminism in today's society is off track to an egregious extent. I don't mind so much the whole equality thing (ha! I said I don't mind gender equality...you can throw stuff at me now.) it's the part where women start to believe that to be equal to men you have to be like them. That just doesn't work for me: I like having girl-parts, I like having female responsibilities such as procreation, I like knowing that someday I will make a vow to love honor and obey, I like knowing someday I'll make those vows to a man that loves me enough not to abuse them. To me that's what being a woman is, and it's entirely different that what being a man is...and, quite frankly, I like what we got better than what they got.
The second reason is, (and I'm going to take this moment to partially redeem myself in the eyes of whatever liberal-geared people are still reading this. So, prepare to say "I have no idea what Jackleen stands for in society at all.") I'm not "pro-life." Let me clarify. Politically, I am not pro-life. Personally and morally, I am against abortion. (I hate when people use the terms pro-choice, pro-life, pro-abortion, anti-abortion like they're all interchangable.) I'm against abortion AND, while that's my personal and moral choice, I'm not into making it everyone else's. If someone were to ask me what they should do in that situation, I would tell them not to have an abortion. I would tell them why I thought they shouldn't and then I would say, "But this is, ultimately, a decision you have to arrive at on your own terms." I am pro-choice because I do not believe the choice is whether or not to kill your child. It's do you believe that is what you are doing? Which leads into this whole other thing I have about father's rights...but that is a matter for a different day.
The point of today is the tiny ball of fury I felt in my stomach when I read this, "more and more young women are finding it easy to oppose abortion because they weren't pregnant young women in 1972. Those are the women FFL is targeting, and those are the women who'll respond...They'll respond because they'll fall for the notion that FFL is unique in its efforts to address the causes of unwanted pregnancy and abortion...They'll respond because it hasn't occurred to them that a woman could have all the possible resources available to her and still not want to become a mother." It hasn't occured to us? What? Every one of the sentences in the last paragraph was more offensive than the one before. I'll tell you what OCCURED to me: if a woman has ALL THE POSSIBLE RESOURCES and DOESN'T WANT TO BE A MOTHER, then perhaps they should take a few steps BEFORE abortion. I have heard a lot of woman say they won't use the pill/shot/patch/et al because there is a risk it can impede your plans for pregnancy in the long run. But, this doesn't apply to said woman, who doesn't want to be a mother at all. This leads into my belief that abortion is rarely necessary anymore. It's outdated. It's passe. In fact, what the author above apparently wanted us to forget is what happening all the possible resources actually means: the choice not to have sex, contraceptives, plan B, and adoption. If you don't utilize the first three...maybe waiting several months for the fourth is (at the risk of being hunted down, screamed at, and kicked in the shins) in your best interest.
I don't think I've ever blogged like this before. So abrupt and political...and part of me is sorry. Because you shouldn't blog angry, and I know that. But I am angry, and even a few days to calm down didn't change that. Don't assume we're stupid, it will only enable us to point back and shout the same things. I mean, duh, how scary and sad is it that women who need support for their cause buy and sell it at the price of their own sisters. You want equality? How about unity? How the hell do feminists expect to foster equality in the male/female community when they can't even see equality in the female community?
Besides, you can't sell what people aren't shopping for. And I, for one, am not looking to abandon my femininity. Not even for a top office, a fancy car, a bigger voice in the Senate, or the ability to walk past construction workers. (I hereby apologize to construction workers, you probably get a bad rap, and I get more hassle from frat boys than I ever got from you...)
The article in question is about an organization called "Feminists for Life." They, much like they're name implies, are feminists...and pro-life. They (if I'm reading this right, and by all means, click the link and find out for yourself) take their politics back, way back, to the only power feminist I generally (don't get excited Molly, I said generally) agreed with: Susan B. Anthony. Then the writer gives her a power quote, "When a woman destroys the life of her unborn child, it is a sign that, by education or circumstances, she has been greatly wronged." Um, kinda Susan, kinda.
I would take it out there another level, and this is probably because I'm a part of this new "middle ground" generation: when a woman wants to destroy the life of her child, it is a sign she has been wronged by society. But, in all fairness, she may not have been wronged by society at all, she may just have heard other people talking about how they, or their sister, or their generic third-party friend were wronged by society and thought, "Oh, a bandwagon, pretty!" Anyway, you get the point. FFL would like us to know women don't have to choose between motherhood and the rest of our lives. So file every time you ever heard THAT one (which, for me, is never) under "masculine myth" right along side whatever other lies feminists claim 'they (the people in charge of perpetuating said myth)' told us (I never had the MM explained to me, just thrown in my direction at a rapid speed.)
I would not attach myself to this group (FFL) for two main reasons: The "feminist" part of the title. I am not (although, some friends harbor doubts and feel I may be closeted.) a feminist. In my mind feminism in today's society is off track to an egregious extent. I don't mind so much the whole equality thing (ha! I said I don't mind gender equality...you can throw stuff at me now.) it's the part where women start to believe that to be equal to men you have to be like them. That just doesn't work for me: I like having girl-parts, I like having female responsibilities such as procreation, I like knowing that someday I will make a vow to love honor and obey, I like knowing someday I'll make those vows to a man that loves me enough not to abuse them. To me that's what being a woman is, and it's entirely different that what being a man is...and, quite frankly, I like what we got better than what they got.
The second reason is, (and I'm going to take this moment to partially redeem myself in the eyes of whatever liberal-geared people are still reading this. So, prepare to say "I have no idea what Jackleen stands for in society at all.") I'm not "pro-life." Let me clarify. Politically, I am not pro-life. Personally and morally, I am against abortion. (I hate when people use the terms pro-choice, pro-life, pro-abortion, anti-abortion like they're all interchangable.) I'm against abortion AND, while that's my personal and moral choice, I'm not into making it everyone else's. If someone were to ask me what they should do in that situation, I would tell them not to have an abortion. I would tell them why I thought they shouldn't and then I would say, "But this is, ultimately, a decision you have to arrive at on your own terms." I am pro-choice because I do not believe the choice is whether or not to kill your child. It's do you believe that is what you are doing? Which leads into this whole other thing I have about father's rights...but that is a matter for a different day.
