Please Show Me a Sign

This time of year is supposed to be filled with a spirit of peace towards fellow man (or woman, child or animal) and the spirit of giving. There are so many commercials during this time, asking for help regarding humane society issues, funds for the protection and preservation of exotic animals, and aid to children in the third world. 

I know that I feel paralyzed because I feel as though there are so many things in this world that need to be fixed and there aren't enough resources or time to get all things fixed the way they should be. I ask the Lord in a reverent tone as to what I should do. "Oh Lord, I don't know what to do; I want to be efficient and I want to help make things better. I want to end suffering and help animals live in ways that cause nothing but healthy survival." 

And then I grow angry at God. Mentally shaking my fist at the sky, begging why God has made this life and this world so difficult to help and to live in. With so many things in need how is it possible to make a difference? And I know that some people will say that it only matters that I can help in my own small way, that it matters if I can ease the life of one animal or one person. But in some ways, it's not enough. It's not enough for me to help just one animal when polar bears as a species are dying because they can't keep swimming from melting ice patch to melting ice patch. It's not enough to save one polar bear, when we face the possibility of the extinction of a magnificent creature. It's not enough to save one tiger that was hunted by poachers, because we need more than one, or two or even three to breed healthier generations.

I know that a journey starts with one step and that things only get done one step at a time. But these problems are so large in scale and are so overwhelming, and God made many people with the flaw of looking at the end result instead of the process that so many of us feel defeated before we even start. 

I ask that God show me a sign. I need to believe that it is possible to make lasting differences, to inspire and to succeed in ways that are mutually inclusive. I need to know that it is possible to seek wealth and still seek the betterment of other things without those two goals negating each other. 

I've said for years that people need a sign. I know that some people say signs abound all the time, but this isn't so. Those of us who have major potential and passion to change things are skeptics and we need more than a crying Madonna statue or a Jesus face in two day donut, or a sick child who can heal others. We need to walk among and meet this Jesus, in any form that the divine shows itself. I need to meet this person and speak with he or she and know for real, that evil exists but good always wins. 

The Eighth Day of the Blizzard

I sit here, almost four pm PST. It is now the eighth day of the blizzard and it looks like there is at least one more day to go before the weather even starts to break. 

While I went foraging for life-saving provisions of medicine and Christmas cards and a Starbucks elixir, I was met by dozens of fat, fluffed, puffed up robins. They were diving in and out of the 1/2 inch thick bushes and perched atop the small trees that were bending under the weight of the ice that had formed on each branch and branchlett. 

The birds were a good sign to me. At this point, seeing anything that wasn't a shade of brown, white or grey was positive, and against the too-bright and endless sea of white/grey, the robins' breast of rust stood out. I saw that the sun was trying to make a break for it across the sky, feebly attempting to thaw the foot of snow and ice that had gathered. And this bolstered my spirits slightly.

To a certain extent, I've been surprised by my ability to stay sane after a week of bad weather. This last weekend really tested my strength as the first storm finally melted away for a day or two of adequate driving conditions. However, this changed as a second snow storm blew in this weekend and covered everything in even more snow. 

The only thing I can think is that this is another example of testing my will and my ability to do all that is in my power while remaining patient; something I don't do well. I joke that I was born impatient, but that isn't so far from the truth. After all, I was almost born in less than two hours, and in the effort of bursting into this world, I got caught in my own cord, which paradoxically prolonged my poor mother's suffering and slowed my own birthing. Still, four hours all in all is pretty damn fast. 

My unending optimism and my burgeoning patience leads me to have enough strength to realize that some time soon, the weather HAS to change. I just hope it does before I go home for Christmas. 

 

Bummer.....snow

I sit here getting all the Christmas snow I ever wanted

Only to realize that snow 

and being snowed in 

isn't so fun after all

Especially not for this restless cagey girl

Wish List

It hasn't been easy to list twenty things that I want on my Christmas list. My dad asked for twenty things so he can choose and pick from among them; this way the gifts I do get will hopefully be surprises. 

There was once a time when I would have had no problem with listing a plethora of things, but now I realize that the things I want in life are not really things my parents can give me. 

This is not to say that when spring and summer role around, I won't want the new fashion or a pretty shiny patent leather, luxury name purse, just to prove that I've made it. But for the most part, I'm in this phase of my life where I don't want much that's material. The daily pleasures I pursue are drink and good food. This can get spendy, albeit, wanting good food is not an item you can really ask for. 

I've just realized that the major things I want in life are big purchases and large goals: like having enough of a down payment to pay for almost a quarter to a half of a new car. Having a down payment for a house. Having enough money to have some pets, take guitar and tennis lessons, make a real living on writing, be in a relationship. My parents can't necessarily get me these things and for some of these items, my parents can't do anything to help get me there. 

No matter how much I truly crave, as number one on my list, wanting to have the love I dream of, no one can do that for me. I just have to wait for it to come and that's the hardest thing. 

Modern women, and indeed the very way Americans are programmed, is to think that if you are willing to work harder than anyone else, you can make your dreams happen. This is hard though when you realize that no matter how smart or capable you are, or how well you invest your money, or how frugal you are, or how charming, or how hard you work, these are no indicators of how or when you'll find that love. In this circumstance, working hard has nothing to do with finding a good relationship, or finding the one. And that's the hard thin; to be told since childhood to dream as big as you want to, and to work as hard as you can to fulfill that dream. Sometimes the things we dream of can't be reached by working hard. 

On a final note: sometimes it makes me sad that I've largely moved past the wanting stuff phase. Sometimes it's really nice to want something attainable and to have it given to you. But I've moved past that; I've moved to a place where I want to prepare for the rest of my life. And those major purchases and steps along the way---those things cannot be gotten from filling out a Christmas wish list to Santa.

Lanes

I like alleys, the way they curve beyond sight offering worlds of optimism and positivity in the unknown. I like the way that an alley is only something you can see when you are not in it, which is conversely what frustrates me. Like that fresh fall of snow that looks so pure and enticing because it's untouched; it's only as cool and deep before someone sets foot in it, and then the appeal of it goes away. The trick here is that the alley, like the snow, beckons to be walked in. At the very moment you enter, it's gone. The alley is only as appealing as when you are looking down the lane, when it is still in the distance. Anything you do to get nearer to it and it starts to shorten in distance, in actual existence, and conversely in options. 

Alleys and lanes and tucked away corners and creeks that stretch in rounding curves offer worlds of the unknown. That's what's so exciting. Around the bend, the unseen provides the chance for the best to happen. These unseen stretches, the ones that are just hinted at, are brimming with possibilities; you can't see what's there so there is a chance for something amazingly unexpected and special and rare to be hiding around the corner. And the fact that you don't know, means that the optimism and the positive possibilities are at their highest. It's the idea that the best in life is unknown and hiding beyond sight, so when you get there, the surprise bowls you over. 

For all of my words, nothing quite adequately describes how I feel about these profound spaces. It is as if every time I try to explain what I like about alleys and lanes, the farther away I get from placing my finger precisely on how to explain what I like about them. Perhaps that is why words, like the bend around the corner are so enticing; I am constantly feeling for the right way to communicate how I feel at any given moment in the best way possible. And I think that I will know a success when I am able to utilize the right words in precisely the right spots, in the right lengths and meter to communicate what I am feeling or thinking in as good a way as I think it or feel it. Until that day, I will be staring down the road, scattered gravel, muddy water, lane-growing foxgloves and poppies, dappled-sunlit tree in my view. And then my view disappears, rounding the corner, where a whole world waits out of eye-sight. 

