Wednesday, September 24, 2008

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."

Sunday, September 21, 2008

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. 

Friday, September 19, 2008

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.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

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. 



Tuesday, September 16, 2008

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.

Sunday, September 14, 2008

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. 

Saturday, September 13, 2008

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

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

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. 

Monday, September 8, 2008

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. 

    

Sunday, September 7, 2008

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. 


Friday, September 5, 2008

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.