The point of today is the tiny ball of fury I felt in my stomach when I read this, "more and more young women are finding it easy to oppose abortion because they weren't pregnant young women in 1972. Those are the women FFL is targeting, and those are the women who'll respond...They'll respond because they'll fall for the notion that FFL is unique in its efforts to address the causes of unwanted pregnancy and abortion...They'll respond because it hasn't occurred to them that a woman could have all the possible resources available to her and still not want to become a mother." It hasn't occured to us? What? Every one of the sentences in the last paragraph was more offensive than the one before. I'll tell you what OCCURED to me: if a woman has ALL THE POSSIBLE RESOURCES and DOESN'T WANT TO BE A MOTHER, then perhaps they should take a few steps BEFORE abortion. I have heard a lot of woman say they won't use the pill/shot/patch/et al because there is a risk it can impede your plans for pregnancy in the long run. But, this doesn't apply to said woman, who doesn't want to be a mother at all. This leads into my belief that abortion is rarely necessary anymore. It's outdated. It's passe. In fact, what the author above apparently wanted us to forget is what happening all the possible resources actually means: the choice not to have sex, contraceptives, plan B, and adoption. If you don't utilize the first three...maybe waiting several months for the fourth is (at the risk of being hunted down, screamed at, and kicked in the shins) in your best interest.
I don't think I've ever blogged like this before. So abrupt and political...and part of me is sorry. Because you shouldn't blog angry, and I know that. But I am angry, and even a few days to calm down didn't change that. Don't assume we're stupid, it will only enable us to point back and shout the same things. I mean, duh, how scary and sad is it that women who need support for their cause buy and sell it at the price of their own sisters. You want equality? How about unity? How the hell do feminists expect to foster equality in the male/female community when they can't even see equality in the female community?
Besides, you can't sell what people aren't shopping for. And I, for one, am not looking to abandon my femininity. Not even for a top office, a fancy car, a bigger voice in the Senate, or the ability to walk past construction workers. (I hereby apologize to construction workers, you probably get a bad rap, and I get more hassle from frat boys than I ever got from you...)
16 November 2005
Props and Commonsense
I was waiting for my coffee this morning. There was a long line, and there were only two Baristas. It was KivaHan, that's how they roll. You want fancy calling and celerity? Starbucks is right across the way. You want good coffee? Shut up and wait. Here's a hint, don't screw with me pre-coffee. Here's a second hint, don't brag to me about being from New York.
"If this were New York they'd have more baristas for the rush."
I look behind me, "Is that so?"
"Yes," he says, obviously not sensing my sardonic undertone. "I'm from New York City...and they always have three or four counters for the morning rush."
"You should try Starbucks--"
"I'm not into commercial."
I wanted to laugh in his face...because, hello. He was wearing A&F, carrying his lil IPOD, and had sunglasses resting in his hairline. I said, "You certainly name-drop like you're "into" commercial."
"I don't need your attitude this morning."
"My attitude? Sweetie, you should have stayed in New York City."
He scoffs, "Agreed. It was infinitely better than this dump."
Now, normally, I only have to put up with this from the Philadelphia crowd. So, I was thrown of my game. Also, I was pissed because I had just mentioned to THE WORLD how I hate when people try to city-up on me.
"New York City is dull. Not only is it dull, but it is overrated." It shouldn't cost $3000 a month to live in a city that smells like garbage. THERE IS NOTHING SoHo about you. I do not envy your $200 burgers and 'cocktails with the stars.'
In the early 1900s NYC was hot. It was an immigrant's struggle and the working class man. It was comedy on the corners and drama in the apartment complex. Now? It's a whole bunch of selfrighteous idiots standing around try to get in on the action 100 years too late. "We're cool because we're New Yorkers." Umm...no. Status is something you have to work for. And pawning your color tv, your DVD player, and nearly all of your DVD collection to pay for a Versace suit doesn't qualify.
The last time I went there on a pleasure trip was in August. It was so hot I could smell the garbage cooking on its barges. Everywhere I went it reeked of stale newspaper and bananas. The people were rude and not in the "this is our ambience" way. They weren't rude to me, they were rude to eachother, complaining over and over again about absolutely everything they saw. "Why do women bring their children with them here." "I know, they always close when I start to enjoy myself." Their voices were stratching at my brain. The streets were crowded, too crowded. As in, if I had dropped something, I should just carry on without it because it wouldn't have been worth listening to everyone bitch about the "traffic jam."
NYC is the highschool of cities. People go there when they want to grow up without really growing up. Just look at the girls on Sex in the City. Read chiklit for that matter read any of the books I like to classify as "Knick-lit" where the author thought "I know how to sell this book...once upon a time in New York City..." Even their corporate world deals in scandal and backstabbing. The whole city reads like kids in brand new Nikes picking teams for dodgeball. Add NYC (and all its city-livers) to the list of things I'm "So over."
"If this were New York they'd have more baristas for the rush."
I look behind me, "Is that so?"
"Yes," he says, obviously not sensing my sardonic undertone. "I'm from New York City...and they always have three or four counters for the morning rush."
"You should try Starbucks--"
"I'm not into commercial."
I wanted to laugh in his face...because, hello. He was wearing A&F, carrying his lil IPOD, and had sunglasses resting in his hairline. I said, "You certainly name-drop like you're "into" commercial."
"I don't need your attitude this morning."
"My attitude? Sweetie, you should have stayed in New York City."
He scoffs, "Agreed. It was infinitely better than this dump."
Now, normally, I only have to put up with this from the Philadelphia crowd. So, I was thrown of my game. Also, I was pissed because I had just mentioned to THE WORLD how I hate when people try to city-up on me.
"New York City is dull. Not only is it dull, but it is overrated." It shouldn't cost $3000 a month to live in a city that smells like garbage. THERE IS NOTHING SoHo about you. I do not envy your $200 burgers and 'cocktails with the stars.'
In the early 1900s NYC was hot. It was an immigrant's struggle and the working class man. It was comedy on the corners and drama in the apartment complex. Now? It's a whole bunch of selfrighteous idiots standing around try to get in on the action 100 years too late. "We're cool because we're New Yorkers." Umm...no. Status is something you have to work for. And pawning your color tv, your DVD player, and nearly all of your DVD collection to pay for a Versace suit doesn't qualify.