I Won't Back Down

My hesitancy to move forward in my writing is frustrating me, perhaps because I have no one to blame but myself. 

Too critical of myself and my few ideas, I fear pitching stories. The ideas come so few and far between for me and I want to know that I can get a gig, any gig from a paper besides the publications I have good relationships with. I realize that though I am so thankful of the full time job I have now, I don't want to do it for the rest of my life. 

How screwed up is this--I spent hours researching and writing not one, but three pitches that went out for my day job. Pitches on their behalf. And yet with me, I can do little more but even put the motivation into perfecting any one of the half-dozen I've started. 

ENOUGH. It's time to move forward. Whether out of fear I dread doing so doesn't matter. It's time for me to stop relishing my tender heart so much and toughen up a bit. It's time for me to realize that I have to live harder than I have. It's time for me to keep my eye on the prize, because the prize has slipped from mine eyes' focus a bit. It's time for me to face rejection square in the eye, to stop criticizing myself and to just do it; to prove that no matter how many times someone says they don't want me, or want to see me for a subsequent date, or don't want me to pitch a story or write something as grand as I can dream it, I will keep moving forward. After all, I'm the horse that though bloodied in a fight with a rival, will return, running full tilt into certain pain. I am the thing that gets caught in the barbed wire and chooses to thrash around even though I know it will cut even deeper. 

So it's time for me to cut deep and to finally, through all the pain, get to where I most want to be. After all, I'm CEN and there's never been a time that I've backed down when someone's told me to. I'm the woman who would do something the long way just to spite her father when he would tell her what she should do. 

Damn it to hell--no one's ever going to tell me I can't do something or that I need to back down.  

In The Last Three Weeks I've....

Things I've put together and/ or done on my own in the last three weeks.....

1) Successfully moved all of my stuff, with the help of some friends into a new apartment.

2) Got said apartment on my own salary and my own credit history

3) Hung two pictures (measured distances, screwed in nails and used mutliple tools)

4) Put pieces of furniture together by myself

5) Successfully mixed Red Lion, which I have now dubbed a Blue Roan

6) Figured out how to add pictures to blogs and how to create pages in the back end of a website

7) And perhaps the greatest thing of all; I went home to Los Angeles for the first time in seven months and didn't want to leave. But I made the choice to keep leaping forward into a life I could call my own. And the view is great.

I walked to the river and realized that months ago I was on the opposite side. I can now say that I've successfully crossed to the other side where I've created a life, full of work, assets, friends and happiness. And I did this all by myself.

Words, At the Right Time

"Sometimes you'll read something or se something at the time in your life where those things have special significance." 

That's what my mom once said to me. She once told me a story about a co-worker who had recently lost his father. During this time he saw (or read, I can't remember) Field of Dreams. She explained that it was the right story at the right time and this confluence of events made the story extra special to him.

That story was sounding in my head as I lay on the floor sideways, ribs pressed to carpet and beanie-covered three day hair that was pressed against a pillow. Tears stained the pillow cover as I slowly cried. I had just read some chapters of Elizabeth Gilbert's book Eat, Pray, Love, and some of her words described emotions, thoughts and ideals I had but could not express. It's like I was experiencing all of these things without wearing lenses; I could see the general fuzzy shape, but none of the details, which distinguish one things from another. 

And there, as I lay reading about Gilbert's understanding and forgiveness of her ex-husband, her wise and perfect soul meeting her husband at a place where they could converse, that is when I decided to let him go. 

For reasons I still do not understand, I cared for him in a surprisingly serious manner. And, in all fairness, perhaps it was the nature of what we had, which was stretched and tortured (on my end) by weeks and months of idealism and the hope of seeing him, perhaps that's what reeled me in. In truth, I believe I will never know why I felt for him as I did, and in the end all I know is that my feelings were real because I felt them very deeply. 

But it was that brilliantly cold and sunny morning that I realized my time for justified anger was over and taht all I wanted and all I asked of God was to help me let him go. And I did. I wished him god luck, told him I'd always care for him and that I thanked him for the happiness and the pain that made me a better person. But mostly, that version of me that is more together, and cool and collected, wise and generous, that woman told me it was time to leave and time to move on with my own life. 

I started this blog entry by stating that sometimes we are presented with images or experiences or art or words that convey precisely the right thing at the right time. These moments are fantastic and life-affirming. 

Gilbert's book was like that for me; the right words at a time in my life when I needed to hear them.

I once saw a palm-reader/fortune teller who told me 2008 and 2009 would be good years for me. When she asked me to close my eyes and tell her what colors I saw, I told her that I saw navy and purple. After reading a book about a woman administering her own rescue, of finding and loving herself for exactly what she is, I sit here now, in a crowded airplane seat, purple irises in front of me and purple scarf wrapped around my neck. 

I believe there is no coincidence about this and it is not lost on me that the color purple connotes healing. I myself feel as though I have been on a journey of self-discovery and that I am finally becoming the woman I always wanted to be. One who is unapologetically and totally herself. And sometimes I wonder just how much that fortune teller really did see. 

Airport Confiscation

The blockheads at the airport took my $16 bottle of hairspray and my $4 tube of Listerine.

Which means, that I spent an extra $20 just to get home in time for Thanksgiving. Oh well. It was worth it when I set foot on Angeleno soil again and looked North into the glittering lights that colored the San Gabriel mountain range.

New Apartment

Los Angeles, I'm a-comin'! 

In five days, some time around 10 pm I will be in my home state, graced by warm air, smog and the bustle of cars and city lights. I will be met with family who love me and a menagerie of animals I've been waiting for months to see. I will dine at My Taco and fill my bbq apetite at Barn Burner. 

And when I return, it will not be to Todd Village, my first adult apartment out of college, but to my first grown-women's-let's-make-smarter-decisions-apartment. 

It's a little bittersweet to be saying goodbye to Todd Village. It's cheesy but the rent is low and it's sufficed so far. There were a lot of memories made here though; ones of deep sadness and neglect, of soaring and souring hope and romanticism and nighttime sexual chemistry. 

Here's what I hope this next apartment will see: 

Steady romance

Lasting happiness

Good faith

Good people

Creative success

Healthy relationships

Faithful Love

Love, Love, Love, Love

This is my prayer

Shall I Tell You?

I will not be your sacrificial lamb

I will not be that which you look upon

And say with admiration

Ah, but look at her pain, isn't it beautiful?

I am not here for your entertainment

Or your salvation

Or your excuse

I am and forever will be

CEN

A force to be reckoned with

A Writer's Life

I envy him sometimes. He gets to say he did it all; he was poor and he lived a poor writer's life and he got to be a travel journalist, living the life of a cool loner with a bad boy exterior. He got to travel on his motorcycle, be that guy that meets people and chills with them sporadically, turns strangers into housemates and bed buddies and friends. 

While I hate being poor, and my short foray into that this summer, for the month that I charged things to my credit card and lived on my savings was short and not that awful. I wasn 't cut out for being poor and I know that romanticism is but a dream; things look and smell and seem better than they are. Romanticism is when you wish you could be somewhere and when you get there you realize it ain't what you'd like it to be, or what it should be. 

But he gets to say he did it. He is living the writer's life. 

There are times when I think, and I have to remember that it's all romanticism, but sometimes I feel like I wish I could roll in it. Roll in the poverty and press my fingers to the dirt of living to the bone and smear it under my eyes like a naval hand would smudge coal in preparation for war. In that way he gets to wear war paint, and I can really never say I did. 

Except when it comes to soul searching. That I can say I've reveled in. I've run from it like running from the rain and in the end it caught up to me and I had to wade through morass after morass. In that way I can say I might not have smudged war paint on in preparation but have scars to show for the battles I've waged and won. 

The Things I've Carried

I have held onto many things during the short 22 years I've walked this earth. I've held onto the negative attitudes and ideas I've had regarding mens' personalities and their differences from women; I've held onto my negative attitudes about sex. I've held onto the pain that has come tethered to the experiences I've lived through. I've held onto my childish ways. I've held onto the crushing moments and the dark times in my life; to the criticism I've received and the tears I've shed. I've held onto the heartache I've endured and the missed opportunities. I've held all of these things much like I've held onto the silver fillagree cuff that I wear on my hands and that I've never permanently lost; the one that has remained with me through the years though I've neglected it, taken it off, and dropped it. 

I hold onto these and other things, one of those being hope. Sometimes I fear that my hope wears too thin and that I might lose it all together. Those times that I become scared I might learn to become cynical. But if hope really does keep people moving into happiness and dreams, the future and positivity, then I hope Hope will never leave me. I also hope Hope won't disappoint me either; won't leave me hanging on a string, feeling more crushed than before

Various Thoughts of Cats, Sunlight, Security and Freedom

Nine days into November and I find myself in suspended motion, like my mind is still somewhere around the corner, sometime in October. I can't explain why, it just feels this way. 

Sometimes I find myself emotionally attached to a leaf or the way light hits a tree branch. I see the sunset and I can't help but feel at one with that certain stretch of pink that runs along orange right above the horizon. I feel these things so deep inside that it almost feels like mourning when they slip away bit by bit. It's like chasing the sunlight across the sky, only to be heading East into the shadows, away from the light. 

I also feel halved by my warring emotions regarding my family's Thanksgiving Day plans. While the one half of me would love nothing more than inviting mere acquaintances over at my parents', (I always thought holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas should be shared by big bolstering families and gatherings filled to the brim with friends), I also feel like I want this holiday to be a quiet one. My family, though normal on the outside has its idiosyncrasies.

No matter what the circumstances or the company, I am undoubtedly looking forward to seeing my dear friends Amelia and Jess Short. And above all, I am looking forward to finding two cats, nestled in bedding, paws and tails touching. I can't wait for the meowing and the purring and everything that my girls bring to my life. Hopefully, they will forgive me enough for moving away that they'll reward me with a cuddle sometime in the early morning hours, sometime between nighttime fog and morning sunshine. 

Sometimes I get a slightly panicky feeling right before I go to sleep and right when I wake up. I feel like every day without a pitch or a successful offer from a paper means I am slipping backward from writing. It's like having the nagging feeling in the back of your head that you've missed an important deadline, appointment or bill payment. You search and search and think you should be okay, but you still can't find what it is that makes you itch, uncomfortably. And the hardest part is to be in a place where complacency takes over because you're finally secure. Freedom is great but comes at a great price; it is no longer possible to always have a sense of security and for those of us who crave the material, it can be a hard way to live. By the same token, security seems like opportunity passes us by. 

There is a Season, Turn, Turn, Turn.....

Change inevitably comes but sometimes it comes in torrents, pouring down in torrential drops and sometimes it comes in slow motion, so slow it seems to stand still. 

But change inevitably comes and in this way the country and my own life have taken leaps and bounds, not simply dripping towards change like I've felt in the past. 

Last Friday started with a call that I'd received a free cruise. Not an entirely bad way to start a day. Friday was also Halloween and I celebrated it just right. 

Tuesday night rolls around and we find out that Obama is elected; a man who ran an entire campaign on the idea that our country needs to go through fundamental change in order to be the place it should be. Perhaps this call the change struck a chord in me, resounding the bell at my core. 

I got a prayer that was passed along from my friend Emily to women who've touched her life. The prayer said I should make a wish. That was the same day a special someone showed up at work, taking photographs. From that moment on I couldn't wait for him to come back for another shoot. 

He came back a few days later and I felt another spark. There might be possibly more, but being in this crush place again I realize some of the things I legitimately miss about S. But it doesn't matter how much I miss those particular things or if I never get them again; the whole package was wrong and I won't sacrifice the whole for the bits and pieces. 

No, this new guy; I like talking to him. He makes me happy when he comes in to work. If things don't work out the way I want them too, I only need to see this as an encouraging sign; I've met them outside the summer months, felt organic sparks with them and while they both of some issues, and we might never be an item, maybe I'm moving ever closer to someone who can be my match. 

The Times

Times are tough. I was in a B of A not two days ago and I am almost quite sure I overheard a man talking to a banker about a balance in his account of just $40. 

I have a friend and she lives with her boyfriend; both are relatively new to Portland and they moved cross country with little more than their backpacks and bicycles. She busts her ass, working, I'm quite sure for minimum wage or close to that and doing writing for two different papers. Meanwhile she doesn't have any of the luxuries I do, things I often take for granted. Like my cell phone, my car and the fact that I have some nice clothing hanging in the closet. Though she has a home it almost made me want to cry when I saw her meager wardrobe hanging up in a closet too large for the combination of two dressers and a few of her boyfriend's shirts. 

She and I were talking about the economic crisis, but not the housing or banking problems that face our country now. We were talking about the state of the last few years; the fact that young people are having as hard a time as ever before trying to scrape by. What makes this doubly sad is that Portland is a pretty livable town in terms of housing rent; though some areas of the city are pretty expensive to live in. No, we were talking about how it's been hard for the last few years; something I attribute to the domino effect. 

Though I haven't been earning my own way for more than a few months I can say that I think the second gas prices started reaching $2.50 per gallon things started getting rough for people. People now are doing really badly especially struggling middle and lower-middle class people; people, who, a few years ago would be doing alright or bettering their circumstances and getting it really rough. The thing is, I feel like it isn't until now, when gas is mercifully topping out at $3.40 a gallon, that politicians are saying that people are having a rough time. Truth is, the second gas prices went up people started tightening the belt or sliding backward, and this only got worse the higher gas prices rose, and then eventually, when food prices got really high. The other day $25 bought me a 5 micro dinners and a gallon of milk. For years, dating back even to 2000 clothing prices, even at average places got expensive. 

So when a man, undoubtedly from Lake Oswego or West Linn came into Aaron Brothers yesterday and had 14 original, signed posters to frame and found out that they would be around 100 dollars before a %25 off coupon was applied to the frames, and then demanded that he get a better deal, I felt like beaning him and stretching my arm around the desk and slapping him. Dude, if you have the type of job that can afford you the chance to get 14 different original signed Nadal vs. Federer posters, then your doing alright, and you don't need an extra discount that only applies to you, and not "the average guy off the street." What an asshole. The guy thought he walked on water and deserved better then everyone else. Even if the Lord Almighty showed up and asked for a special deal we couldn't do it. We can't arbitrarily do that kind of thin; and if someone like the asshole wants a deal, they need to go to a flea market, ebay or Turkey, but either way, they need to stay the fuck away from Aaron Brothers.  As he's arguing with me, his three children, whom he can afford to support, start playing with stuff in the shop and leave stuff on the floor. Future generation of America, god help us all. 

Like I said, times are tough, and it is times like this that I feel lucky to not only be employed but to also have a good paying job that provides health benefits. I really do feel lucky to be employed when things are so junky, and I am thankful. I also wish good luck to those who have been or who are now recently struggling. 

Have Faith, Will Travel

There I sat with my head cushioned by two pillows, feet in my manly hiking shoes draped over the arm of the couch, second day hair in my face and tears pouring down my cheeks and nose. I cringe now to even think about it. Though it wasn't more than a week ago, I (thankfully) cannot put myself in the same place of that pain. However, it makes me sad deep down to my bones to think about how sad I was then. 