The last time I went there on a pleasure trip was in August. It was so hot I could smell the garbage cooking on its barges. Everywhere I went it reeked of stale newspaper and bananas. The people were rude and not in the "this is our ambience" way. They weren't rude to me, they were rude to eachother, complaining over and over again about absolutely everything they saw. "Why do women bring their children with them here." "I know, they always close when I start to enjoy myself." Their voices were stratching at my brain. The streets were crowded, too crowded. As in, if I had dropped something, I should just carry on without it because it wouldn't have been worth listening to everyone bitch about the "traffic jam."
NYC is the highschool of cities. People go there when they want to grow up without really growing up. Just look at the girls on Sex in the City. Read chiklit for that matter read any of the books I like to classify as "Knick-lit" where the author thought "I know how to sell this book...once upon a time in New York City..." Even their corporate world deals in scandal and backstabbing. The whole city reads like kids in brand new Nikes picking teams for dodgeball. Add NYC (and all its city-livers) to the list of things I'm "So over."
14 November 2005
La LaLaList.
My book, Shoes to be Worn on the Left Foot was born of a writing exercise I invented. The premise of the exercise was to turn poetry into prose. If you haven't had that explained to you (because of the rock you live under) then you'll have to wait until May 2007, when the book is released in stores nationwide. (You should totally read that sentence over and over in your head and think "Po-wah!" I know I do.)
Moving on, that writing exercise, which was titled "Coupling," is dead to me now. [Okay, it's not really dead to me but it's not my fruitful laborings anymore. A-duh, the book is done.] So, I've been forced to create a second exercise. It is fully inspired by my military "roots." In ROTC, everytime you need to learn something the best way is to list it. You just write the thing you're studying and then bullet below it everything you can remember about it. If you can remember at least thirty things, you're prepared. This exercise requires a very Hemingway approach. This means, "Every day I write for two hours, no matter what."
- - - - - That is your background, this is your game. - - - - -
Create a topic for you list, it can be fictional or self-centric. The list can be written in po-em or free hand with bullets or numbers. Then you either turn the list into the piece (using the list as phrases in the piece, or as moments in the plot, etc) or pick one of the items and elaborating.
I think this is the beginning of a new book. And by book I mean collection, and you totally can watch it development and/or take part in it by clicking on LaLink.
Moving on, that writing exercise, which was titled "Coupling," is dead to me now. [Okay, it's not really dead to me but it's not my fruitful laborings anymore. A-duh, the book is done.] So, I've been forced to create a second exercise. It is fully inspired by my military "roots." In ROTC, everytime you need to learn something the best way is to list it. You just write the thing you're studying and then bullet below it everything you can remember about it. If you can remember at least thirty things, you're prepared. This exercise requires a very Hemingway approach. This means, "Every day I write for two hours, no matter what."
- - - - - That is your background, this is your game. - - - - -
Create a topic for you list, it can be fictional or self-centric. The list can be written in po-em or free hand with bullets or numbers. Then you either turn the list into the piece (using the list as phrases in the piece, or as moments in the plot, etc) or pick one of the items and elaborating.
I think this is the beginning of a new book. And by book I mean collection, and you totally can watch it development and/or take part in it by clicking on LaLink.
10 November 2005
History
When they record my life in big, spiral-bound volumes what will your part be? A page, a chapter? Or maybe just a footnote. "See: friends I had in highschool. See: sweet things people have done. See: the color orange."
I don't want that. I don't want you to be a footnote, any of you. I'm tired of remembering. I wish that I didn't have a memory so I could just be happy with what I have and not look back to what used to be there too and say, "And that, why can't I have that too?"
I don't want that. I don't want you to be a footnote, any of you. I'm tired of remembering. I wish that I didn't have a memory so I could just be happy with what I have and not look back to what used to be there too and say, "And that, why can't I have that too?"
31 October 2005
Bant-boo Combinations
*Note* If you're not a huge dork, you're going to think that's the worst title in the world. I'm going to be okay with that. Because even though some people hate me tonight, other people don't. So. Yeah, "Be gone before somebody drops a house on YOU, TOO!"
"Crunching leaves under-foot,
We walk space-by-space.
And breathe in autumn,
And hang on for dear life
Past the twentysomething zombies
Who laugh after screaming, “BOO!”
And shooting us sky-high."
We we were little, that was Halloween. Now, we're closer to the twentysomethings...I can't decide if we grow up or just grow older. But either way, it's nice to have people worth growing with. John-the-writer and I did this compilation piece together (in the spirit of Halloween, and in the spirit Shoes... Poems and stories, eh?)
So, here's the whole thing:
What is it about fall that makes us feel this way? Is it that ever-so-satisfying crunch that the leaves make under our feet? Is it the cool, crisp autumn breeze that relieves us from stagnant summers? Is it the hints of cinnamon and pumpkin spice that waft over to us from the kitchen? Is it sitting by the fire with our cider mugs? For me, it's all these things and more.
For you, I think, it's Halloween. The pitter-patter of children's feet as they scramble to our door. Holding our breath as we drive past the graveyard. The twentysomething zombies who try to scare us and think they're so cool in their eye make-up. And all that leftover candy.
Together we are partners, you and I, in appreciating all that October has to offer:
Crunching leaves under-foot,
We walk space-by-space.
&breathe in autumn,
& hang on for dear life
Past the twentysomething zombies
Who laugh after screaming, “BOO!”
And shooting us sky-high.
We will laugh later,
from the safety of our living room
about the old lady who gave us pennies
about the bed-sheet ghouls.
We will trade--
popcorn balls for peanut butter treats
&drink spiced cider until our toes are warm again.
We will dream up crazy ideas for next year
soaping windows and throwing eggs
---we never will. But it's fun to pretend,
it's fun to feel like anything is possible.
We will blow out the candles in our jack-o-lanterns
and, even though it's not the rules,
make an extra wish,
that life will always feel like this:
magic.
"Crunching leaves under-foot,
We walk space-by-space.
And breathe in autumn,
And hang on for dear life
Past the twentysomething zombies
Who laugh after screaming, “BOO!”