The thing that grabs me by the gut is the fact that I had and have so little faith in myself. Jane asks me where this comes from. I don't know, I replied. 

And this is the truth. I don't know at which point or developmental intersection I lost or never gained faith in myself. I don't know where I failed to believe that I can take care of myself, that I can withstand anything. And worse yet, is that the facts point in the opposite direction; every move I've made has been for the health and betterment of my life. So why is it then, that I have a hard time believing the very proof that lies right in front of me? I don't know. I think some of it might have to do with the idea of being humble as I feel uncomfortable being the center of attention (though I sometimes crave it). I also don't like tooting my own horn. But somewhere that crossed the line from being charming to harmful and I NEED to realize two things: life only happens a moment at a time; I am only prepared to handle what is happening right now in my life. And 2) that I have everything and more to live, to keep living, and to live a satisfying, accomplished and rich life. Why is that so hard to admit? 

And sometimes I feel like a mega poseur because I wrote a blog on my xanga page that is my favorite to date. I wrote that everything we do in life is faith. Every choice we make, every direction we head in and every accomplishment we achieve all depends on faith. We literally believe we can do something and then we do it. It's not a hard concept, simple, but unbelievably complex because I would argue that I have more faith and more doubt then anyone I know. And how is that possible? I don't know; I suppose you'd have to be me to feel that way. I wrestle with God and the idea of a Divine Creator on a daily basis. And I do believe in faith but have a hard time having faith in myself. How is that for complicated?

What Do I Want?

 So I'm sitting here in my warm, comfy bed at 4:20 am and I lie awake thinking about what I want. 

I just had my 22nd birthday and my parents said that as a present I can pick something special/ nice out. The only problem? I don't want anything. 

I mean, sure there are those things I see and think, hmmm....I would like to buy that cream, sensible, thinly insulated jacket because it's a good warm layer and I need something like that in these winters when I don't feel like wearing my baggy black wool coat. 

But I don't find myself really craving or wanting anything material, and as those who know me also know that I love material possessions and fashion, this is certainly not usual to my persona. 

It kind of worries me, this lack of wanting a coat or shoes or a purse. There is one thing I want, but I am resigned to save money towards a new Mazda because it's just too expensive for me right now. 

And then it dawns on me like it has over the last few days; maybe I've moved past wanting clothing. After dropping too much money in stores over the summer, I have a nice wardrobe that I am fairly happy in. I like almost everything I have and with the exception of buying a few more pairs of pants (as I no longer like some of my other pairs) and buying a few more long sleeve layers (as the cold weather and rain approaches) I like the stuff I've got for now. 

Maybe I've temporarily moved past wanting materials. I think I've moved to wanting love (which is kind of a foolish accusation because I've wanted love, the real deal since I was a young teenager). To wanting someone to love me in the same ferocious veracity I can love him. Maybe I want kittens in my life, animals I can curl up with and watch as they have their own personalities and wants. Maybe it's companionship and love and tenderness that I want (and I do), and maybe now is the time to want it (and to get it. (?))

Crying Wolf

So I came home from a somewhat hard (emotional) day at work to find headlines saying that we could be facing another Great Depression and Bush says that we are facing a certain and long recession unless we follow his new plan which includes (not surprisingly a Democratic party ideal of the superiority of federal entities) federal government intervention in the amount of $700 billion. 

Here's the problem, while the news feed of Bush describing his plan actually sounds like the most articulate thing he's ever said, and kindly explained our market crisis to me (as anyone who knows me knows that I am full of questions). However, this is the problem with being an awful and complete shit of a president: it's called the "Boy Who Cried Wolf" syndrome. After lying for years after the American public found out via the CIA/ FBI/ NSA/ and DOD that we did not have any hard proof of WMDs in Iraq; after lying about the supposed connection between Al-Quaeda and Iraq and Bin Laden; after assisting oil companies in gaining huge profits while the rest of us suffered, coupled by his many failures, I just can't believe what the president is asking us to do. Am I upset that my tax dollars will be used to bail us out of a crisis? Not really; I believe that if anything, our taxes to the federal government should assist us in staying a healthy and great country. I am more upset that a dipshit squandered our money to begin with and then insists he knows what the middle class (and struggling class: i.e. those of us who just graduated college/ homeless or impoverished) are going through. This is simply not true. When was the last time he personally filled up the gas tank? When did he last go to the supermarket? When did he last have college tuition to pay or a mortgage or a retirement fund to pay? Since he's been president his essential, and not so essential needs and wants have been met. 

No matter how bad a president he is, he'll leave office, do the whole tour-lecture circuit where some dumbass Southern, conservative (hateful) "Christian" fundamentalist group will pay hundreds, perhaps thousands per head to listen to him speak about his crises and his "successes."Financially, he's set, and we don't know if we are.

One of the MAJOR components of our current market crisis, according to Bush (et. al and other trustworthy sources) is the lack of financial institutions and others not lending credit because they are unsure they can get back their investment. 

In much the same way this is a lesson to all of us; that credit, whether literal or figurative is what this world runs on. It's not only important, but vital that we are people of our word. That we are honorable and do what we say and say what we do. If Bush was a person of his word, then I'd trust his plan and if credit was given to us when we earned it, instead of when we asked for it ("See election of Bush TWICE") we'd be in a better spot. 

Let's be honorable. Let's strive to mean what we say and to own up to our responsibility. Let's follow the golden rule of being truthful and not "crying wolf."

Life or Death?

Edgar Allen Poe once wrote:

  "The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and the other begins?"

    I think about this quote from time to time; not out of some dreary fascination with it, though it is a very scary thought put into a beautiful syntax. I think about this quote because it is very real. Relationships can die, either literally in that one person actually dies and leaves their body. Or relationships can die, not by age or illness but by a prolonging of time and distance or of anger and sadness. 

   Romantic relationships can straddle the blurry line between life and death. You can know that something will not work out no matter how much you want it to, but in that moment you could be engaging in an act with your lover that makes  you feel utterly alive in every sense of the word. It is possible to watch something live and die right in front of your eyes in the very same moment. 

   And the hardest thing is those people or relationships, that though physically or emotionally dead, refuse to leave. The living presence is gone but the memory is the thing that haunts with a fervor that has a life of its own. That's what is really hard with relationships. They can be detrimental to you and they can hurt you and you can see them wither away and die, but as long as the memory remains, they also remain as alive as ever, but always out of touch or reach. This is what makes the getting-over-someone process so hard. These relationships lie somewhere in that shadowy area between life and death, when the line blurs and becomes difficult to specify. 

Scars

 My recent trip to the emergency room has got me thinking over the last two days about the grand scheme of my life, and what scars have meant to me. 

I am guaranteed, at the least, a new faint scar on my left wrist, which though not on purpose, was self-inflicted. I wonder what that means. 

But that aside, here's the thing: I have accumulated another scar on a body already covered in them. 

What are scars but reminders of adventures and times gone wrong, of overzealous behavior and foolishness, of the combination of bravado and not enough thought. I've never been the type of person to think of scars as ugly. I remember when my senior portrait was developed and the sales lady at the photography business told me I had the option to airbrush the scar I bravely (and stupidly) earned as a five year old little girl who (once again inflicted a wound to herself) right above her left eyebrow. I really didn't even have to think about it before I said "no." 

I am not ashamed of my scars and this adds credence to my belief that I think people come into this world with their own beliefs and thoughts and personalities. Parents help guide and shape children into who they become, but children do not come into this world like a blank canvas; rather people come into this world with a canvas that's already prepped in a unique way. 