And shooting us sky-high."
We we were little, that was Halloween. Now, we're closer to the twentysomethings...I can't decide if we grow up or just grow older. But either way, it's nice to have people worth growing with. John-the-writer and I did this compilation piece together (in the spirit of Halloween, and in the spirit Shoes... Poems and stories, eh?)
So, here's the whole thing:
What is it about fall that makes us feel this way? Is it that ever-so-satisfying crunch that the leaves make under our feet? Is it the cool, crisp autumn breeze that relieves us from stagnant summers? Is it the hints of cinnamon and pumpkin spice that waft over to us from the kitchen? Is it sitting by the fire with our cider mugs? For me, it's all these things and more.
For you, I think, it's Halloween. The pitter-patter of children's feet as they scramble to our door. Holding our breath as we drive past the graveyard. The twentysomething zombies who try to scare us and think they're so cool in their eye make-up. And all that leftover candy.
Together we are partners, you and I, in appreciating all that October has to offer:
Crunching leaves under-foot,
We walk space-by-space.
&breathe in autumn,
& hang on for dear life
Past the twentysomething zombies
Who laugh after screaming, “BOO!”
And shooting us sky-high.
We will laugh later,
from the safety of our living room
about the old lady who gave us pennies
about the bed-sheet ghouls.
We will trade--
popcorn balls for peanut butter treats
&drink spiced cider until our toes are warm again.
We will dream up crazy ideas for next year
soaping windows and throwing eggs
---we never will. But it's fun to pretend,
it's fun to feel like anything is possible.
We will blow out the candles in our jack-o-lanterns
and, even though it's not the rules,
make an extra wish,
that life will always feel like this:
magic.
30 October 2005
The Write Stuff
This week I bought two brand new fountain pens. I like to write with them; it makes me feel authentic. A good pen, like good penmanship, is distinctive. Or, maybe it's closer to your scent. People know me for my "signature" details. They recognize my scent, my loopy-letters, my Pilot G-2, my break-up call. I don't like to switch things up. I find something I like, and it's mine...forever. Or, at least until something better comes along.
Saturday, I took my signature pen for a test drive. When I say "signature pen" I mean that is its purpose; I sign things with it. It's a Pelikan White Tiger. I looked at, and sat with, literally hundreds of pens before I chose it. It will undoubtedly be with me forever, so I did not mind the small fortune it cost me. The gentleman that sold me the pen said to me, "You have to be careful with this pen. It demands so much attention itself. A pretty lady like you doesn't want to be over-shadowed." I assured him that would not be a problem. "I want a signature pen. A pen that only arises after my demands have been met." At the bank, when I signed the papers to open a new account, the accountant just watched the pen as it swirled back and forth. My life felt like poetry. He said, "That's a gorgeous pen. Montblanc?" And I said, "No, they're too heavy. I need a fine point...Pelikan." And I felt demure. DEMURE. I know...the last time I used to word I was talking about Greta Garbo.
The second pen is a Pilot, could you expect any less? I'm a Pilot Pen girl in the core of my heart. My everyday, convenience store, pen is (in case you didn't already know) a Pilot G-2 size 05 --not 07 (like I said, I need a fine point.) My everyday, yes-I-am-a-serious-writer pen is the Pilot Vanishing Point in chrome with, you guessed it, a fine point. And while it doesn't demand much attention (other than my own) just holding it makes me feel smart. And sexy, which I figure can't be a bad combination. I didn't have to try many pens to find the VP. The first store I walked into I told the man what I was looking for, how I hated pen-caps (they make you more prone to losing the pen) how I only wrote with the G-2 and he said, "I think you'll like this then." I fell in love. It slid into my hand as if someone, somewhere had molded it specifically for me and just forgotten to call.
A while back a friend told me my pen had been given to me, "deliberately and voluntarily, by one of the literary giants of the 20th century," And that was one of the single best moments of my life, realizing that. These pens, they don't have that same awe...but it's up there. Because, even though I found them this time...it kinda feels like they were waiting for me too.
PS--- Happy (begrudgingly belated) Birthday Johanna!!!
Saturday, I took my signature pen for a test drive. When I say "signature pen" I mean that is its purpose; I sign things with it. It's a Pelikan White Tiger. I looked at, and sat with, literally hundreds of pens before I chose it. It will undoubtedly be with me forever, so I did not mind the small fortune it cost me. The gentleman that sold me the pen said to me, "You have to be careful with this pen. It demands so much attention itself. A pretty lady like you doesn't want to be over-shadowed." I assured him that would not be a problem. "I want a signature pen. A pen that only arises after my demands have been met." At the bank, when I signed the papers to open a new account, the accountant just watched the pen as it swirled back and forth. My life felt like poetry. He said, "That's a gorgeous pen. Montblanc?" And I said, "No, they're too heavy. I need a fine point...Pelikan." And I felt demure. DEMURE. I know...the last time I used to word I was talking about Greta Garbo.
The second pen is a Pilot, could you expect any less? I'm a Pilot Pen girl in the core of my heart. My everyday, convenience store, pen is (in case you didn't already know) a Pilot G-2 size 05 --not 07 (like I said, I need a fine point.) My everyday, yes-I-am-a-serious-writer pen is the Pilot Vanishing Point in chrome with, you guessed it, a fine point. And while it doesn't demand much attention (other than my own) just holding it makes me feel smart. And sexy, which I figure can't be a bad combination. I didn't have to try many pens to find the VP. The first store I walked into I told the man what I was looking for, how I hated pen-caps (they make you more prone to losing the pen) how I only wrote with the G-2 and he said, "I think you'll like this then." I fell in love. It slid into my hand as if someone, somewhere had molded it specifically for me and just forgotten to call.
A while back a friend told me my pen had been given to me, "deliberately and voluntarily, by one of the literary giants of the 20th century," And that was one of the single best moments of my life, realizing that. These pens, they don't have that same awe...but it's up there. Because, even though I found them this time...it kinda feels like they were waiting for me too.
PS--- Happy (begrudgingly belated) Birthday Johanna!!!
13 October 2005
"Becoming"
Black babies can be born pale,
white like the Anglicans
gaining pigment weeks later
Justly so, I was born European,
soul of a daigo,
song of a wartime civilian
all else first, American last.