I don't remember my parents actually telling me to be proud of my scars and maybe they taught me this through example, I can't say for sure. But I do know that I have had and will have a strong sense of the history scars lend us. They might seem ugly to some, but I think they are a gift, a tangible and visible mark that shows us the trials we've survived and the adventures we've braved. I feel that they are like a souvenir that one buys, not with money, but with sense of self. Unlike the "I'm with stupid" t-shirt or the "My parents went to....and all I got was this crummy shirt" souvenir, scars actually mean something. They are living reminders, current histories that show us where we've been and this helps us figure out who we are now, and where we may go in the future. 

This is true of the scars that we do not bear on our skin, but also on our hearts. Recently I've accumulated another internal scar on my heart which has deepened since July. It hurts, I won't lie. But I'm proud I can look back on my history and boast that I've lived through the pain and enjoyed all the sinful greatness such scars bring.

Saved by Clarity

 It's called a moment of clarity. That fragment of time that comes to you and either moves you softly or slaps you straight in the face (but in a good way). 

Clarity came to me in a text message last night, two in fact. Clarity came to me in three steps, first softly with a phone call, then harsh with a text message and then softly again with a second text. All in all, it worked its magic and I was saved by doing something really foolish. 

 

This is not to say that if I am tempted again I won't want to fall, but I think in the end, at the last minute, down to the wire, I'm going to stick to my guns. 

Pushing Charcoal

  Last night I drew with a fervor, almost as if I was on a strictly timed schedule.

  First the crisp, white piece of paper, which I realize now is not acid free and after working so many hours at Aaron Brothers, I know that it is not the best paper to create on. But never mind that, I had charcoal to use. 

   First I pick up the graphite stick, one of my favorite tools. It's hard to pick up and I have to search my art box in the dim light to find it. My fingers grasp it and it is as natural to me as if I were eating with a fork. It is a natural extension of my hand. I look at the page, and then the Mac that provides me a picture of what I want to sketch. With quick movements the graphite slides over the paper in great narrow and wide lines and already, with nothing but light grey charcoal on the page, it looks good. 

  My movements only get faster and faster as I fill in the basic drawing with color. I put a mixture of black and purple pastel in the trees and buildings. I sketch the yellow into the blank spaces and get irritated that it's the wrong shade. Oh, well, I have to keep moving forward, a mantra that carries from art into my real life. 

   

   My favorite part of this process though is pushing the colors around, blurring them, mixing them and making them fill in the texture of the page. I love the feeling of charcoal on my fingers, a greenish and purple mix and the way it makes me feel that I am in the midst of art itself. It makes me feel that I've done work that can be tangibly seen; it's like a mechanic that comes home with oil and grime in his fingernails or a craftsman that comes home with callouses. It is visible proof that I have worked. It's also cool to walk around with my elbows held perpendicular to the floor, my hands and fingers in the air.

  I add in the hot pink, which will be the lightest and brightest hue on the page, being the sun falling behind the clouds and casting a pink/ red glow onto the page. 

   I bring the picture into my bathroom where I proceed to spray it with hairspray; a poor man's (woman's) art fixative. It works so poorly that I can still lift pastel from the page onto my fingers, but that doesn't matter to me so much. What matters is that my fingers got dirty, covered in dust and color, my nails, filled with color particles, and that I got to create something of beauty. 

   Looking back now, I kind of wish I hadn't rushed through it, but that's part of the excitement. I am just concerned about my pervasive and  perpetual forward movement-my un-abating impatience. It doesn't help that I'm listening to Townes Van Zandt's "Flying Shoes" as I write this. 

   Oh well, I have something pretty to show for the half hour I spent working on it.

How do I walk this life?

" I love you."

  

   Why do I feel as though my soul is wandering and will always wander, seeking and not sated until I hear those three words from a man? 

   I am a firm believer of a person, male or female standing on their own two feet and this quest has been especially close to my heart because I navigate the world in a variety of different lenses. I live in this world and try to create a life of my own as a highly focused individual; as an artist; as a tender-hearted and loving person; and most difficultly, as a woman. 

  I have no fear in saying that one of the hardest things I do in life is try to figure out what it means to be a woman. I also have no issue in saying that I believe gender remains on a spectrum and that I feel very masculine sometimes. As an individual I am highly aware that gender is one of the most complicated categories we are thrust into, because it pervades everything we do. And while I don't intend this piece to be some sociological study or expose or feature I will say that my egalitarianism and my sense of who I am as a woman add a hardness to my life. 

  Don't get me wrong, in the popular notion of what a woman is and how she feels I think I am definitely there, and this makes me feel good because I want to be average and normal in that way. But I also believe in seeing people without confines of sexuality or gender. I believe that our bodies are merely outward shells of who we really are, which is really a mind, a heart (both literal and figurative) intuition, thought and emotion. These have no confines of gender or genitals. Gosh...why am I going on about this....?

   Let me get back to what I really wanted to say. As women we are expected to walk a fine line between staying young, single and flexible, and solid, stable and domesticated. We are expected to want both the summer flings and the wedding day; the boardroom and the bedroom and I find this unbelievably hard to do. 

   It is hard for me to be almost 22 and not dating. It's hard for me to have such a clear purpose in my life and to be focused on what I want but not being able to get it. I want love, but that depends on another person, not me so no matter how hard I work for it, I have to wait until it finds me, which is really hard in a world that teaches men and modern women that anything can happen if you persist and work hard enough. 

  I've heard over and over again that people think it's so fabulous (especially for women) to be in your 20s. After all, for men and women your skin has the best consistency, you are at your sexual peak and healthiest years. But no one prepares twenty-something women that being in your twenties is hard. We often either feel burdened, unsure about a relationship or we feel lonely and sad that we don't have one. In a world that makes it seem as though 20 year old women should find it easy to be picked up and going out with men, I feel really left out. 

   I once wrote that I value, above all else, to learn the immensity of who I am. My number one priority and lens through which I walk this life is to find out about me; to see me in eyes that are 100% open to who I am. And if that is the case, then my life comes first and men are merely accessories to my life. But why is it that I can have a perfectly beautiful outfit and the missing necklace or bag can negate everything that is good about the entire look? Maybe it all boils down to the fact that my search and passion for love is as much a part of me as the scar that resides over my left eyebrow, or the tales of my many broken limbs. 

   I suppose all I can do right now is do my best to create and be happy with the life I'm trying to live. 

Memories and Mourning

  I've been thinking about my childhood lately. While it feels like I've aged as many years as I've been alive, and therefore I feel as though time hasn't gone by too fast, it's also strange to see myself so vividly in memories that started so long ago. Though 22 is a young number and I feel as though time hasn't gone too fast, sometimes I can't believe that I'm an adult. And truthfully I don't know how I can feel both really old for my age, really mature, possessing an old soul, and then childishly young. Perhaps that is why I'm so tender hearted, because the important things in my life seem so new. I often look at my recent accomplishments and achievements as though I'm looking through a child's large doe-eyes, open wide in amazement at the new things in life. And truthfully, I hope I never lose that sense of wonder. Often people have called me naive, and I am, but I think there is a certain beauty that comes along with that. I think hope is easier to come by and optimism comes daily and there are more surprises with naivete. It is not so easy to take things for granted with naivete and when things go well it is surprisingly pleasant. 

   Why do I bring this up? I don't know. I guess it's because when I look back at my childhood, most of it, especially the kindergarten and first few grade levels, I was blissfully happy. This is not to say that sad things didn't happen or that I didn't have rough days on the playground and in school, because I did. But, on the days that I was on the swings or with my mom on a day that she picked me up early from school and took me to the museum, I was so completely happy. In these moments everything I wanted was there and the simplest things fulfilled me with happiness. I was so enveloped in the moment and at that time my mind had a harder time wandering to an anxiety-filled future like it so easily does now. 

    I tear up, and don't really know why when I can see myself so vividly, almost like an out of body experience on the playground. I remember that the sky is greyish and overcast and the leaves are brown and slightly crunchy under-foot. I have my fingers entwined in the cyclone fence that separates the school yard from the street. My nose is pushed up to the metal and I am waiting for my mom to come and pick me up. I remember looking over at the rabbit hutch that I'm pretty sure sits vacant (this is the only part of the memory I don't know for sure is accurate). I can't describe it because so much of this memory is intangible. It's a memory emotion; the memory is nostalgic to me because it triggers an emotion that touches me. It is the feeling, not the memory or detail itself that matters. 

   This memory dates back to fall or winter in Los Angeles and I can tell this by the sky and the wind that blows across my face and the fence. I hold this dear because it is at this moment that I am at a threshold, waiting to go home and see mom, who often looks happy to see me. I remember I used to love smelling her and feeling her hand rub my back in comforting circles as she looked at me. She always had this wonderful way of saying "hi sweetie," and I still love hearing her say that, as much as she loves hearing me say "hi mom" in my squeaky voice. Though there was a forlorn feeling to my waiting for mom, there was also an exciting feeling too, because every moment before mom came to pick me up I had time to swing, which was my favorite thing to do. All I had to do in between that time was to swing and wait for mom, nothing else to do. 

    If only things were that simple now. Though time passes, something I'm too acutely aware of, I am happy that my memory-emotions remain as vibrant.

     

    I want to dedicate this post to a colleague of mine. She lost her best friend over the last few days. To an extent I can sympathize with her because I have a great imagination and I can imagine what that would feel like, if I ever lost Anne. Heartbroken would not even touch the surface of what I would feel. So Jodie, this is for you. I am so sorry and I hope you find comfort in these difficult times. I won't tell you that time heals all wounds because I know it doesn't feel that way right now. But I can guarantee you that when you love someone as much as you did your friend, death doesn't end your relationship, it just changes it. Your contact with that person never ends and she will always be a part of you. My thoughts are with you. 

   Dickens once wrote "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times;" and while it is most certainly not the worst of times, the best stuff in the last few weeks has been accompanied by some bitterness as well. 

   As much as I am psyched to have a job that pays well and will afford me the comfortability and flexibility to make money and pursue freelance writing while making a living, it hasn't been particularly easy to say goodbye to the things I know. As much as I'm going to appreciate not driving to the Sentinel twice or three times a week, and Geoffrey's tummy won't be hungry every week like clock work-I was comfortable at the Sentinel. I had a routine, it was four hours a day, and I enjoyed writing and being part of the paper. The same thing goes for Aaron Brothers. While I have had customers who've been pain in the asses and rude, for the most part, people are pretty easy to please there. The framing system that used to make me feel inadequate quite often finally makes sense to me and I get it now. And I've finally made some friends. It is sad to leave people who've been great to me. 

  And the weeks that I've gone without hearing from him or even so much as seeing him or crossing paths at the office has been driving me crazy. It is like without seeing him I feel as though I am feeling a whole mess of emotions for someone who doesn't exist; as if my feelings are for a ghost, a person I have no chance of seeing again. And this makes it worse because I feel like I would rather be sad over someone real, someone that is present enough to feel sad over. But by not seeing him, it's just been harder, because I feel even more foolish for feeling the way I do. 

   And I'm surprised that I miss him so. I realize now that the angst I went through with Chris was due to how much I wanted someone like him in my life; a boyfriend. Sometimes I feel so stupid because I feel as though I'm being a drama queen; after all I barely knew S and yet I got attached. But I am who I am. No matter how much I try to change myself to be the chiller, cooler version of the person I want to be, I realize now that I can't change my personality. I will always be the person who takes things too seriously, who gets wound up over something that someone else would let slip by. I will always be the person who cares too much, even over the relatively small stuff. I will always be the serious, somewhat uptight person who can't separate the physical from the emotional. I will always be her and no matter how much I wish I weren't sometimes, this is not a bad thing. People like me are needed in the world because people like me are the reason we have higher ideals and models and motivations and law and order in the world. 

   So, it's not the worst of times

Out Obscured-But Still Possessing Good Taste

 While I do not have the indie music fever that holds Portland in its grip, I do pride myself on the fact that I have eclectic musical tastes and that I do own several albums recorded for independent companies. 

 

    I thought that I had a wide ranging knowledge in obscure bands, which gives people, and me a rush because you feel somewhat elite if you know stuff that isn't particularly popular. Like, it gives me power when I'm like "do you know Ryan Adams" and someone is like "no." I just think, well I do and I'm in a cool elite group that likes semi-obscure stuff. 

   But I helped close the store down last night-late last night, around 1:30 and all along we were listening to Rob's musical repertoire. Most of the music that was played sounded passable or good. But it made me feel inferior. His musical library did not include all of the popular artists mine does and I realized that I had been outdone in the indie-obscure band area.

   I came off as closed minded because his music spanned such a breadth and width that mine doesn't. I count myself as being pretty open minded in life but I also realized that I am pretty close minded about music and I didn't like that. 

   So I am going to say two things to myself. 1) Just because someone can out-obscure me in the music department does not mean that I have bad taste. In fact, I am the first to say, that for the most part, when I hear a pop song that I like it doesn't mean my taste has no value, it just means that everyone else recognizes a good song and gets it. 2) This experience has reminded me that I need to be open to new things and I need to stop pre-judging. Judgment, contrary to popular belief is a good thing, just not when it interferes in being open to something new. The key here is to judge after hearing or experiencing whatever it is in life, not pre-judging. Pre-judging does not allow one to hear something with a blank canvas of thought. 

    I'll try to keep these lessons close to my heart. Once again music has touched my life and taught me some valuable lessons and something about myself. 

I've Never Gone Somewhere Where I Haven't Been Along for The Ride

  If I'm a Type 2, with a strong Type 1 wing, according to the enneagram, then I'm screwed. I rate somewhat highly on Type 4, which is a growth point for Type 2 and a stress point for Type 1, so I'm caught in between moving towards Type 4 as a positive and a negative thing in my life. Nice....

   I am concerned about a few things according to my personality type traits: a negative of 4 is that fours typically long for something when they can't have it and then when it's made available, they don't want it anymore. This is a scary concept because that melancholic longing for someone and the pushing away, I believe, is the foundation of an unhealthy and unhappy relationship. Having four traits and a one wing, I also believe that I have the negative trait of pushing away from things that are easily gotten. This doesn't mean that these things are bad, it just means that my perception of them might be skewed simply because I have a tendency to not embrace what is comfortable or simple or easy. 

   As I've gotten a little older and had just a smidge more experience with this than I have in the past few years, I realized something unsettling about myself. I was telling Jane that when  guy is into me, (because this happens so often), or if a guy is flirting with me or compliments the way I look, there is a part of me that feels very uneasy. I feel like I am prey and I have to be careful. And I also feel repulsed. I know it sounds bizarre, especially because I should enjoy someone commenting on my beauty, especially if I've put extra effort into my style for the night. But, it insults me; like my outward beauty should have nothing to do with the way someone feels about me. Which I know is silly because part of love is physical and sexual attraction and, while we gain insight or intuition about someone regarding the type of vibe they give off, the only way we really get interested in anyone is based firstly, on their outward appearance. And this being the case, shouldn't I be flattered that people find me attractive? Isn't it enough for me to know that my inner beauty matches and exceeds my outward beauty, which I believe is saying a lot. (I have no intention of being full of myself right now as I know that I am not the prettiest woman or even near to drop-dead gorgeous, but I am attractive and have a beautiful face complete with gorgeous eyes and a dazzling smile). 