My mother's motherlands?
They rolled with lush greens,
with harsh accents, with the culture
and costume Anglicans crave.
I was born with tan in my skin,
a need to explore,
a taste of the unknown.
Our history was written on ships
on Ellis Island, in winding lines
There, millions traded it: history and heritage
for a chance at American life.
We, all the immigrant children
of Russia, of Italy, of Poland,
freed into bitter words & cold nights
spent handing down family.
Did we gain,
rewriting heritage and culture,
cutting out the past;
we became "white."
That is our American life.
white like the Anglicans
gaining pigment weeks later
Justly so, I was born European,
soul of a daigo,
song of a wartime civilian
all else first, American last.
My mother's motherlands?
They rolled with lush greens,
with harsh accents, with the culture
and costume Anglicans crave.
I was born with tan in my skin,
a need to explore,
a taste of the unknown.
Our history was written on ships
on Ellis Island, in winding lines
There, millions traded it: history and heritage
for a chance at American life.
We, all the immigrant children
of Russia, of Italy, of Poland,
freed into bitter words & cold nights
spent handing down family.
Did we gain,
rewriting heritage and culture,
cutting out the past;
we became "white."
That is our American life.
04 October 2005
Unsung
When someone asks me what my favorite food is I always think about it. And then I end up saying something like "Chicken cacciatore" or "Buffalo Wings." It's always chicken though; so at least I'm consistent. The truth is, however, that none of those are my favorite food. I always forget my REAL favorite. I don't know how, I don't know why. But the second someone asks me it just slips my mind. So, here's to CHICKEN SALAD, the real love of my edible life.
26 September 2005
Future Pulitzer Prize Winners
This is for John, and because I have very little else to blog about:
I'm filing this under mutual discovery,"To say that Hemingway recorded life is to view him as a realist. But to truly capture him you must acknowledge that he recorded life solely to examine what else it was...what else it could be."
John: You know what I'd like to change grammatically? The homophones "hear" and "here." I think it would be more interesting and extremely poetic if they were both "hear." Think about it: "I'm over hear," "In the hear and now," "I'm hearing you." Really cool phrases all, with the double meaning considered.
John: We need a third person for our movement. Also, a name...we can't leave it up to history, they never get it right.
Me: We have to stop starting movements. I still have a napkin with Tom's name on it from our last movement. If this makes it to next year, I'll let you name her.
. . . minutes later . . .
Me: So, not that we're naming it but...
John: You want me to tell you?
Me: Yes
. . . he told me, but it was brilliant and I can't have someone stealing it. Check back next year . . .
"If our movement goes through, you can change you're "here v. hear" thing."
Me: The people will accept anything you give them
John: Thank you, Karl.
****Note: We had this conversation before the 2004 election****
John: If we don't give it 24 years we won't have a candidate to bring to the table. Besides, I don't want to fight today's political battles
Me: I meant for us, the campaign. We have to meet with the canidate before the election and I don't want to run him in 32.
John: We're going to run him in 28
Me: I'm just saying, regardless of who wins this election, with the economy failing the way it is and the probability of even more wars...in 24 years we're campaigning with ourselves, the people that were deceived by every president since our lives began
John: The economy's coming back
Me: Reaganomics was the only strictly good presidental policy our generation has been alive for. Most of us don't remember it and the others just don't care. The ecomony isn't coming back. It's subverting failure for debt; it's a monmey transfer not a bounce-back.
John: So you want to get in before the country goes to the dogs?
Me: Not exactly, I want to run him in 28. But I want us to be prepared to sell a brilliant canidate to dogs. I'm saying, you now how hard it is to teach an old dog new tricks and...John, I don't want to have to make those puns on national television.
John: Hmm, but starving dogs will go for anything if you promise them food.
Me: Not true.
John: If we come in with a brilliant candidate when the nation is in trouble, people will rally.
Me: Smart people, yes but mostly people will be skeptic and why not, if it weren't you behide him, wouldn't you say, "Bullshit, it's the same thing over again."
John: If all I got was empty promises but I don't want to give people a candidate that emerges out of the shadows.
Me: If empty promises are all you've had to compare it to how are you supposed to know the real thing when it's jumping up and down in front of you? That's what I'm saying, we have to be doing something already. We have to have changes to point to and say, "How about that only bigger and in bold print"
John: Out there right now is someone setting themselves up for this, someone who's headed in the same direction we are, and that's our candidate. I don't believe it's up to us to shape a candidate from the very start.
Me: You don't wanna know him a little?
John: I do want to know him...but we don't need to create him.
You can expect great things from at least one of us, probably him.
I'm filing this under mutual discovery,"To say that Hemingway recorded life is to view him as a realist. But to truly capture him you must acknowledge that he recorded life solely to examine what else it was...what else it could be."
John: You know what I'd like to change grammatically? The homophones "hear" and "here." I think it would be more interesting and extremely poetic if they were both "hear." Think about it: "I'm over hear," "In the hear and now," "I'm hearing you." Really cool phrases all, with the double meaning considered.
John: We need a third person for our movement. Also, a name...we can't leave it up to history, they never get it right.
Me: We have to stop starting movements. I still have a napkin with Tom's name on it from our last movement. If this makes it to next year, I'll let you name her.
. . . minutes later . . .
Me: So, not that we're naming it but...
John: You want me to tell you?
Me: Yes
. . . he told me, but it was brilliant and I can't have someone stealing it. Check back next year . . .
"If our movement goes through, you can change you're "here v. hear" thing."
Me: The people will accept anything you give them
John: Thank you, Karl.
****Note: We had this conversation before the 2004 election****
John: If we don't give it 24 years we won't have a candidate to bring to the table. Besides, I don't want to fight today's political battles
Me: I meant for us, the campaign. We have to meet with the canidate before the election and I don't want to run him in 32.
John: We're going to run him in 28
Me: I'm just saying, regardless of who wins this election, with the economy failing the way it is and the probability of even more wars...in 24 years we're campaigning with ourselves, the people that were deceived by every president since our lives began
John: The economy's coming back
Me: Reaganomics was the only strictly good presidental policy our generation has been alive for. Most of us don't remember it and the others just don't care. The ecomony isn't coming back. It's subverting failure for debt; it's a monmey transfer not a bounce-back.