   This being said, I feel as though my gut reaction is to be completely off-put by someone who flatters me with words about the way I look. And I realize it's because that is easy. It is the easiest thing in the world to look at someone and tell them they are attractive, whether with true intention or the motivation to get some behind it. It seems to me that anything easy is disgusting, because it is pedestrian and not worth much. It's an insult and not attractive. 

  And this is hard for me, because no matter how much I don't like the obvious or easy, this is the way at least 75% of the world operates and I don't want to be turning down 75% possibility and opportunity because I am too rigid. I hate that I'm rigid but no matter how much I try, like a scientist fervently trying everything to make oil and water mix, there's just no possibility of me changing. I wish I could be way less stringent and chill and easy-going and go-with-the-flow. But I'm not and I can't be. And it pisses me off because I think I would enjoy life more and I would be easier to be with sometimes and I would be a kinder friend sometimes, more understanding, and accept and enjoy and attract opportunities to me more often. And mostly of all, I would not take everything so seriously. Everything is so serious with me. And I'm so tired of it sometimes. 

   In the movie "Before Sunrise" Jesse talks about how people must be so sick of themselves and hate themselves so much because no matter what you do or where you go or what you think, you've done it and heard it before. No matter where you go there is no place where you haven't brought yourself, your personality and thoughts and beliefs with you. He figured that it was nice to be with someone who liked to hear what he had to say because he'd heard himself say the same thing over and over because he was always there when his mouth spoke a thought from his mind. This probably doesn't make sense, but what I'm trying to say is that he is right. There is no way for me to escape my mind or to be absent from my personality and experience something new. I am with me wherever I go and sometimes I get so sick of myself. Sometimes I wish I could have a completely different personality shift. Like I could enter another dimension and this dimension would allow me to shed my personality and be someone else entirely and then I could really see what life is like being another person. 

   Where do I go from here? I want to say. Does this mean that my growth point will always be a stressor, and if so, does this mean that I can ever become a better more balanced person? Does it mean I will always be conflicted? I really hope not, but I suppose only time will tell. 

    

Jazz and Love

 Okay, so anyone who knows me knows that I am currently engaged in a seven year affair with music, but unless you knew me in the middle school days, the average person might be surprised to know that I absolutely LOVE 30s and 40s jazz. 

   "Did you ever get that feeling in the moonlight/ that wonderful feeling that you want be kissed?/You're strolling in the park/ the stars so bright above/ you'd love to love somebody, but there's nobody there to love/ Did you ever get that longing on a June night/ the wonderful longing you can never resist?/ Did you ever get that feeling in the moonlight/ that feeling that says you want to be kissed?"

                             Gene Krupa and Orchestra, 1945

   Yes, yes, and YES. 

       This entry goes out to all my women friends who are FABULOUS and attractive, and kind-hearted, and feisty and ambitious and who have it together. What is up with the lack of men who are equal or near equal to our caliber? The men who want more than tail and who refuse to be easy, because they too want something that MEANS something. Because God forbid that dating and physical and emotional intimacy should be WORTH something! 

   And what hurts me the most is the fact that it is getting to the point where I, along with my girlfriends, a very particular one in fact who I will refer to as "E", feel the loneliness and neglect in such an achingly tangible way. 

   It's not that I'm not grateful for the wonderful blessings in my life, like my good friends, my animals, my family, and MY NEW JOB. But I have been wishing and waiting for a decade, come September 29th of this year, for something that is something. And it's so much harder than I could have imagined because I was under the impression that with college I would have the chance to meet men and date and have boyfriends. I thought the waiting was over and now I realize that there is a chance that men in my age group are just not looking for the same thing as I am. Which means, I might possibly have to wait even more time, which is outrageous because anyone who knows me knows that I am so completely impatient. 

    If there is one wish I can make for my birthday, it would be this: that I, along with E and S and A can find the love and relationship we search for, and that we can find it this year. 

   Now that I am done ranting about this outrageousness, I would like to return to big-band era jazz. 

    This is what I love about this era of jazz: it can evoke smokey, sexy rooms filled with understated longing and romantic connection. Big band jazz can conjure a mixture of exuberance for the future and for peace and progress and an overwhelming sadness of loss and change, all wrapped in a package you either laugh or cry to. In the voices of the men who sang 30s and 40s jazz you can hear the outlines of slicked back side-parted hair, tie, vest, coat with tails and shiny shoes. You can hear a stately and smooth and kind voice; one that searches for the connection of the heart, not the easy piece of ass. These men and women had class. 

   In the case of Michael Connelly's Detective Harry Bosch, jazz evokes a feeling of connection with times past, of the scattered nature of life. For Harry Bosch this music reveals craftsmanship of musical talent along with a depth of loneliness that is sexy in a depressive and "Maltese Falcon" black and white, serious sort of way. 

   For these reasons, I appreciate Jazz as an art form, and love and enjoy Big-Band jazz. 

Was It The Segil

 "Was it the segil?" I thought to myself late Tuesday evening; September 2nd was a good day for me as I was offered a great job and as I was complimented at my internship. It was hinted that my editor wanted me to do freelance work. 

  One of the unique and really cool things I got from Pickathon, was the idea of a segil and what it meant to singer-songwriter Sean Hayes. He said that a segil is a sign that tells us or reminds us what to do. An EXIT sign lit in green for example tells us to "go, leave, exit, get somewhere else that is safer." He explained that a segil could be a symbol or drawing that reminds a person, for example, to exercise more often. Some might find that they want to keep exercise in their life on a long term basis, and so it makes sense for them  to keep their segil. Others might use a segil much like a Buddhist monk creates a mandala; with the intention of the drawing meaning something, letting it accomplish what it should and then letting it go. 

   In the last few weeks I have started on my own segil, which has actually morphed into a dream board. This has been slightly disappointing as it has come together in a more Oprah-esque girly way then I would have anticipated. The image in my mind is different than what ended up on the page. But that being said, the intention behind it is the same. It is a depiction of things I want to accomplish and things I want to attract to my life, and it can only bring, at the least, calm and organization of thought, and at the best, wealth and new possibilities and adventures. 

  Was it the segil that helped land me the job and the compliment and the courage to suggest freelance work? I don't know. But I will say this: the believer in me would like to believe that the segil had something to do with it. 

   I am a cautious believer; I like to give special meaning to signs that seem to point the way or seem to carry significance in my life. I also whole-heartedly believe that some things are mere coincidence. The delightful meeting I had today was not, however. 

   After an appointment I had in the alphabet district downtown I decided to walk to 23rd and get myself something to eat at Noah's. On the way back I decide to visit Babik's Rug shop on the pretense of looking at the rugs, but mostly to pet the big, fat cat that lays on a pile of folded rugs like a furry "Prince and the Pea." He was not there however as he was napping in a back room on another pile of rugs. 

   I did not intend on having much of a conversation with the salesman there but I wanted to ask about the cat and I wanted to act interested in the rugs, though truly beautiful, are things I don't need in my life. The companionship of an animal is and until I can afford one (preferably two) I will do all I can to pet and pat and love the critters that momentarily pass through my life. 

 

  People often use the word "gentleman" as if it describes the average guy, which it doesn't. But I can truly say Mehmet at the rug store was a true gentle man; he was a man with a gentle and truly kind demeanor and a warm heart. He spoke of the shop moving across the street and "Simba" the cat, (a grey tabby which bears no resemblance to the animated Disney character) having a garden to play in. His laughter was warm and gentle and his eyes were soft and sweet as he spoke. He told me that he had Simba for eight years and communicated with him as a friend. He also said he wouldn't know what to do when it is Simba's time to pass on. I told him  that when the time comes, there will be another cat that would touch his heart. I didn't mean to say it in a callous way, but a way that would insist to show Mehmet that he should keep caring after cats, because there are too many in this world that need love from a truly gentle man as himself. 

   I was surprised when Mehmet said he wanted to give me something from himself and Simba. He goes in the back room and leaves me standing there wondering what it is and feeling embarrassed that he should feel he needed to give me something. 

   He returned with a glass bead, fashioned in a the shape of a blue stylized eye. He explained that in Greece and Turkey it is meant to bring good luck and protection to those who have it. Words cannot express the appreciation I had at such a kind gift given with such true intention. And I was even more touched when he said that I brought a beautiful energy into his store. 

  So this posting is dedicated to the kindest man I have met in a long, long time, and perhaps in my whole life. Thank you from my heart to Simba and his care-taker, Mehmet at Babik's Rugs on 23rd. 

Looking Glass or Window?

 I'm in my car and I'm looking at the passenger side- side view mirror and thinking "if a mirror is made of glass and a window is made of glass, and one gives you a clear view and the other gives a reflection, what makes them different?"

  So often I feel as though I have the clearest view of myself because no one FEELS me like I do; no one lives in my skin and mind and feels 100% of me. But on the other hand, my view is not completely clear. I do not look at myself as a person through a clear window; I see myself in a subjective, and sometimes skewed mirror. Sometimes in order to get the best view of oneself, you need to look to others; usually friends, and those friends who can be balanced and truthful and more objective to really see yourself. It's strange; who would think you would need others to get your own self?

   

    And in the end, trying not to be as whiny or self aware or melancholic, because I am actually in a good mood, I would just like to say that everyday of my life I find myself to be more immensely complex than the day before. I suppose, like windows and mirrors, there are purposes for both and the same can be said about our view of ourselves and the connection we have with others. 

  

  Okay, so I know that I've written about this ad-nauseam, but the transition has always meant so much to me and as I'm transitioning in my life my feelings toward the seasonal change have changed as well. 

   When I was a small girl I used to like summer. I didn't mind the heat or the beads of sweat that came with the long days of sun. And though I really looked forward to buying school supplies and doing school shopping, I remember always dreading the end of summer, because it meant I would have to go back to school. Though I enjoyed learning it was the idea of being cooped up and having to pay attention to my teacher every second of the school day that bothered me most. 

   And then, some time in middle school, when the long hot summers started to bother me, I would pray for fall to visit early. As I got older my thirst for colored trees and cool air only deepened and I took to heart the mornings when the hillsides were covered with mist and the grass grew long and verdant in the winter and spring time. Fall meant the coming of the rainy season and with that came big white puffy clouds and sweater weather and clean air; the rain would literally wash all the smog away and Angelenos were left with the beauty that is Los Angeles: city of hills and valleys and dramatic spans of blue sky and buildings and at nighttime, velvety navy-black sky and crystal clear sparkling lights. 

   Now, though I enjoy the fall in Portland, and the autumn colors and four (three) season weather is why I moved here, I find myself coming full circle, pleading for summer to stay and to stretch on.  I know that with fall the leaves will change, something I love, and the wind will come, but so will the rain and especially the gray, overcast skies. At this point in my life I'm just not ready to part with the sun, especially since we just got it back two months ago.

Just a Note

  For the many, or few, who read my weblog from time to time, I'd like to let you know that I have moved from xanga to blogspot. I believe you can find me by typing in SilverTonguedLass or my name or Phoenix Also Rises. 

   I would write on both accounts except that I am not talented enough to come up with two different entries for two sites and as it stands I miss the fact that by the time I write on my blog I don't have anything to manually write in my leather bound journal, which has been neglected for months now and I feel as though I am letting down an old friend. Just wanted to let you know.

Eye to the Rearview Mirror

When people talk about life they often compare it to a road, using that as a metaphor. You'll hear people say "the road might get rocky" or "the road has lots of hills and valleys" or "life is a long difficult road." 

In the last few weeks I've been thinking about this simile. One of my favorite songs is called "The Wicked Twisted Road" by Reckless Kelly; beautifully written, there are at least three stanzas that compare or use a road as a symbol for life. 

Maybe it's because I like driving so much, but I have been thinking about how fitting this simile is to life. People often say that they "feel their wheels are spinning" or "they're running on empty" or "they've got to hit the pavement," all metaphors regarding movement by automobile. 

When you put the two together, a vehicle as a sign for movement and a road as life, you come up with something pretty profound, because both are true. 

Take for instance my life of late. A few months ago I felt as though I had made no personal progress upon reaching another year in my life. But now as I look back I remember a song lyric "the wheels of change had begun to turn" or something like that. Though I can't see the end result and in my usual impatient self I wanted to see all the change right now. But change and personal growth doesn't happen that way. It comes gradually and fast, shooting in bursts and spurts and passing slowly like a snail. Either way, all you can do is marvel at the fact that when you lay enough cards on the table, you pursue enough things and set enough things in motion, something inevitably starts to change, moving slowly, like cog wheels grinding against each other in a circular motion. 

I will list some of the ways  that the wheels have started to turn for me: 

1) I am more honest with myself. And I accept myself more in the face of being brutally honest.

2) I am a bit easier on myself; I'm a little more forgiving. 

3) I have a greater sense of who I am and acceptance and love of who I am as someone of immense worth.

4) I am more aware of myself and little by little I'm being more true to myself and less concerned with how others see me. In the end, I'm trying to accept and do what is right for me first and disregard anyone's outside judgement. 

5) I am ambitious and feel that while it may take some time, I am laying the groundwork, doing the hard grunt stuff, literally crafting my career from scratch. 

6) And finally, I've become more brave. 

 I'm caught somewhere between wanting growth and change to occur as a way to see the process unfold, and to live in the moment; and I'm also caught wan ting  all the change to happen NOW so I can stand on the hilltop and look at the growth spread before me. I want this particular journey to end so I can be at the point where I want to be. I guess, at 22, I just want to see the end result, but I also don't want to miss the moving wheels. 

Stealing Sunlight

   Over the last few days, with the first stretch of rain the city has had in two or three months, I am reminded how fleeting the summer is. It always seemed so long when I was small. 

   I can't believe school starts up for college students at UP next Monday and my dear friend, Anne, and her boyfriend Lee will start grad school this Monday as well. I can't believe sometimes how four years of college seemed to go so slow, but I also can't understand how it's all over either. 

  For the last week or so I try to turn a blind eye to the fact that the trees are getting tinged with yellow and there seems to be more leaves on the ground. The old Carolyn would wait all year for the trees to go fiery, but now I'm trying to hold onto the last vestiges of summer. 

  I realize time goes on and things change but the natural inclination to hold onto what is good and fun and healthy is hard to let go of. Here's the truth: one of my worst fears about creating a life in Portland is that each winter will bring with it the blues and Lord knows I've had enough to fill a few years, if not a lifetime. So, I'm just hoping this winter is different. The hardest part is the rain and grey sky. I like rain, but I don't like getting soaked and feeling damp all over. And I really don't like it when the winter stretches into April, and then May, and then June....

   But there are good things to fall too. Sheep and wool festivals and trees turning color and crisp air and fall fashion and halloween and the most fabulous day of the year: my birthday. So I say to Fall, bring it on, just don't steal my sunlight!