John: So you want to get in before the country goes to the dogs?
Me: Not exactly, I want to run him in 28. But I want us to be prepared to sell a brilliant canidate to dogs. I'm saying, you now how hard it is to teach an old dog new tricks and...John, I don't want to have to make those puns on national television.
John: Hmm, but starving dogs will go for anything if you promise them food.
Me: Not true.
John: If we come in with a brilliant candidate when the nation is in trouble, people will rally.
Me: Smart people, yes but mostly people will be skeptic and why not, if it weren't you behide him, wouldn't you say, "Bullshit, it's the same thing over again."
John: If all I got was empty promises but I don't want to give people a candidate that emerges out of the shadows.
Me: If empty promises are all you've had to compare it to how are you supposed to know the real thing when it's jumping up and down in front of you? That's what I'm saying, we have to be doing something already. We have to have changes to point to and say, "How about that only bigger and in bold print"
John: Out there right now is someone setting themselves up for this, someone who's headed in the same direction we are, and that's our candidate. I don't believe it's up to us to shape a candidate from the very start.
Me: You don't wanna know him a little?
John: I do want to know him...but we don't need to create him.
You can expect great things from at least one of us, probably him.
23 September 2005
25 Ways to Win my Heart
1.] Tell me how you feel about me (even if it's not all good) without knowing how I feel about you.
2.] If you're asking me to go somewhere, have somewhere specific in mind.
3.] Remember the little details. Remember me. Ask me about the things I mention, "How was that math test?" even if it was weeks ago.
4.] Do the Times' crossword puzzle---in pen.
5.] Don't force me to carry the conversation.
6.] Call me on tests. Be ABLE to call me on tests.
7.] Give me signs that you trust me: leave your email open when I come over, ask me to press play on the machine when we walk in, let me watch your dog while you're out of town, etc.
8.] Turn off your cellphone when we go out.
9.] Give blood.
10.] Don't need a reason: for flowers, for phone calls, for showing up, for making me smile...
11.] Have inside jokes with me.
12.] Go to mass with me; be able to discuss the homily.
13.] Be the first to apologize, even if it really wasn't your fault.
14.] Give me reasons to quote you. Quote me.
15.] When we fight, "Agree to disagree."
16.] Keep me laughing.
17.] Let me watch sports with you. Don't think less of me if I yell. Don't think less of me if I have questions.
18.] Invite me over just to relax.
19.] Be able to enjoy comfortable silences.
20.] Tell me your stories, openly.
21.] Smile with your whole face.
22.] Watch old movies with me. (From Groundhog Day, to Casablanca, and everything in between.)
23.] Be confident, write in pen, don't worry about other people, look directly at me when we're talking, et cetera.
24.] Don't call during The West Wing.
25.] Offer to pay when we got out---don't just grab for the check.
2.] If you're asking me to go somewhere, have somewhere specific in mind.
3.] Remember the little details. Remember me. Ask me about the things I mention, "How was that math test?" even if it was weeks ago.
4.] Do the Times' crossword puzzle---in pen.
5.] Don't force me to carry the conversation.
6.] Call me on tests. Be ABLE to call me on tests.
7.] Give me signs that you trust me: leave your email open when I come over, ask me to press play on the machine when we walk in, let me watch your dog while you're out of town, etc.
8.] Turn off your cellphone when we go out.
9.] Give blood.
10.] Don't need a reason: for flowers, for phone calls, for showing up, for making me smile...
11.] Have inside jokes with me.
12.] Go to mass with me; be able to discuss the homily.
13.] Be the first to apologize, even if it really wasn't your fault.
14.] Give me reasons to quote you. Quote me.
15.] When we fight, "Agree to disagree."
16.] Keep me laughing.
17.] Let me watch sports with you. Don't think less of me if I yell. Don't think less of me if I have questions.
18.] Invite me over just to relax.
19.] Be able to enjoy comfortable silences.
20.] Tell me your stories, openly.
21.] Smile with your whole face.
22.] Watch old movies with me. (From Groundhog Day, to Casablanca, and everything in between.)
23.] Be confident, write in pen, don't worry about other people, look directly at me when we're talking, et cetera.
24.] Don't call during The West Wing.
25.] Offer to pay when we got out---don't just grab for the check.
22 September 2005
This is callus, and rude
And if you don't like it...get over it.
When did poor fortune become a get rich quick scheme? Only in America I tell you. How much of watching hurricane-coverage has to do with wanting to help and how much has to do with being entertained? How much of standing in front of reporters and saying "look at me" has to do with needing help and how much has to do with just wanting to be looked at?
There are novels in the works about surviving. There are little-known authors getting published in nationally accredited magazines for tales of survival. There are brand new blogs out there getting recognition for being 'in the eye of the storm' and there are practically unknown photographers getting their pictures in all the papers by recording the hurricane's aftermath.
I'm NOT complaining about people needing help. I know the situation is horrible and I, too, wish there were more I could do. But I'm sick of people capitalizing on suffering. When life gives you lemons, you're supposed to make lemonade. And, I guess, when life drags you face-to-face with your own mortality, you take a picture and sell it on Ebay.
When did poor fortune become a get rich quick scheme? Only in America I tell you. How much of watching hurricane-coverage has to do with wanting to help and how much has to do with being entertained? How much of standing in front of reporters and saying "look at me" has to do with needing help and how much has to do with just wanting to be looked at?
There are novels in the works about surviving. There are little-known authors getting published in nationally accredited magazines for tales of survival. There are brand new blogs out there getting recognition for being 'in the eye of the storm' and there are practically unknown photographers getting their pictures in all the papers by recording the hurricane's aftermath.
I'm NOT complaining about people needing help. I know the situation is horrible and I, too, wish there were more I could do. But I'm sick of people capitalizing on suffering. When life gives you lemons, you're supposed to make lemonade. And, I guess, when life drags you face-to-face with your own mortality, you take a picture and sell it on Ebay.
17 September 2005
Dreams Not Deferred
For as long back as I can remember, teachers, parents and various other authoritarians in my life have tried to breathe inspiration into “the next generation.” The posters were everywhere, brilliant quotes from brilliant minds who jumped onto soap boxes and presented us with their contributions to society. My third-grade teacher’s walls encouraged me to have a dream and go confidently in its direction...to see a better future for myself, my family, the entire world. My fourth grade teacher made the dream obtainable. She introduced more brilliant people who told me and my peers that the world was our oyster. The world, they said, was but a piece of clay waiting to be molded. And then there was my father, the classic over-achiever who sat me down one day and warned me that the worst thing anyone could say at my funeral would be that I had great potential. I let the glitz of their words settle into my heart. It’s a beautiful gift those great minds have given me; they’ve created a dream.
Along with the dream, however, comes the knowledge that the dream isn’t yours. Or, more pointedly, it is also everyone else’s. That means that we cannot spend our time dreaming the same dreams of other men. Rather, we must strive for a new change, a faster change, a better change. The foundation has been set before us but the hard part is still left on our shoulders. The actions often take a lifetime. We have the responsibility of accomplishing those tasks. Luckily we also have the earth-shattering power to change the world resting inside of us. In fact, most of us use it everyday.
I know that a hard concept to get behind. How can people be expected to believe in a movement that has yet to be seen? That is, of course, a fair argument. And perhaps the big metamorphosis hasn’t happened yet. After all there is still poverty and hunger and war, and many other struggles. But change doesn’t always ring in with a loud bang. At times, it is just a whisper of thanks, or a glass of lemonade, or the sound of a rusty hammer on four dollar nails.
The people I worked with summers ago were not so poor the government breathed for them. The families were not desperate for an angel. Regardless, they appreciated my callused hands and blistered feet. Every night when I headed home my fingers were caked with dirt; even the legs beneath my jeans were grey with dust. My shirt would be torn, hair soaked with sweat, lips chapped and bleeding. Likewise were my nose and parts of my back. I was expecting to feel brand new. Instead, I bowed my head ashamed to see what other people thought of my appearance. Instead, it took me all summer to realize that my pinkish hue, my purple-and-blue bruises, they were what pride felt like, just inside-out. I had earned that dirt; no one would wash it from me.
When I finished my mission, I had learned all the children and their ticklish places. I had learned three different preparations for grilled cheese and how to rewire a lamp. More importantly, I learned that it is our imperfections which make us new, make us better. In my heart I will forever remember that moment of revelation. It was the moment I recognized the actions of human beings for what they truly were, life-altering. Though our words, our dreams, our passion, we have already begun to change the world.
Each time I tell someone else to believe in themselves or stand for something and they respond with young, scared eyes it is a reminder that my work is not done. The work is never over as long as some people still believe that one person cannot change the world in any real way.
Maybe I will never again get to feel, for even a moment, that my life is a blank page. Maybe I will never get to create something new. It’s possible that I will always be taking something that is already lingering a breath away from perfection—but not there yet—and pushing it closer. But, I see now the same thing I have always been promised was there…a better future for myself, my family, the world. It is truly the promise of a generation. It is history’s promise to us and our promise to the future that we will never let this world’s greatest dreams die. Instead we will change them into something more attainable. It is our promise that everyday we will wake up on the first step of someone’s dream and follow it with a second and a third.
Along with the dream, however, comes the knowledge that the dream isn’t yours. Or, more pointedly, it is also everyone else’s. That means that we cannot spend our time dreaming the same dreams of other men. Rather, we must strive for a new change, a faster change, a better change. The foundation has been set before us but the hard part is still left on our shoulders. The actions often take a lifetime. We have the responsibility of accomplishing those tasks. Luckily we also have the earth-shattering power to change the world resting inside of us. In fact, most of us use it everyday.
I know that a hard concept to get behind. How can people be expected to believe in a movement that has yet to be seen? That is, of course, a fair argument. And perhaps the big metamorphosis hasn’t happened yet. After all there is still poverty and hunger and war, and many other struggles. But change doesn’t always ring in with a loud bang. At times, it is just a whisper of thanks, or a glass of lemonade, or the sound of a rusty hammer on four dollar nails.
The people I worked with summers ago were not so poor the government breathed for them. The families were not desperate for an angel. Regardless, they appreciated my callused hands and blistered feet. Every night when I headed home my fingers were caked with dirt; even the legs beneath my jeans were grey with dust. My shirt would be torn, hair soaked with sweat, lips chapped and bleeding. Likewise were my nose and parts of my back. I was expecting to feel brand new. Instead, I bowed my head ashamed to see what other people thought of my appearance. Instead, it took me all summer to realize that my pinkish hue, my purple-and-blue bruises, they were what pride felt like, just inside-out. I had earned that dirt; no one would wash it from me.
When I finished my mission, I had learned all the children and their ticklish places. I had learned three different preparations for grilled cheese and how to rewire a lamp. More importantly, I learned that it is our imperfections which make us new, make us better. In my heart I will forever remember that moment of revelation. It was the moment I recognized the actions of human beings for what they truly were, life-altering. Though our words, our dreams, our passion, we have already begun to change the world.
Each time I tell someone else to believe in themselves or stand for something and they respond with young, scared eyes it is a reminder that my work is not done. The work is never over as long as some people still believe that one person cannot change the world in any real way.
Maybe I will never again get to feel, for even a moment, that my life is a blank page. Maybe I will never get to create something new. It’s possible that I will always be taking something that is already lingering a breath away from perfection—but not there yet—and pushing it closer. But, I see now the same thing I have always been promised was there…a better future for myself, my family, the world. It is truly the promise of a generation. It is history’s promise to us and our promise to the future that we will never let this world’s greatest dreams die. Instead we will change them into something more attainable. It is our promise that everyday we will wake up on the first step of someone’s dream and follow it with a second and a third.
14 September 2005
HeartBreakEven
http://postsecret.blogspot.com/ <---someone here posted this: http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/994/593/1600/names.jpg
and I felt a piece of my heart drop right off. Because I get it, I really do. I feel the same way about him even though he never cared even a little. Everyone has a "him" I just wish I didn't still run into mine after all this time.
and I felt a piece of my heart drop right off. Because I get it, I really do. I feel the same way about him even though he never cared even a little. Everyone has a "him" I just wish I didn't still run into mine after all this time.
31 August 2005
But by The Grace of God go we all
I go to church because I'm scared. I go there and fumble through my prayers and I expect change. I go there because I'm petrified of staying the same. I don't want to be confessing the same sins weeks or months or decades from now. I don't want to be the emotionally detached train wreck that couldn't make it work.
In highschool there was this guest priest that would always do our "special events." I remember at our senior retreat he told this story about a man with an alcohol problem. The man prayed to God and told Him that he would trust in God, put his alcoholism and his life into God's hands and let God cure him. He would attend mass twice a week and pray, and give God thanks and praise if God would only help him reclaim his life. And the priest was talking to this man, after hearing his story and he asked the man, "How'd it work out?" Then man replied, "There were alot of times I went to mass drunk."
That's how I feel about my relationship with God. I have asked God to help me reclaim my life, to help me better my life. And God keeps telling me to do my part too. There are alot of times I go to mass as a liar, as a coward, as "that girl,"--the one that parties Saturday and shows up Sunday morning like nothing happened. And I wonder, all those times, if God is disappointed in me, if He wants to end our deal and help someone that deserves it more than me.
I don't know what it's like to be an alcoholic. I'd imagine it's hard. I'd imagine it's crippling and it makes people hurt. So I try to always, in my prayers, compare myself to that alcoholic. As he prayed to God, "Help me stop drinking," he also had to start saying "no" when people offered him a beer. I know, from my own problems, and my own addictions, that it is a thousand times harder to say "no" than it is to say "yes." I know, from my own battles, that as I pray to God I also have to start saying "no" to the actions that hold me back in life.
So, I will keep showing up. I will keep moving forward. I will keep working with You on this one, Lord. I go to church because I'm scared. But I stay because I know being scared isn't enough. I stay because I know there is one power stronger than my demons, and it's You.
In highschool there was this guest priest that would always do our "special events." I remember at our senior retreat he told this story about a man with an alcohol problem. The man prayed to God and told Him that he would trust in God, put his alcoholism and his life into God's hands and let God cure him. He would attend mass twice a week and pray, and give God thanks and praise if God would only help him reclaim his life. And the priest was talking to this man, after hearing his story and he asked the man, "How'd it work out?" Then man replied, "There were alot of times I went to mass drunk."
That's how I feel about my relationship with God. I have asked God to help me reclaim my life, to help me better my life. And God keeps telling me to do my part too. There are alot of times I go to mass as a liar, as a coward, as "that girl,"--the one that parties Saturday and shows up Sunday morning like nothing happened. And I wonder, all those times, if God is disappointed in me, if He wants to end our deal and help someone that deserves it more than me.
I don't know what it's like to be an alcoholic. I'd imagine it's hard. I'd imagine it's crippling and it makes people hurt. So I try to always, in my prayers, compare myself to that alcoholic. As he prayed to God, "Help me stop drinking," he also had to start saying "no" when people offered him a beer. I know, from my own problems, and my own addictions, that it is a thousand times harder to say "no" than it is to say "yes." I know, from my own battles, that as I pray to God I also have to start saying "no" to the actions that hold me back in life.
So, I will keep showing up. I will keep moving forward. I will keep working with You on this one, Lord. I go to church because I'm scared. But I stay because I know being scared isn't enough. I stay because I know there is one power stronger than my demons, and it's You.
29 August 2005
Betrayal
I was thinking, earlier, of Hemingway. I was sitting on my bed, crocheting and thinking about Hemingway. In "Fathers and Sons" Hemingway says something along the lines of "Sentimental people are betrayed over and over in life." In context, if I remember properly, he was refering to how we become sentimental. So I was thinking about what made me sentimental, or, adversely, what made me unemotional. I have a good mixture between sentiment and callus, I think. Maybe not as good as others, because I tend to find that when I'm saying "I don't care" I am really angry and mean more of, "I don't care if you live or die right now."
You will always remember the first time you were betrayed. Some of us will probably remember every time we were betrayed. I will probably also remember every time I betrayed someone else. So, crochet needle down, I'm going pen in hand and recording all those moments...just to see if I can. I might post it when I'm done. Or, I might just go to Church and repent for a few days.
You will always remember the first time you were betrayed. Some of us will probably remember every time we were betrayed. I will probably also remember every time I betrayed someone else. So, crochet needle down, I'm going pen in hand and recording all those moments...just to see if I can. I might post it when I'm done. Or, I might just go to Church and repent for a few days.
Rain, Rain, and Hurricanes.
Today was a rainy day. For that reason and that reason only, I will focus on the rainy parts of my life.
-When I was five years old I thought that if I went outside in the rain I would melt. I didn’t think I would melt in the bathtub, or the swimming pool, or anything else…just the rain.
-my first kiss was during a thunderstorm, in 4th grade, on the sidewalk after school. I remember thinking that he tasted like chocolate teddy grahams and iced tea (the bad kind they sell in jugs)
-One of my best friends has this rain-pane. It’s an extension of your window that you can turn on and off that resembles and water wall. It’s probably the coolest home décor I’ve ever heard of. It makes me smile.
-Anytime I’m writing a dramatic scene in a novel or a play I always want it to be raining; the rain always had a healing power to me. I felt like anything bad could happen while it rained and the rain would just wash it away.
-It has rained at every funeral I’ve ever been to. I hope that it rains at my funeral too.
-When I was five years old I thought that if I went outside in the rain I would melt. I didn’t think I would melt in the bathtub, or the swimming pool, or anything else…just the rain.
-my first kiss was during a thunderstorm, in 4th grade, on the sidewalk after school. I remember thinking that he tasted like chocolate teddy grahams and iced tea (the bad kind they sell in jugs)
-One of my best friends has this rain-pane. It’s an extension of your window that you can turn on and off that resembles and water wall. It’s probably the coolest home décor I’ve ever heard of. It makes me smile.
-Anytime I’m writing a dramatic scene in a novel or a play I always want it to be raining; the rain always had a healing power to me. I felt like anything bad could happen while it rained and the rain would just wash it away.
-It has rained at every funeral I’ve ever been to. I hope that it rains at my funeral too.
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